Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Cave had never felt quite this tense, Tim thought as he adjusted his position on the training mats. It wasn't the usual pre-patrol tension or the focused intensity that came with preparing for a mission. This was something else entirely—the kind of awkwardness that settled over the family whenever Jason was around for more than five minutes without someone saying something that sent him storming off.

Jason had been coming around more frequently lately, which was... progress, Tim supposed. Three months ago, any interaction with the family ended in shouting matches or thrown objects. Now they'd graduated to uncomfortable silences and the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. Bruce called it "meaningful steps toward reconciliation." Dick called it "baby steps." Damian called it "pathetic."

Tim just called it exhausting.

"You know," Dick said, stretching his arms above his head in that deceptively casual way that meant he was about to suggest something terrible, "Tim's been working on some new combat techniques. Haven't you, Tim?"

Tim shot him a look that could have curdled milk. "Dick—"

"Really impressive stuff," Dick continued, completely ignoring Tim's warning glare. "But you know how it is with training. You can only get so far practicing forms and sparring with the same people over and over again."

Jason, who had been methodically wrapping his hands for his own training session, paused. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly—a tell that Tim had learned to watch for during their fragile cease-fire period. When Jason's shoulders did that little hitch, it usually meant someone was about to get hurt or the conversation was about to go sideways. The movement reminded Tim of a panther he'd seen once at the Gotham Zoo—all coiled muscle and predatory grace, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Sometimes Tim thought Jason moved like that panther had, like something wild that had learned to wear human skin but never quite forgotten what it really was.

"What are you getting at, Dickiebird?" Jason's voice was deceptively light, but there was an edge underneath it that made Tim's stomach clench.

"Well," Dick said, and Tim could practically hear the grin in his voice, "maybe Tim could use a different kind of sparring partner. Someone with a different fighting style. More... intense."

The silence that followed was deafening. Tim felt his mouth go dry as Jason slowly turned to look at him, those blue-green eyes calculating and sharp. Tim had faced down supervillains, had stared down the barrel of guns held by hardened criminals, had looked the Joker in the eye and kept his voice steady. But something about Jason's attention—direct and focused and still carrying the weight of all their history—made him want to take a step back.

"No," Tim said quickly. "That's really not necessary. I'm fine with—"

"Drake is not an adequate sparring partner for Todd," Damian announced from his perch on one of the equipment racks, where he'd been sharpening his sword with mechanical precision. He didn't look up from his blade, but Tim could hear the smirk in his voice. "The skill differential is too great. It would hardly be beneficial for either of them."

Tim felt his cheeks burn. "Excuse me?"

"You are competent," Damian continued, finally glancing up with those sharp green eyes that were so much like his father's. "But Todd fights like someone who learned to survive rather than simply win. His technique is..." Damian paused, searching for the right word. "Brutal. You fight like someone who learned from books and careful instruction. Clean. Predictable."

"Predictable?" Tim's voice pitched higher than he'd intended.

Jason let out a short laugh, and the sound made Tim's skin crawl—not because it was cruel, but because it was genuinely amused. "Kid's got a point, Replacement. You fight like Bruce, just... smaller."

"I do not fight like—"

"You absolutely do," Dick said, and Tim rounded on him with a look of utter betrayal. "It's not a bad thing! Bruce is an excellent fighter. But Jason's right, you do have that same methodical approach. Very technical."

Tim looked between the three of them—Dick with his encouraging smile, Damian with his superior smirk, and Jason with his calculating stare—and realized he was being maneuvered into something he absolutely did not want to do.

"This is a terrible idea," he said flatly.

"Probably," Jason agreed, still wrapping his hands with slow, deliberate movements. "But the demon spawn isn't wrong about the skill differential thing. Could be... educational."

There was something in Jason's voice that made Tim's pulse quicken—not quite a threat, but not exactly friendly either. It was the voice Jason used when he was trying to prove a point, and Tim had learned that Jason proving points usually ended with someone bleeding.

"I really don't think—"

"Unless you're scared," Damian added casually, and Tim felt the trap snap shut around him.

Because of course Damian would go there. Of course he would cut straight to the one thing that Tim couldn't let stand, even though they all knew—they all knew—that Tim was absolutely terrified of Jason Todd.

