Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world comes into focus slowly, like a microscope slide under a careful hand. He's staring at ceiling tiles. It's a drop ceiling; Janet hates those. She says they're tacky, soulless, and cover up a building's character. Jack had never put much thought into it before—they're incredibly practical, after all—but now he finds himself agreeing with her. The basic drop ceiling means that he has no idea where he is. He'll have to move to see, and it just doesn't seem worth the effort. The world is just starting to slide back out of focus when he hears Tim's voice. 

"Dad?" It's hopeful and painful and frantic. Jack claws his way back to wakefulness, needing to reassure his son. "Bruce, I think he's waking up. Dad, can you hear me?"

"Tim," he tries to call out. It's more of a wheeze than a name, but the feeling of a hand in his tells him Tim understands him all the same. 

Janet is dead. 

Jack knows he wasn't always the best husband. Wasn't always the best father, for that matter. He could be dismissive of Jan, at times. Short-tempered with the very idiosyncrasies that had so drawn him to her. Frustrated with how exactly like her their son turned out to be. But dammit, he loved her. Loves Tim, too. He just always thought there'd be more time to show it. Thought he was doing what was best for them in focusing on Drake Indistries. 

And isn't that just insult to injury? The company he worked so hard for—sacrificed so many moments with Tim, with Jan for—is now barely staying afloat after its mismanagement in his absence. 

To top it off, even after weeks of physical therapy, he's still too weak to take more than a handful of steps. 

At least he still has Tim. Despite all odds—and Jack knows just how bad those odds are in Gotham—Tim has been in good, safe hands in Jack's absence. More specifically, Bruce Wayne's hands. Were his next-door neighbor virtually anyone else on the planet (especially any other billionaire) Jack would be horrified at the thought of what his son may have gone through while he was in a coma and unable to protect him. But well…Bruce Wayne is just… Brucie. The man is the living embodiment of that “pure of heart, dumb of ass” joke that Tim loves to make. Apparently with his eldest living in Bludhaven and his youngest—

Apparently Bruce’s legendary empty nest syndrome has returned, just in time to protect Tim from the horrors of Gotham’s foster care system. Jack can’t find it in himself to be anything but grateful.

As the weeks continue to pass, Jack is slowly revising his opinion of Bruce Wayne. 

He's a good man; Jack is sure. The way Tim speaks of him leaves no doubt. The way Bruce continues to keep an eye on Tim now that he's returned home only reinforces the belief. But sometimes, he could swear that Bruce forgets Tim is Jack's son. 

It started with the food. Jack was freshly out of the hospital, still completely immobile below the waist, and Gotham restaurants don't deliver all the way in Bristol. Even with his medical bills mysteriously paid for by an "anonymous benefactor," the state of DI means they can't afford to hire a cook. Instead, their housekeeper is paid extra to deliver a week's supply of freezer meals every Monday. Tim tried to insist he could cook for them, but Jack has watched his son set a pot of water on fire. Martha Stewart chicken pot pies will be fine. And they are, at least until Bruce Wayne knocks on their door with an "extra" lasagna that Alfred "accidentally" made that day. Jack is grateful, especially since Tim beams at the man's presence. 

Bruce declines Tim's offer to join them in eating the lasagna, but Jack hears them from the dining room as Tim walks Bruce to the door. 

"Tim," Bruce's voice is full of gentle, restrained affection, "I want you to know that you can come to me if you ever need anything. You and Jack both."

"I know, B." Jack knows his son well enough to know that Tim is fondly rolling his eyes. 

If Bruce takes offense, it's not audible in his voice as he replies, "I mean it, Tim. I know he's your father. I won't overstep. But you're still my—" he cuts off with a breath. "I'm still here for you. Both of you."

"Thank you, Bruce."

Bruce comes back with another meal 5 days later. Then 3 days, then the next evening when those are well received. He abandons all pretense of "accidents" by the third delivery, but he never accepts Tim's offer to stay. Sometimes, by the way his eyes dart to Jack for a fraction of a moment before he declines, Jack thinks the man might stay if he parroted the offer. He never does. 

