Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Smooth, twinkling jazz smothered the heavy, humming slide of a grappling line. The crooning of a nimble clarinet rose high through the humid air, simmering and rising through the haze like a silver thread in the wind. The light tapping of many feet, in perfect time, and a piano’s seductive tones intermingled on the cobblestones, reverberating between the alleyways’ windows and rickety fire escapes. From above, the sweeping dance of many shadowed figures seemed akin to a kaleidoscope in greyscale, broken only by the light which spilled from a solitary streetlight at the alley’s end. The harmonious strings puppeted those shades in perfect synchronicity, their uniform swaying a haunting, fractured beauty.

From on high, Batman overlooked that whirling fray, gaze fixed on the man in discordant magenta and chartreuse. His cane swung wide as he serenaded the night, whistling past the terrified eyes of a young man whose hands were white where they intertwined with his partner. For all the Music Meister’s posture stayed tall and loose, Batman watched as his eyes flicked from side to side, glasses flashing with each tilt to the night sky. An oddity, to be sure, this explosive scene mere hours after a near-silent escape from Arkham, but the Bat hummed as a pair of unwilling waltzers passed close by the light. Their faces were covered in black balaclavas, the necks tucked into their sharp white collars and held down with charcoal ties. He calmly reached for his belt, preparing to descend, but paused as the rhythm of the dancers stuttered. Choked.

A man broke free from the waltz, muscle spasming wildly as he stumbled toward the puppetmaster. The clarinet seemed to wilt, hesitant as the Music Meister turned to gape at the jerking, zombie-like attacker. One arm reeled up, fist clenched, then shot forward with more strength than finesse. It cracked against the Meister’s jaw, and he let out a yelp that mingled with the crash of a ghostly high-hat. Sensing his opening, Batman leant softly forward and dropped to land in a crouch on the alley floor, cape flaring wide to block the moon’s weak glow. He smoothly rose to stand, attention splitting as a light crackle sounded in his left ear.

“Master Bruce, we have a situation.” 

He grunted, striding forward to catch the next jerky strike Black Mask’s goon shot at the dazed Music Meister. However, as that shaking fist met his gloved palm, no other strike followed. In fact, the world seemed to freeze, static shadows locked to the earth as music swelled and sank over the tableau. Arms and hands interlocked, feet half raised- the dancers may well have been statues.

Batman turned sharply to bare down on the Meister, but the man was staring wide eyed at the scene, mouth slightly agape in raw bewilderment. A simple series of strikes and one set of cuffs later, the music fell silent as the unconscious puppeteer lay slumped on the cobblestones. And still, none but the Bat and the night wind moved.

“B?” 

He turned to the mouth of the alleyway. Robin strode towards him, casting incredulous glances at the masked men dotting the alleyway like some morbid form of humanoid taxidermy. One curious hand darted out to poke at a muscled shoulder, earning a sideways glare but no explosion of violence as Batman had half-expected. He grunted disapprovingly, but Jason rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what did you expect?

“Agent A sent me t’ get ya, and to tell ya to stop being a weirdo ‘n answer him. What the hell happened?” Jason put his hands on his hips, head cocked as he smirked up at the stone-faced Bat. Bruce shook his head, hand rising to first press his button to alert the police, then to unmute his comm device. A distinctly unimpressed Alfred immediately began to speak.

“As I was saying sir, we appear to have a situation. A stray bird, if you will. But fear not, I daresay Miss Barbara has it well in hand. Instead, may I recommend you redirect your focus to your eldest, who appears to have bit off more than he can chew near the banks of the South Channel.”

“Agent A, surely-” Batman frowned, sweeping his gaze over the paralyzed crowd as a siren rose in the distance. Before he could finish, a wave of sorts seemed to ripple through the men, and they crumpled with pained moans. Robin rushed to the nearest, batting away a pathetic swipe at his side as he shoved two fingers to the man’s neck. A thumbs-up signalled no signs of cardiac arrest, and he stuck out his tongue as he jumped out of range of the irate thug. Batman stepped forward to further inspect –and restrain– the man, but Alfred cleared his throat.