Not of Red Hood, exactly. Red Hood was a known entity, a calculated risk that Tim could plan for and around. But Jason? Jason was unpredictable in a way that set Tim's teeth on edge. Jason was the brother who had died, who had come back wrong, who had held a knife to Tim's throat and asked if he thought he was better. Jason was the one who had never quite forgiven Tim for existing, for taking his place, for being the replacement that nobody had asked for but everyone had accepted.

Jason was the ghost in the family that had suddenly become flesh and blood again, and Tim had no idea how to handle him.

"I'm not scared," Tim said, and even he could hear how thin his voice sounded.

"Then prove it," Damian said simply.

Tim looked at Jason, who had finished with his hand wraps and was now stretching his shoulders with fluid, practiced movements. Every motion was economical and precise, and Tim found himself cataloging the scars visible on Jason's arms, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the casual confidence in his posture. There it was again—that predatory grace that made Tim think of big cats. Jason moved like he was always ready to pounce, always calculating distance and angles, always aware of every exit and every threat. It was mesmerizing and deeply unsettling, like watching something that belonged in the wild trying to pretend it was domesticated. This was someone who had learned to fight in Crime Alley, who had been trained by Batman, who had been broken and rebuilt and turned into something harder and sharper than any of them.

This was someone who could hurt him without even trying.

"Okay," Tim heard himself say. "Fine. But we're using safety gear, and there are rules."

Jason's grin was sharp and not entirely pleasant. "Sure, Timbo. Rules."

Twenty minutes later, Tim was beginning to regret every decision that had led him to this moment.

They'd moved to the larger sparring area, the one with the reinforced mats and better lighting. Dick had appointed himself referee, which meant he was hovering at the edge of the mat with barely concealed excitement. Damian had claimed the best viewing spot and was watching with the intensity of someone studying footage of a particularly interesting predator.

Tim adjusted his protective gear one more time, stalling. He'd insisted on headgear, chest protection, and reinforced gloves—not because he thought Jason would deliberately try to hurt him, but because he wasn't entirely sure Jason would remember to pull his punches.

"You ready, Tim?" Dick called out, and Tim could hear the encouragement in his voice. Dick, at least, seemed to think this was a good idea. Dick thought most terrible ideas were good ideas, which was probably why he'd ended up with his particular collection of younger brothers.

"Ready," Tim called back, though he was anything but.

Jason was stretching on the other side of the mat, loose and relaxed in a way that somehow made him look more dangerous rather than less. He'd opted for minimal protective gear—just gloves and a mouthguard—and Tim tried not to read too much into that choice. But watching Jason warm up was like watching a big cat prepare for a hunt. Every stretch, every roll of his shoulders, every casual step was fluid and purposeful. Tim had read once that panthers could go from complete stillness to full attack in the 20-70 millisecond range, and looking at Jason now, he believed it. There was something barely contained about him, something that suggested violence was always just beneath the surface, waiting.

"Alright," Dick said, stepping onto the mat between them. "Standard sparring rules. No deliberately targeting joints, no strikes to the throat or spine, no grappling holds that could cause permanent damage. This is about technique and conditioning, not about proving who's tougher. First to submit or first to be pinned for a five-count wins. Everyone understand?"

Tim nodded. Jason shrugged, which Tim chose to interpret as agreement.

"Good. Take your positions."

They moved to the center of the mat, and Tim found himself face-to-face with Jason for the first time in months. Up close, the differences between them were stark. Jason was taller, broader, built like someone who had spent years doing hard physical labor. Tim was leaner, quicker, built for speed and agility rather than raw power.

"Try not to embarrass yourself too badly, Replacement," Jason said quietly, just loud enough for Tim to hear.

Tim felt his temper flare, which was probably exactly what Jason had intended. "Try not to throw a tantrum when you lose," he shot back.

Jason's grin widened. "There's the Tim Drake I remember."

Dick raised his hand. "Fighters ready? Begin!"

The first few seconds were a careful dance of assessment. Tim circled left, staying light on his feet, while Jason moved with the patient confidence of someone who knew he had all the time in the world. It was like being stalked, Tim realized with a chill. Jason wasn't just fighting—he was hunting. His movements had that same liquid grace as a panther circling its prey, patient and calculating, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Tim threw a few exploratory jabs, testing Jason's defense, and was unsurprised when they were deflected easily. Jason barely seemed to move, just shifted his weight slightly, and Tim's strikes slid harmlessly past him.