The Joker breaks out of Arkham on a Saturday afternoon, and Bruce calls Jack in a panic. He mutes the news report as he answers the man's call. 

"Is Tim with you? Is he safe?"

And suddenly Jack remembers. It was the Joker, wasn't it?

"He's here. Was getting ready to leave for the skatepark with some friends when we saw the news. Told him he's staying home until the police catch that madman"

The sigh of relief is heart-wrenching even over the tinny phone speaker. "Thank God."

Jack's nearly ready to cave and invite Bruce over so he can see with his own two eyes that Tim is safe when Bruce continues with a forced laugh, "I'm not in Gotham right now, or I'd have probably shown up at your door."

"On a day like today, I wouldn't blame you. He's alright, Bruce. I'll tell him to give you a call in a minute."

"Thank you, Jack."

"Anytime."

He's not expecting much to come of the conversation. Tim calls Bruce to check in, though he seems strangely frustrated afterwards by their conversation. Batman and Nightwing return the Joker to Arkham in record time. And the next morning, Bruce Wayne knocks on their door. 

Physical therapy is serving Jack well. He's able to walk from the lounge to the foyer to open the door, though he leans heavily on his cane as he does so. There's genuine delight in Bruce's eyes as he registers Jack standing, though his mood is still uncharacteristically somber. Jack can't imagine what memories the Joker's breakout must stir up even years after such a loss. 

"I just got back to Gotham, and I was thinking," Bruce starts as he follows Jack to the lounge, "I know the sort of security measures we have at Wayne Manor. The place is practically a fortress. But Tim mentioned months ago—he wanted to stop by for a specific sweater for a class presentation, you see—that you only have the one alarm system. And I was thinking that it would be so much safer for you both if I put you in contact with the people who did our security."

"It's kind of you to worry, Bruce," Jack begins. And it is a nice thought, but there's frankly no way that he'd be able to afford the sort of security that Wayne money can buy.

"They already have my card on file, so there wouldn't even need to be any hassle with Gotham banks," Bruce continues, seemingly oblivious. "You know how they can get after Rogue activity."

And that's… clever, is what it is. To anticipate Jack's concern and address it. To treat the offered gift as a matter of convenience, rather than means. It's clear why Tim adores the man, even if his son's attachment to another father-figure painfully reminds him of his own shortcomings. His pride insists he decline the gift, no matter how tactfully offered. But Bruce is right; Gotham is a dangerous place. And Jack will do anything—even swallow his pride—to keep Tim safe. 

"That's an incredibly generous offer, Bruce. Thank you."

Tension visibly seeps from Bruce's limbs as that magazine-worthy smile lights up the room. "I'm happy to, Jack. Really."

It's when Wayne Enterprises reaches out to Drake Indistries with a business proposal that Jack's patience finally wears out. 

WE is seeking to reach an agreement regarding development of a piece of proprietary medical technology that DI designed. Incredibly promising device, if only they had the liquid assets to actually produce the damn thing for sale. In exchange for non-exclusive production rights, Wayne Enterprises is willing to offer Drake Industries half of all their profits from sale of the device. It's an incredibly generous deal. Exactly the sort of lifeline that could bring DI back from the precipice it's been hovering at. Except—despite the man's conspicuous absence from the meeting—Jack knows it's coming from Bruce Wayne. 

Jack thanks them for their time and their interest. He promises to get back to them soon. He drives home, grateful to have regained this piece of autonomy as he progresses in his physical therapy. He walks into his kitchen, downs a glass of burbon, and pours himself another. He walks into his backyard and screams at the top of his lungs for as long as his breath will allow. And then he sits down at the kitchen table and sips at his drink while he considers his options. 