“Nightwing, sir. By the South Channel. With expediency, if I may.”

“We’re on it, A!” Jason grinned, taking off in a sprint as his grappling line shot upwards, and Bruce followed with a harried grunt.

—-------

A stranger who had never wandered beyond Gotham’s central financial district and uptown condos might know the city as a modern, if not particularly safe, metropolis. They might picture unyielding steel climbing high into smoggy skies, fluorescent lights which shone from office windows at all hours of the night, and rotating glass doors that scraped over marble entryways. Uptown, gunshots disturbed the business-savvy visitors as they scurried to and from their conferences, but the holes bullets blew through plywood were quickly smoothed over with spackle and paint. Cars parked neatly in three-story garages, anti-theft wheel locks applied as a matter of course, and the air smelled of gasoline and coffee.

Downtown, in a quiet neighborhood near Burnley that smelled of something like garlic and cumin, broken glass glittered like stars where it fell on the asphalt. Potholes collected darkness like rainwater, and alleyways hosted patchwork spiderwebs of swaying laundry lines. A maroon shawl bounced cheerfully as a squirrel dashed across its line, before leaping to another and sending a gossamer scarf floating down to earth. An open window let free into the night the sound of a father reading a storybook, the words inaudible but the rise and fall of his tones distinctly loving, deep, soft. Every three sentences or so, the swish of a page turning melted into the night, alongside a sleepy giggle. Just minutes ago, the child had been crying from some night terror, calling for her dad… But his voice was low and calm, and the dread evaporated under the starlight. Tim tucked their arms tighter around their knees, watching the washing swing lightly, the shine of splintered glass, the depths of a black hole in the asphalt. They thought, in flickers, of watercolours. Of ghosts.

Across the fragile airspace of this alleyway, two boots appeared. They dropped over the edge, heels lazily kicking against the brick walls of another vacant apartment building. Tim traced the line of those boots up, up, and up until they met the whiteout lenses of Batgirl’s cowl. They traced over her relaxed jaw and wry smile, sighing as the creeping tension in their shoulders dissipated like retreating thunder. 

The deep voice below mumbled onward. A car rattled past on the wider road, its bumper missing and one window covered with a sheet of plastic and duct tape. The wind picked up, carrying with it a hint of coriander and a sprinkle of dust which Tim blinked hard against. Batgirl seemed content to watch the occasional pigeons and squirrels as they passed by, one particularly round bird alighting on a clothes pin and pecking at the sleeve of the child’s shirt it held. It cocked its head, cooed, pecked, turned another way, and repeated the process. Barbara watched it idly, even as her hand rested on the top of her grapple. Tim breathed evenly, and watched her in turn.

It’s getting chilly, sweetheart.

They rested a cheek on their crossed arms, then huffed a burst of warm air. One nod as they met Barbara’s eyes, and soon her boots landed lightly beside them, a hand coming down to gently press against the crown of their head. Blonde bangs shifted slightly lower on Tim’s forehead, and they reached up to push the wig back up. A bottle was dropped in their lap, followed by a bag of chips. They eyed Batgirl with lazy suspicion, but cracked the bottle’s seal and sipped a refreshing mouthful of water. Barbara sank to sit beside them, peeling open a bag of corn chips and popping on into her mouth. The crunch of her eating broke the last of Tim’s lingering serenity, giving way to delight as they munched on what they discovered were their favorite sour cream and onion chips. Shoulders wiggling happily at the taste, they shifted to sit on their heels parallel to the roof, their knees brushing lightly against Barbara’s crossed calves.