Jason's counter-attack came faster than Tim had expected. A straight right that Tim barely managed to duck, followed immediately by a left hook that clipped his shoulder and sent him stumbling backward.

"Focus, Timmy," Jason said conversationally, as if he weren't currently trying to hit him. "You're thinking too much."

Tim gritted his teeth and pressed forward, launching into a combination that had worked well against Dick just last week. Jason absorbed the first two strikes on his forearms, slipped the third entirely, and suddenly Tim was overextended and off-balance.

Jason's sweep took his legs out from under him, and Tim hit the mat hard enough to see stars.

"Point to Jason," Dick called out. "Reset."

Tim rolled to his feet, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He'd lasted maybe thirty seconds.

"You okay?" Jason asked, and there was something that might have been genuine concern in his voice.

"Fine," Tim muttered, moving back to his starting position.

The second round went slightly better, in that Tim managed to land a glancing blow to Jason's ribs before being systematically dismantled again. Jason fought like Damian had said—like someone who had learned to survive. Every movement was efficient and brutal, designed to end fights quickly rather than score points.

By the fourth round, Tim was breathing hard and sporting what he was pretty sure was going to be a spectacular bruise on his left arm. Jason, meanwhile, looked like he was barely warming up.

"Having fun yet?" Jason asked as they reset once again.

Tim wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to think. He was being outclassed—badly—but there had to be something he could do. Some weakness he could exploit, some pattern he could break.

The problem was that Jason didn't seem to have any weaknesses. His defense was solid, his attacks were relentless, and he had the kind of instinctive fighting sense that came from years of life-or-death encounters. Tim's carefully learned techniques felt clumsy and academic in comparison.

"You're holding back," Damian called out from his perch. "Both of you."

Tim shot him an incredulous look. Holding back? He was giving this everything he had.

But when he looked at Jason, he saw something flicker across the older boy's face—a moment of hesitation, maybe even guilt.

"Demon spawn's got a point," Jason said quietly. "I'm not... I'm trying not to hurt you."

And that, Tim realized, was somehow worse than if Jason had been going all out. Because it meant that even when Jason was trying to be careful, even when he was pulling his punches, Tim still couldn't keep up.

"Don't," Tim said, and his voice came out harder than he'd intended. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."

Jason's eyebrows rose. "Tim—"

"I said don't." Tim moved back to the center of the mat, his jaw set. "If we're doing this, then we're really doing this. No holding back."

For a moment, Jason just stared at him. Then, slowly, his expression shifted into something that was almost like respect.

"Alright, Replacement," Jason said, moving to meet him. "Your funeral."

This time, when Dick called for them to begin, Jason didn't wait for Tim to make the first move. He came forward like a freight train, and Tim barely had time to get his guard up before Jason was on him.

The next minute was a blur of strikes and counters, of desperate blocks and failed attempts at creating distance. Jason fought like a man possessed, every movement flowing seamlessly into the next, and Tim found himself being systematically taken apart by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Tim tried to use his speed advantage, tried to stay mobile and pick his spots, but Jason cut off his angles with ruthless efficiency. When Tim tried to grapple, Jason reversed him and nearly put him in a chokehold. When Tim tried to use his reach, Jason closed the distance and made it a brawling match.

The end came suddenly. Tim threw a desperate haymaker, overcommitting to the punch in a way that would have made Bruce wince. Jason stepped inside his guard, trapped his arm, and suddenly Tim was airborne.

He hit the mat hard, with Jason's weight pinning him down and Jason's forearm across his throat. Not enough to choke him, but enough to make the message clear.

"Yield," Jason said quietly.

Tim struggled for a moment longer, more out of pride than any real hope of escape, before finally tapping out.

"Match to Jason," Dick announced, though his voice lacked its earlier enthusiasm.

Jason released him immediately and backed away, giving Tim space to breathe. Tim lay on the mat for a moment, staring up at the Cave's ceiling and trying to process what had just happened.

He'd been completely outclassed. Not just beaten—demolished. Jason hadn't just won; he'd made it look easy.