In any business negotiation, it's important to know 3 things: what you want, what your opponent wants, and what you're willing to give. It's clear as day what Bruce wants: Tim. Somehow, during the months Tim spent in his care, Bruce came to care for Tim as his own. Now that Jack is awake, Bruce is searching for a place in Tim's life. Despite Bruce's airheaded reputation, it's well known that the man will do anything for his kids. Anything. If he's now counting Tim among their number, there's no limit to what he'll give Jack in exchange for that place. 

Were Bruce any other man, he wouldn't even consider it. But Bruce is so good to Tim. Wants nothing but the best for him. Tim lights up with every reminder that Bruce still thinks of him as family. As his son, even if neither will say it. And well, with what he has in mind, it certainly doesn't hurt that Bruce has been voted the most handsome man in America on several occasions. Rightfully so. 

It's no secret that Bruce is bisexual. The man has been out for decades. Jack remembers an evening spent tipsy on the couch with Jan, debating which of them would have a better chance with him if they ever broke up. It feels like approval, somehow, knowing that she'd enjoy watching him attempt to win their silly, hypothetical competition in her absence. He doesn't think she'd even mind him cheating by weaponizing Tim. After all, it was Jan herself who taught him to use any weapon at his disposal to win. She was competitive like that, endearing and frustrating him in equal measure. Their Tim is just the same. 

Mind made up, Jack sets himself to planning. It's not as if there's a Wikihow for using your teenage son to baby trap your local billionaire. He starts simple. The next time Bruce stops by with dinner, Jack asks him to stay before Tim can get the words out. 

Bruce stays.

Chapter Text

Bruce isn't sulking. 

Really, he's not. He's happy for Tim, ecstatic even. No one would have ever said as much to Tim, but they had all long since given up any hope of Jack Drake recovering. Tim getting his father back is nothing short of a miracle. Bruce just wishes it didn't mean giving up his son. 

Tim is still next door. Still Bruce's Robin. How much can it really hurt to check on him?

The freezer meals are disappointing, but not surprising. Given the number of kitchen appliances Bruce was forced to replace in the wake of Alfred's (long since abandoned) attempts to teach Tim some basic cooking skills, it makes sense that he wouldn't be trusted with any food preparation. With Jack's physical therapy progressing every day—and Bruce maintains that that's a completely reasonable thing to keep tabs on, no matter what Dick says—retrofitting their kitchen for wheelchair accessibility must not be worth the cost. Fortunately, Alfred is happy to make an extra lasagna, and Jack tolerates Bruce stopping by to drop it off. He even gets to talk to Tim out of uniform, however briefly, to remind him that he'll still be there for him now that he's returned home.

The Joker's breakout from Arkham chills Bruce to his core. How has he been letting Tim stay in that manor? The security is useless. Tim disabled his window alarm ages ago to sneak out as Robin. Something needs to be done. Tim would be livid if Bruce prevented him from sneaking out (and Bruce would selfishly miss having him as Robin). But a security system that Bruce controls the installation of would make the manor far far safer, while still allowing Tim access in and out of his home as he pleased. Jack is sold on the idea far easier than anticipated, his desire to keep Tim safe outpacing his reluctance to accept any perceived charity from Bruce. 

It goes a long way towards improving his opinion of the man. Jack may not have been as present in Tim's life as the boy could have used, but God knows Bruce has made his own share of parenting mistakes in his time. The fact that Jack is putting in the effort now is encouraging. Tim is clearly hesitant to trust his father's commitment, seeking Bruce's presence as a buffer. It kills him to deny Tim that comfort, but he refuses to stand in the way of Tim bonding with Jack. He can always spend time with Tim on patrol, even if his Robin's flights are becoming fewer and farther between since Jack's return. 

It's after a meeting between WE and DI, which Bruce is aware of but does not attend, that Jack's formality and suspicion towards Bruce begin to wane. When he stops by with food (refusing to sacrifice those minutes with Tim even though the deliveries are no longer necessary, not as long as Jack is still tolerating his presence), Jack invites him to stay for dinner. He accepts. 