“I like the makeup, very daring. Maybe a warmer tone lipstick, though.” Barbara reached out with the hand not holding her snack to wipe lightly under Tim’s eyes, “Your mascara’s shed a bit…”

“Dick let me borrow his leftover supplies. Believe me, we wish it weren’t so…” Tim waved generally over Her eyes and lips. Her eyelids shimmered with sapphire glitter, twin stick-on rhinestones tacked on at the outer corners. Her eyeliner had gone slightly awry, more of a wiggle than a wing, but she was reasonably proud of how her baby pink lipstick had stayed confined to her lips without smearing up past her cupid’s bow. It’s just so hard not to spread it too far when I’m trying to smush it out…

“Explains the eyeshadow. You should ask him how to do a cut-crease, he’s unreasonably good at it. I think you’ve cornered the market on wig skills, though. Where’d you get this one?” 

“There’s a guy with a sketchy cart that hangs out by the Party City near the north of the Narrows, we think he used to sell hot dogs out of it but the smell’s barely there anymore, and he takes cash. Not sure where he gets the wigs from, definitely doesn’t make them himself but they’re bug and needle free so we’ll take it.”

“Cash is good. You know what’s even better? Not buying traceable disguise components in broad daylight. Or at all.”

Technically it wasn’t in broad daylight-

Somehow, I doubt that little tidbit would make her feel better about our, ahem, choices.

Tim tilted Their head, one eyebrow cocked. “What, you want us to go out without any disguise? I mean, we could stand to repeat them a bit more, but once an identity picks up speed it’s gonna be hard to stop.” They popped another chip into their mouth.

“Put a pin in that, because a consistent secondary identity isn’t a horrible idea.” Barbara shook her head, “But no, what I’m talking about is a way of hiding your identity even when your fancy wigs and contour fall short. Can’t say I’m thrilled that one thug getting grab happy would be all it takes to tear that wig off, and well. If it’s just makeup…” She shrugged awkwardly, but they could fill in the blanks.

“We can buy better glue, really secure it down if that’s the problem-” Tim frowned, setting His food aside to lightly brush along the lace edges near his temple.

“If you are going to wander around like this, I’m going to need you to wear something more reliable than eyeshadow and probably-illegally sourced bangs. Consider!” Barbara forestalled further questioning with a raised finger, pointing towards the bridge of Tim’s nose in a way that almost had him going cross-eyed to follow it. “You need eye protection. Head protection. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard the boys talking about it.”

It was true. Jason and Dick may be chilly with each other most days, and on the best of those days Dick may still try to push Bruce into the cave’s pool in the name of vindication, but all three of them had united under a common banner: Keep Tim Drake Alive (and Sane). Nevermind that Their self-designated mission rendered the men’s efforts somewhat redundant, as He would never die while danger lurked for the Bats, and She would never let Him sacrifice himself at the ripe old age of ten-almost-eleven. It was… sweet. In a bemusing way. 

Much of the boys’ concerns lay in the area of head protection. If Jason had it his way, Tim expected They would be walking around with military grade ear protection and a bike helmet at all times. With so many unknowns surrounding their consciences and the physical impact it may-or-may-not have had on their developing brain, the Bats were stressed beyond belief at the idea of what an impact to their head or other such injury might induce. Jason had hissed like an offended cat when they relayed the confusing effects the Fear Gas had caused, and now all of their bags were checked weekly by Alfred to ensure there was a gas mask, emergency button, and all manner of other supplies. They had half-heartedly protested the gesture, but honestly, they stocked their bags with these things before they ever met the Bats and it was just one more item off the list to remember. Gotham bless Alfred, world’s most functional man.

All to say, Tim was well aware how stressed the boys –and, to a lesser extent, Barbara and Alfred– were about protecting their brain. They couldn’t so much as sleep on a couch without the ground beside it being covered in pillows as they slept, like they were some newly-mobile toddler who might fall off and concuss themselves at a moment's notice. The fretting was hard to miss.

“What are you thinking?” They asked, well aware that Batgirl would not have mentioned the issue without a proposed solution. She grinned slyly, reaching behind her to one of her belt pockets.

“Voila!” 