"Tim?" Dick's voice was concerned. "You okay?"

Tim sat up slowly, pulling off his headgear and running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Jason was standing a few feet away, no longer looking like the predator who had just taken Tim apart. Instead, he looked... awkward. Uncertain.

"I'm fine," Tim said, though his pride felt like it had been run through a blender.

"You did good," Jason offered, and Tim could tell he was trying to be kind.

"No," Tim said, getting to his feet and starting to remove his protective gear. "I didn't. You destroyed me."

"Tim—"

"It's fine," Tim cut him off. "I needed to know where I stood. Now I do."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Dick looked like he wanted to say something encouraging but couldn't figure out what. Damian was studying Tim with those sharp green eyes, probably cataloging this moment for future reference.

Jason, meanwhile, was watching Tim with an expression that was hard to read.

"For what it's worth," Jason said finally, "you've got heart. And you didn't quit, even when it was obvious you were outmatched. That counts for something."

Tim looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in Jason's voice.

"Bruce always said that technique could be learned," Jason continued. "But heart? That's something you either have or you don't. And you've got it, Replacement. Even if you do fight like you learned everything from a textbook."

It wasn't exactly high praise, but coming from Jason, it felt like something approaching acceptance. Maybe even respect.

"Thanks," Tim said quietly.

Jason nodded and started gathering his things. "Same time next week?" he asked, and there was something almost hopeful in his voice.

Tim stared at him. "You want to do this again?"

"Well," Jason said, shouldering his gym bag, "somebody's got to teach you how to fight dirty. Might as well be me."

And with that, he headed for the stairs, leaving Tim standing on the mat with Dick and Damian.

"Well," Dick said after a moment, "that went better than I expected."

Tim turned to stare at him incredulously. "Better? Dick, he mopped the floor with me."

"Yeah," Dick grinned, "but he offered to train with you again. Jason doesn't offer to spend time with people he doesn't like."

Damian hopped down from his perch, sword still in hand. "Todd is correct about your fighting style," he said matter-of-factly. "Too much emphasis on form, not enough on adaptability. But his assessment of your character is also accurate. You have... adequate determination."

From Damian, that was practically glowing praise.

Tim looked between his two brothers—one grinning like an idiot, the other offering backhanded compliments—and realized that something had shifted. Not dramatically, not obviously, but... something.

Maybe Dick had been right. Maybe this had been a good idea after all.

"Same time next week," Tim said to himself, testing the words.

It was probably going to be another disaster. Jason was probably going to beat him up again, and Tim was probably going to spend another week nursing his bruised pride along with his bruised ribs.

But maybe that was okay. Maybe getting beaten up by Jason was better than Jason pretending he didn't exist. Maybe this was what progress looked like in the Wayne family—messy and painful and not at all what anyone would call conventional.

"Come on," Dick said, slinging an arm around Tim's shoulders. "Let's get some ice on those bruises and then see if Alfred made any of those cookies you like."

Tim allowed himself to be led away, already thinking about next week's session. Already wondering what Jason might teach him, and whether he'd be able to surprise Jason in return.

Maybe he'd even manage to land a solid hit.

Probably not, but a guy could dream.

As they reached the stairs, Tim glanced back at the sparring mats one more time. The space looked empty now, just equipment and padding and the lingering scent of sweat and effort.

But for a few minutes, it had been something else. A place where two brothers had met on equal ground—well, theoretically equal ground—and found a way to connect that didn't involve shouting or threats or walking away.

It was a start.

Even if Tim was going to be feeling it in the morning.

Chapter Text

A week later, Tim found himself back in the Cave's training area, nursing a cup of Alfred's coffee and trying to work up the nerve to face Jason again. His ribs had finally stopped aching from their last encounter, but his pride was still tender to the touch.

He'd spent the week analyzing the fight, breaking down every moment where he'd gone wrong, every opening he'd missed, every mistake that had led to him being systematically dismantled. It was what he did—obsess over problems until he found solutions. The trouble was, the solution to "Jason Todd is significantly better at violence than you are" seemed to be "get better at violence," which was frustratingly circular.

"You're brooding," Dick observed, dropping onto the bench beside him with his own cup of coffee. He was already in his workout gear, looking annoyingly energetic for someone who'd been on patrol until three AM.