The caller ID makes Bruce's heart skip a beat, one hand pulling up Tim's tracking data on his laptop even as the other answers the phone. Jack never calls him without reason. 

"Jack. Is everything alright?"

"Of course, Bruce. Tim and I were just wondering if you'd like to come to the skate park today. I could use someone to keep me company on the bench while he skates with his friends, and I know he'd enjoy you joining us for ice cream afterwards. What do you say?"

And just like that, he can breathe again. "I'd love to, Jack. Should I head over, or meet you guys there?" He doesn't want to push too hard. To take more than is offered. 

"Why don't you come over now? I was just about to start on breakfast."

"Are you sure? I don't want to intrude."

"I'm inviting you, aren't I?"

Breakfast is a simple affair, domestic in a way that makes Bruce's heart ache for what he might have had in another life. He and Tim sit at the kitchen counter, talking about Tim's classes and school friends while Jack makes omelettes. They're both banned from assisting, Bruce because he's a guest and Tim for the safety of Bristol. During Tim's third tangent about how incredibly annoyed he is with his new friend Bernard, Jack glances over from the stove to meet Bruce's eyes for a moment. So he's not the only one who believes there's likely more to Tim's feelings for this friend. The moment is only slightly spoiled as Bruce wonders who Tim will come to when he finally realizes that for himself: Jack or Bruce?

Bruce takes a bite of his omelette, fully prepared to be tactful and polite. Instead, only Alfred's lessons in manners prevent his mouth from falling open while still full of food. "Jack, this is wonderful."

Jack just laughs as he cuts into his own omelette, Tim already ignoring them both to devour his. "Tim here got his cooking skills from Jan," his smile turns a bit bittersweet at her memory, "so I had to pick up a few things."

They finish the meal in comfortable silence.

Bruce flinches as Tim wipes out for the fourth time. For all he's seen the boy take worse hits as Robin, it never gets any easier. "It's a good thing he knows how to fall right."

Jack just sighs beside him. "He certainly gets enough practice at it."

Despite himself, Bruce snorts harshly at the words. Jack laughs too, soft and guilty. Bruce thinks he might like to hear more of it. "Maybe it's time we get that ice cream, before he turns out more bruise than boy."

At Jack's nod, Bruce whistles short and sharp. He holds up 5 fingers once Tim turns to look at him, taking the boy's eye roll as begrudging acceptance of the new time constraint. When he turns back, Jack is smiling at him. 

"I never thanked you," he says, "for taking care of him when I couldn't."

Bruce just shakes his head. "I was happy to, Jack."

"Really, Bruce. I know Tim… isn't always the easiest child to manage. I love him more than anything, but dear God do you have any idea how many toasters he's managed to blow up?"

Bruce grins conspiratorially. "Why do you think Alfred adores him so? He's one or two science experiments away from a complete kitchen remodel at this point. I think if Tim ever comes to visit, Alfred may just destroy the last surviving original appliance himself and frame the boy just so I'll replace it."

Jack's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, even as he pinches his brow. "I'm so sorry, Bruce."

"Did you know the chandeliers at Wayne Manor are triply reinforced?"

Jack's confusion at the non sequitur is evident. "They are?"

"Well they weren't originally, you see. I had it done after Dick first came to stay with me because the little menace wouldn't stop swinging from them."

Jack's laughing freely now, and Bruce preens internally at causing it. 

"So you see, Jack. I'm no stranger to difficult children. Tim may not be the easiest to keep in line, but he's an easy kid to love."

"He really is, isn't he?"

Tim rolls up to them on his skateboard. "Ice cream?"

"Yeah kiddo," Jack tells him. "Let's all go get some ice cream."

When they get to the ice cream parlor, Bruce insists on paying for the three of them. It's hard to tell whether or not he's imagining the flash of interest in Jack's eyes as he thanks him.