In her palm, she offered them a stiff, black stretch of metallic black fabric. Tim took the mask, passing it from hand to hand, noting the solid heft and rigidity that marked it as unique from the flexible dominoes Robin and most other sidekicks favored. It curved to accommodate the bridge of their nose, and He ran a finger along the extended edges. It flared far past the eye, seeming to spread outward at the temple and hooking behind the ear not unlike a pair of glasses. Part of the metal curled like a cresting wave at the edges to trace along their hairline, not quite connecting in the middle but serving as additional protection against head-on collisions. The lenses were a deep silver, like shocks of steel amid coal. He brushed over the inner surface, and it seemed to grab his skin, a light suctioning, rubbery feel.  Barbara watched his reaction in patient silence.

“How do we put it on?”

She reached out gently to lift the mask to Their face, pressing it between their eyes firmly for one, two, three seconds. Then she spread her hands outward with that same even pressure, until the downturn behind their ears lay flat and their bangs fell back over the topmost edge. They looked up, down, and to each side, but the layer did not impede their sightline. They may as well have acquired an additional layer of shadows across their skin for how smoothly the metal adhered. Barbara whistled lowly, leaning back to survey them fully.

“Listen, T, I gotta go –something up with Nightwing, not sure what but Robin keeps beeping my comm like a pager so probably best to hurry up before there’s a murder– but keep that on ‘til you make it back, Agent A has the removal instructions. Which reminds me…” She crossed her arms with a glare that struck them through the white of her lenses, and Tim became abruptly aware of exactly how late the night had grown, how cold it was, and how little patience Batgirl had for reckless, runaway children.

“Go home. Now. ”             

Best hope the U-line is running…

Chapter Text

The smell of bleach and lavender stung Barbara’s nostrils as she yawned, hiding the motion behind a casual wave of the hand. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the scowling tableau before her, Batman and Nightwing each replacing their gear into its storage while steadfastly avoiding each others’ eyes. The sullen men had dragged their feet so long in the decontamination showers –a fire hydrant had exploded after being struck by a hijacked garbage truck, drenching vigilantes and criminals alike in the finest Gotham sludge– that Jason had long since ambled upstairs and to bed under Alfred’s watchful eye. Barbara had spent her spare minutes checking the shadowy corners of the cave for stray insomniacs, until she thought to check the monitors, at which point she found the butler’s written confirmation that Tim had been shuffled off to bed with motion sensors activated along their exterior windowsills. Efficient. 

The clock was ticking dangerously close to 4 AM as she flowed lazily through cooldown stretches, when deep walnut slippers intruded on her peace. One final deep breath, and she rose from her toe-touch to meet Bruce’s bloodshot eyes. Leaning to the left, she spied Nightwing perched on the edge of a cot, liberated from the enclosed medbay to sit conspicuously beside the primary computer. Her head lolled back to squint at her sometimes-mentor, often-irritant.

“Tim’s status. Report.”

“You're welcome.” Barbara scowled.

The Bat would never blush, but something in his posture shrunk as if chastised. Good. He inclined his head. 

“Yes, thank you, Batgirl. Please, tell me what you observed.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “What are they, a science experiment?” A raised hand forestalled further insistence. “Tim is fine. I gave them the mask-”

“You rewarded them for unsafe behavior.”

“I recognized a battle I wasn’t going to win, and picked a better one. If you wanted a different outcome, you should have set up stronger security– And that is not a recommendation, if I found out you’ve implanted trackers or some shit I’m telling my dad the Batman left a batarang on our fire escape, and that’s how I got the scar on my leg.”

“Do it,” Dick called over, arms crossed. “He should know the Bat’s full of it.”

“I’m not accepting input from idiots who overwork themselves and miscount the number of assailants by a factor of 5.” Barbara pushed to standing, walking her way over to lean against a filing cabinet across from the liberated cot. Dick’s neck and cheeks flushed a deep umber, his hands flying up in indignation as he snapped,

“I’m on your side!”