"I'm strategizing," Tim corrected.

"You're brooding," Damian said from across the Cave, where he was methodically destroying a practice dummy with his sword. "It's pathetic."

Tim glared at him. "I'm analyzing last week's performance to identify areas for improvement."

"See?" Dick grinned. "Brooding."

Before Tim could formulate a properly scathing response, the sound of footsteps on the Cave's stairs announced Jason's arrival. Tim felt his stomach tighten involuntarily—a response he was beginning to resent. It wasn't fear, exactly, but it was definitely wariness. Jason had a way of commanding attention just by existing, and Tim still wasn't sure what to do with that.

"Morning, family," Jason called out, his voice carrying that particular brand of casual sarcasm that meant he was in a decent mood. "Ready for round two, Replacement?"

Tim looked up to find Jason approaching with that same predatory grace that had haunted his thoughts all week. Today he was wearing a black tank top and workout pants, and Tim found himself cataloging the scars visible on his arms again. There were more than he'd initially noticed—a roadmap of violence that spoke to just how different their experiences had been.

"Actually," Dick said, setting down his coffee with the kind of deliberate movement that made Tim immediately suspicious, "I was thinking maybe I should warm up first. You know, demonstrate some techniques for Tim."

Jason's eyebrows rose. "You want to spar with me?"

"Why not?" Dick's smile was bright and innocent, which meant it was absolutely neither. "It's been a while since we've gone at it properly. Could be fun."

Tim watched the exchange with growing alarm. The tension in the Cave had shifted, becoming something electric and dangerous. Jason's posture had changed subtly—still relaxed, but with a coiled energy that reminded Tim of a snake preparing to strike.

"Fun," Jason repeated, and there was something sharp in his voice that made Tim's skin crawl. "Right. Because our spars are always so friendly."

"Come on, Jay," Dick said, standing and stretching his arms over his head. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Jason's grin was all teeth. "Famous last words, Dickiebird."

Tim felt like he was watching two predators circle each other, all casual banter and friendly smiles that didn't quite hide the promise of violence underneath. This was different from his spar with Jason—there was history here, layers of meaning that Tim couldn't fully parse.

"Should I be concerned?" Tim asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Probably," Damian said, abandoning his practice dummy to find a better vantage point. "Father mentioned they have a tendency to get... competitive."

That was not reassuring.

Dick and Jason moved to the center of the mat, and Tim found himself holding his breath. He'd sparred with Dick countless times, knew the older man's fighting style almost as well as his own. Dick was fast and agile, a master of momentum and misdirection. He fought like he moved through the world—with fluid grace and an almost supernatural awareness of his surroundings.

But watching him face off against Jason was like seeing him in an entirely different context. The playful big brother was still there, but underneath it was something harder, more focused. This was Nightwing preparing for battle, and Tim realized he'd never really seen that side of Dick in a sparring context.

"Standard rules?" Dick asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"Since when do we follow standard rules?" Jason countered, rolling his shoulders.

"Fair point." Dick's grin was sharp now, matching Jason's energy. "Try not to break anything important."

"No promises."

They moved toward each other, and Tim immediately understood that this was going to be nothing like his fight with Jason. Where Tim had been cautious and analytical, Dick was aggressive from the start, launching into a series of acrobatic attacks that would have overwhelmed most opponents.

Jason absorbed the assault with fluid grace, weaving between Dick's strikes like he was dancing. When Dick threw a spinning kick that should have connected with his ribs, Jason simply wasn't there anymore, having flowed around the attack like water.

"Cute," Jason said conversationally, as if he weren't currently engaged in what looked like mortal combat. "You been practicing your ballet?"

"Jealous you can't move like this?" Dick shot back, transitioning seamlessly into a handstand and launching a kick toward Jason's head.

Jason ducked, grabbed Dick's ankle, and suddenly Dick was spinning through the air. But instead of crashing to the mat, Dick used the momentum to land in a crouch, sweeping Jason's legs in the same motion.

Jason jumped over the sweep, landed, and immediately drove an elbow toward Dick's head. Dick rolled backward, came up in a defensive stance, and they were circling each other again.