Life continues on, an endless cycle of WE work and patrols. It's easier though. He has dinner with Jack and Tim more evenings than not. Really, nearly every evening that Dick isn't in town. Jack even sends him updates on Tim from time to time. 

Jack: Had to pick Tim up from school today after he nearly set a science lab on fire. 

Bruce: Is everyone alright?

Jack: Oh yes. Everyone is fine. Fortunately, another student noticed the flames and grabbed the extinguisher.

Jack: Apparently he had "an epiphany" in the middle of their flame test lab and ran out of the room to grab a notebook from his locker. Without shutting down his burner.

Bruce: Ah. That does seem in line with what Alfred told me of their failed cooking lessons.

Jack: You let him use a STOVE??? How is Wayne Manor standing?

Bruce: Alfred.

Jack: Makes sense.

He brings it up as they're getting ready for patrol that evening. 

"So, Tim. I heard something interesting from your father today."

Tim turns to face him, still buckling his gauntlets, and Bruce will be having words with Dick about the distinctly recognizable, guileless smile Tim turns on him. He continues before Tim has a chance to speak. 

"I've already told Oracle. There's no wiggling out of it. Two weeks of remedial situation awareness training. Supervised patrols only in the interim. It's for your own safety, Tim. As well as the safety of everyone we're out there protecting."

Tim sighs, defeated. "Okay, B."

The third time Bruce pays for one of their outings, he knows he's not mistaken. Jack is dintinctly pleased watching Bruce hand over his card. 

"You know what?" Bruce pauses the man and the check out counter before he can swipe it. "Why don't we get the season passes instead of the day ones? Platinum package."

He fixes Jack with his best playboy smile as he hands him two of the passes. "Only the best for my," he pauses for the briefest moment, "friend."

Jack's answering smile is pure boy-next-door charm, warm and unfinished and beautiful. "You spoil us, Bruce." He takes the passes over to where Tim waits for them, leaving Bruce a moment to think as he trails behind. 

He's done far more objectionable things than flirt with a handsome man who likes to be spoiled. Often for far less reason than keeping his Robin (his son) securely in his life. If Jack is amenable to such an arrangement, well… it's not as if Bruce is about to run out of money anytime soon. 

He tests the waters throughout the day, whenever they find themselves alone as Tim races off ahead to the next ride or attraction. A brush of shoulders here, a long stare there, the lingering of his fingers against Jack's as he hands the man an overpriced water bottle (that of course, Bruce paid for without being asked). Not only does Jack show no signs or hints of discomfort, he's receptive. He leans in, meets Bruce's eye, lets his fingers stroke along Bruce's as he takes the water. Not a reluctant play for stability, then, but the seizing of an entirely favorable opportunity. Bruce sees no reason to deny himself the same. 

"Jack," he begins, the next time Tim darts out of earshot. "I was wondering if you might like to get dinner with me sometime soon. Just the two of us."

Jack smiles, warm and satisfied. "I'd like that very much, Bruce."

Chapter Text

Their first date is exactly what Jack would expect when being wined and dined by a billionaire. 

Once Tim leaves for his sleepover at Ives' house, Bruce picks him up and takes him somewhere with a rooftop terrace for filet mignon and scallops. They make polite conversation about the weather and high society. They drink wine that's several hundred dollars a glass, and Bruce tells the server to leave the bottle. They eat dessert that would make professional french pastry chefs weep for joy. It's perfect. 

It's boring. 

They climb into Bruce's car as the sun begins to set, and Bruce studies him for a moment. "Are you up for one more stop?"

Honestly, the last thing Jack wants to do is spend another minute in this facade. He hadn't even realized before tonight that the Bruce he's come to know—Tim's Bruce—is not the same man as Brucie Wayne. But there's something in Bruce's eyes as Jack opens his mouth to decline. A spark of that challenge he's come to appreciate these past few months. He's not about to back down.

His smile has a hit of bared teeth. "I'm up for anything."