“There are no sides! And if there were, I’d choose the winning one, which isn’t yours Mr. I can take 32 men without backup! ” She seethed, fighting to keep her voice below a shout. It wasn’t worth the headache, or the dry throat. 

“It might encourage them further.” 

“Oh my god that is neither correct nor the problem,” Barbara whirled on Bruce, watching his eyes lock open as he tried to hide a surprised blink. “Deal with your problem child, we both know it isn’t the one asleep in their bed on a silk pillowcase.” She ran a hand through her hair, snarling when it snagged on a matted knot. Bruce shook his head walking past her to stand over his injured son. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Dick was rocketing to his feet and pacing away. 

“Don’t pretend I’m the only one who miscalculates,” He seethed, pointing a shaking finger at Barbara’s shoulder, “You haven’t done maintenance on your grapple in weeks, I saw you miss that first anchor point, now you know everything about staying safe on patrol? What about last night, when-”

“Shut. Up.” Barbara hardly recognized her own voice. There was no more fire in it, only embers, yet it struck like a rock to her friend’s temple. She watched him bite down on that spark of indignance, just for another to strike out like lightning. In two steps he stood face-to-face with Bruce, words hissing through clenched teeth.

“I won’t take your judgment, your fucking superiority , don’t you dare start. Always watching for something to critique, I haven’t needed your feedback since I was twelve–” The blush was draining from his face, which was looking quite ashen come to think of it–

Bruce caught his son under the shoulders as Dick’s legs crumpled, wet curls falling to cover his unfocused eyes. Two fingers darted to his pulse, the other firmly wrapping around his chest to move him back to the cot. A bubbling whine of protest was thoroughly ignored, though Barbara swatted lightly at his knee for the audacity. The lack of blood in the shower, combined with Nightwing’s admittedly solid understanding of how his personal health helped –or hindered– their work almost certainly meant the man was in no real danger. 

…Probably.

As an acrobat, the first Robin had historically been quite careful with his joints and bones, understanding that to lose cartilage was to impede flexibility and speed, and in doing so risk the lives of civilians under his care and vigilantes at his side. He had, on one notable occasion, held Batman back from patrol for an entire half an hour in the name of warm-up stretches the night after a strenuous fight with Bane. He wrapped his sprains, wore a knee brace after excessive freerunning, and Barbara had been genuinely impressed at how well-stocked his medicine cabinet at his apartment had been last she visited. Seven months ago.

Dick batted Bruce’s hands away, shaking his hair out of his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. He fisted a hand in the thick topsheet, knuckles white and cheeks a wilting pink. Bruce kneeled before him, a gargoyle repenting and admonishing in equal, silent measure. 

“You miscalculated. Two men are dead, six more in the hospital, and nearly ten at large. From a reconnaissance mission . This will not happen again.” The Batman loomed upwards from his odd crouch, a shadowy depth caressing the light in a cold gentleness which sent a shiver down Barbara’s spine. She grimaced.

Dick… cracked. Like glass, raining down onto his father below, he shattered with a frantic bloodthirst that rebuked comfort. “Of course it won’t happen- Do you think I’m an idiot?! It was one bad night- You’ve let more people die than I ever- ” His words were choked between breaths that whistled and creaked, but they struck their target.

“You’re benched.” Bruce stood to his full night, his face one of frigid wax. “Until you can think straight again.”

“That just means until you feel like it, you ASSHOLE- ”

Barbara swept in between them, “Enough! What the hell is wrong with you, Dick,” She glared at him as he shot to his feet, heat building behind her eyes and in her stomach. “That was a stupid move. Don’t start fights you can’t win, and definitely not pointless fucking gunfights. Bruce, back the fuck off!” She put a hand on the man’s chest, pushing until he stepped back a foot. “You’re being a hypocrite.”

Dick snorted, throwing his hands up in mock astonishment. “Batman, a hypocrite? Is it a weekday?”