"Left side," Jason said conversationally, reaching out to tap Dick's ribs with two fingers. "You're dropping your guard when you roll."

"Thanks for the tip," Dick replied dryly, then immediately exploited the opening Jason had created by lecturing him, landing a light slap to Jason's shoulder. "And you're telegraphing your elbows."

Tim stared. The entire exchange had taken maybe ten seconds, and it had been more intense than anything he'd managed in his entire fight with Jason.

"This is how they say hello," Damian observed dryly. "You should see what happens when they're actually annoyed with each other."

The sparring match continued, and Tim found himself mesmerized by the sheer controlled violence of it. Dick and Jason moved like they were trying to kill each other, but there was something almost choreographed about it. Every attack flowed into the next, every defense created opportunities for counterattacks. It was brutal and beautiful and absolutely terrifying.

"You're getting slow in your old age," Jason commented, catching one of Dick's punches and twisting his arm into what should have been a joint lock. Instead of applying pressure, he tapped Dick's wrist twice. "See? Could've broken this if I wanted to."

Dick somehow turned the lock into a throw, sending Jason tumbling across the mat. As Jason rolled, Dick called out, "And you're still dropping your right shoulder before you grapple. Dead giveaway. Wait-old age? I'm twenty-six!"

"Ancient," Jason said, rolling to his feet and immediately launching himself at Dick with a flying knee.

Dick sidestepped, grabbed Jason's extended leg, and used his momentum to send him crashing into the equipment rack. Jason hit it hard enough to make the whole structure shake, and Tim winced.

"Point to me," Dick called out cheerfully.

Jason extracted himself from the wreckage with a laugh that sounded genuinely delighted. "You always were a show-off."

And that's when Tim realized what he was actually watching. Underneath the violence, underneath the devastating techniques and the casual brutality, Dick and Jason were having fun. They were enjoying this in a way that Tim couldn't quite comprehend.

When Jason had fought him, it had been instructional—patient and controlled, even when Tim had asked him not to hold back. This was something else entirely. This was two apex predators playing with each other, testing limits, pushing boundaries, engaging in the kind of violence that would hospitalize most people and treating it like a game.

"They're insane," Tim said to no one in particular.

"They're brothers," Damian corrected, which somehow made it worse.

The fight continued, escalating in intensity. Dick launched himself off the walls, using his acrobatic skills to attack from impossible angles. Jason met him with raw power and brutal efficiency, turning Dick's own momentum against him time and again. They moved through the space like they owned it, destroying equipment and leaving scuff marks on the walls.

But even in the chaos, Tim noticed the teaching moments. When Dick landed a particularly elegant combination, Jason would nod approvingly and tap his own chest where Dick's final strike had connected. "Nice flow," he'd say, or "Good setup." When Jason demonstrated a counter that Dick hadn't seen coming, Dick would laugh and tap Jason's arm in acknowledgment. "Okay, that was smooth," or "Show me that one again later."

At one point, Dick managed to get Jason in a chokehold, and Tim was certain the fight was over. Instead of tapping out, Jason reached up and gently tapped the side of Dick's head twice.

"Arm's too high," Jason said calmly, despite being in a submission hold. "I could've headbutted you three times by now."

"Noted," Dick replied, adjusting his grip. "Better?"

"Much. Now I can only headbutt you twice."

Then Jason grabbed Dick's arm, twisted, and suddenly they were both airborne. They hit the mat hard, rolled apart, and were immediately back on their feet, grinning at each other like maniacs.

"Remember when Bruce used to make us do this with foam weapons?" Dick asked, ducking a vicious hook and responding with an uppercut that Jason barely avoided.

"You mean when you used to cheat and I used to let you win?" Jason replied, catching Dick's next punch and driving a knee toward his ribs.

Dick twisted away from the knee strike, grabbed Jason's shoulders, and used them as leverage to flip over Jason's head. He landed behind the bigger man and immediately went for another chokehold, but this time he tapped Jason's collarbone first.

"Remember what you just told me?" Dick said sweetly.

"Smart ass," Jason muttered, but he was grinning as he reached back, grabbed Dick, and threw him across the mat like he weighed nothing. As Dick flew through the air, Jason called out, "Your grip was better that time, but you're still telegraphing the setup!"

"You didn't let me win!" Dick protested from where he was picking himself up.

"You were adorable," Jason said, advancing on where Dick was getting to his feet. "Like a murderous circus pixie."

"I'll show you murderous pixie," Dick muttered, and suddenly he was moving faster than Tim could track.

The next exchange was a blur of strikes and blocks, throws and counters, acrobatic flourishes and brutal efficiency. But even at that speed, Tim caught glimpses of their ongoing commentary. A tap to Dick's ribs accompanied by Jason's "Wide open." A gentle slap to Jason's thigh as Dick noted, "Stance is off." They were beating the hell out of each other and giving a master class in technique at the same time. Tim watched in horrified fascination as his two older brothers tried to dismantle each other with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm.

At one point, Jason caught Dick in what looked like a devastating throw, sending him flying toward the Cave wall. Tim was certain Dick was about to be seriously injured. Instead, Dick hit the wall feet-first, used it as a springboard, and launched himself back at Jason like a missile.

Jason caught him mid-air, spun, and slammed him down onto the mat hard enough to make Tim's teeth ache in sympathy.

"Ooh, that had to hurt," Dick wheezed from his position on the floor.

"You okay?" Jason asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice despite the fact that he'd just pile-driven Dick into the ground.

"Peachy," Dick replied, sweeping Jason's legs and bringing him down to join him on the mat.

They grappled for position, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs and creative cursing. Jason was stronger, but Dick was more flexible, and watching them fight for advantage was like watching a master class in ground combat.

"Father says this is how they bonded when they were younger," Damian observed. "Apparently, attempting to murder each other is a form of affection in this family."

Tim was beginning to understand that. There was something almost intimate about the way Dick and Jason fought—a familiarity that spoke to years of shared experience under Batman. They anticipated each other's moves, countered techniques they'd seen a dozen times before, exploited weaknesses they knew by heart.

Jason managed to get Dick in what looked like a submission hold, but Dick twisted out of it and immediately reversed their positions. Then Jason rolled them both over, trying for a pin, but Dick bridged out and they were back to scrambling for position.

"This is ridiculous," Dick panted, as they broke apart and circled each other on the mat.

"Agreed," Jason said, wiping sweat from his eyes. "We could do this all day."

They stared at each other for a moment, both breathing hard, both clearly exhausted but neither willing to give up. Finally, Dick started laughing.

"Call it a draw?" he suggested.

"Yeah, alright," Jason said, flopping backward onto the mat. "I'm getting too old for this shit anyway."

"You're twenty-two!"

"Ancient," Jason replied, echoing his earlier comment about Dick.

Both of them were breathing hard, covered in sweat, and sporting what were going to be spectacular bruises. They were also both grinning like idiots.

"Good match," Dick said, extending a hand to help Jason up from where he was sprawled on the mat.

"Not bad for a murderous circus pixie," Jason replied, accepting the hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

They stood there for a moment, catching their breath and apparently completely oblivious to the fact that they'd just engaged in what looked like attempted homicide. Tim stared at them, trying to process what he'd just witnessed.

"That was..." Tim began, then stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"Educational?" Dick suggested, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Terrifying," Tim said honestly.

Jason laughed, a genuinely warm sound that Tim rarely heard from him. "Welcome to the family, Timmers. We're all insane here."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Tim said, and found that he meant it.

Because watching Dick and Jason spar had been like getting a glimpse into a language he didn't speak—a way of communicating through violence that was equal parts terrifying and fascinating. They'd beaten the hell out of each other and somehow emerged closer for it.

"Your turn," Jason said, turning toward Tim with that predatory smile.

Tim looked at the destroyed training area, at his two brothers who were covered in bruises and grinning like they'd just had the time of their lives, and felt something shift in his understanding of what family meant in this house.

"Right," he said, standing up and setting aside his coffee. "Let's see if I learned anything from watching you two try to kill each other."

Jason's grin widened. "Now you're talking, Timbo."

As Tim walked toward the mat, he found himself thinking that maybe getting beaten up by Jason wasn't the worst thing in the world. Maybe it was just another way of belonging, another language he needed to learn if he wanted to truly be part of this strange, violent, loving family.

Even if he was probably going to end up flat on his back again.

Some things, he was beginning to realize, were worth the bruises.