“I’m doing what’s best.” Bruce rumbled. Barbara shot him a look of utter disbelief, but neither man seemed capable of seeing beyond their bluster. Dick shook, his muscles contracting with the force of his frustration, and pointed another accusatory finger right where the bat proudly sat over Bruce’s chest each night. His words ground out through teeth like millstones, grinding and locked and crushing.

“No. I’m doing what’s best. I’m fucking here, no? Watching your streets, mentoring your son instead of sleeping, racking up bills from the sheer amount of goddamn gasoline I gotta burn each week- In the name of what’s best! Best for who, huh?! Why do I even-” He shook his head sharply, hand drawing back to rub angrily at his forehead.

“I have never asked you to overextend yourself.” Bruce frowned, head tilting as he watched Dick’s chest heave. A silence fell for two heartbeats. Three.

You never ask for anything. Barbara could not tell if the thought was her own, or plucked from Dick’s mind and planted in her own like so many stray hairs he left on her shoulder, resting his head in the calmest night hours. Once upon a not-so-distant time, those hairs had chased her high and low, mysteriously nesting under her pillowcase and between the pages of her favorite detective novels. Her best friend, woven between mundane minutes and hours in strands too thin and numerous to gather up with any success.

…She only seemed to find copper hairs, these days.

Dick kicked the cot, sending it rolling with a squeal towards the medbay. “Screw this. I know where I’m not wanted.” He stormed past the equipment tables, snagging a spare mask and shoving it deep in his pant pocket. A set of featherlight leaps carried him up the stairs and out of sight.

Barbara sighed, a hand coming up to rub at her temple and softly press over her aching eyes. “...My report will be in the system by noon.” She turned sharply and made off towards her bike, her ribs twinging with each step but not nearly enough to keep her in that frigid, damp, empty cave.

Bruce grunted, eyes fixed on the abandoned cot.

—-----------

A fly struggled, shaking discordant against the neat white strands that entrapped it. The spider which crouched nightly in the corner of Tim’s windowsill contemplated it, but withheld from striking, soothed to lazy peace under the grey skies and muggy heat of the late summer witching hours. Tim blinked through the syrupy weight of sleep-hours lost, and watched the sway of forget-me-nots under slow-pressing wind. They sank and rose, ferns beneath them, all shades of ash and chalk under the waning moon. The heat had risen sharply around an hour before, a front moving through with a heartbeat-quick flash of thundering rain and clouds that boiled black and misted apart in minutes. Tim had watched with their back to their bedframe, mattress and piling pillows shielding them from sight from the door, legs tucked up and toes curling to push against the cool baseboards. From here, they could just barely look over the corner of the window and down to the gravel drive below, the beautifully unnatural bursts of British meadowflowers amid native marsh undergrowth drawing their eyes down the drive to the distant, iron gates that sat slightly ajar at the drive’s end.

Gravel like static. Tall, frail flowers held up with curling leaves and tough grass. The glint of moonlight on an open gate. White and silver pebbles. A petal, drifting out of sight in a thorny rosebush. A stretch of golden light.

A shadow and its caster. A return to grey.

They bit their lip, watching Nightwing dash down the lane with the ghostly crunch of stones shifting to accommodate his flight. His pitch black hair stretched and melded into the night as he grew further away, the warm walnut undertones bleeding out under the pressing grey and the shadows blurring until he was a swirl of soot, evaporating under the sighing stars. Beyond the gate, a single headlight blinked awake, and the deep rumble of a getaway motorcycle reverberated as the little fly in the spider’s web shook and buzzed and, finally, sighed to stillness.

A foxglove bent double under a hefty gust, kissing a low-lying sprig of clover. As it rose back tall, a single velvet petal shook free and lightly twirled to rest among the undergrowth. 

Across the hall, a young boy slept fitfully, lilting snores cutting in and out as he shifted about. In their crevice, Tim pulled their knees tighter to their chest, and listened for the morning’s first birdsong.