The parking garage they end up in smells of gasoline, cigarettes, and weed. Bruce casually tosses his expensive suit jacket in the car's backseat, replacing it with a simple pullover. He hands another to Jack before mussing his hair in the rear view mirror. Jack follows him to the trunk of the car, where Bruce toes off his dress shoes in favor of sneakers. He hands Jack a new pair in his exact size. Jack's breath catches as Bruce steps in close, finger-combing his hair out of its perfectly gelled style. Apparently satisfied with their transformation, Bruce extends a hand. Jack takes it. 

They enter the arcade to an explosion of color and sound. Jack feels Bruce's hand tighten in his for a moment as the man guides him towards the games. He takes a pre-loaded game card out of his wallet and swipes it at two neighboring ski-ball units, raising his first ball as if in toast. 

"May the best man win."

Jack smiles as he taps one of his own balls gently against it. "I will."

He loses the game, but the way Bruce's eyes shine with happiness feels like its own victory. 

Bruce is incredibly grateful for his love of contingencies. He'd really thought the stuffy, upper crust date was what Jack was angling for. Had almost left the supplies for the arcade behind. He'll keep it in mind as he plans their second date. 

"Hey, B," Nightwing sing-songs as he lands on the rooftop behind him. "You'll never believe the rumor I heard about you and Robin's dad."

"Nightwing," Bruce chides, "no identifying information in the field." 

Dick, despite being a fully grown man, pouts at this. "C'mon, B. You gotta tell me something." 

Were it not a matter of safety, it would be unfortunately effective coming from his beloved son. As it is, Bruce is unmoved. "If you would like to stay after patrol, we can discuss the matter further at the Cave. Not here."

Dick brightens as if he were the one who won their argument, pointing a finger at Bruce. "Fine, but don't think you're getting out of telling me everything." He falters for a moment. "Maybe not everything everything. But you will tell me how this happened."

Bruce just sighs. "Agreed."

They make it through patrol without further comment, and Bruce can feel Dick vibrating with questions as they enter the cave. He takes his cowl off and begins removing his gauntlets. "Yes, Dick?"

"Okay, so like, I knew from Tim that this was coming eventually, but seriously how did it happen? Who asked who out? Does he know about all this," he gestures around the Cave, "yet? How does he feel about Tim being Robin? Are you guys serious? Will he still be my stepfather since I'm an adult? What does Alfred—"

"Dick." Bruce breaks in. He takes a breath as Dick finally pauses his rapid-fire questions. "I asked Jack out last week. We've been on one date. He does not know that I am Batman or that Tim is Robin. And we will not be telling him. The relationship is not yet serious, and I do not believe there is any real possibility of our marriage at any point in the future. Alfred disapproves, though I believe that has more to do with my lack of forthcomingness than with Jack himself." He thinks for a moment to see if he missed any of Dick's questions. "Now what do you mean you knew this was coming?"

Dick's face takes on a look of judgemental confusion. "Tim says it's crazy obvious that something's up with you two. He thought at first that you hated each other—which absolutely killed him, by the way, so you had better keep things amicable if you break up—but then he said you guys kept taking him on family outings together and just… smiling and staring at each other every time he turned around. Honestly, when I saw a picture of your date on insta, I thought you might be getting engaged. I was ready to chew you out for not telling me sooner. I guess if it was just a first date, I can let it go."

"Jack is seeking stability, both for himself and for Tim. I'm well positioned to provide it. And this relationship helps keep Tim in our lives."

Understanding, amusement, and disappointment war on Dick's face. "Sure, B. Let me know how that works out for you. You'll tell Tim I'm in town for the weekend?"

"Of course. Get some rest, chum."

"Night, B."

As he watches Bruce bounce slightly on his toes at the sight of the autographed "Gray Ghost" box set, Jack is reminded of yet another of Tim’s internet memes. “The risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math.”

Jack is well aware that he has a type. A rather specific type in fact. Kind, intelligent, hyper-competent weirdos. Jan may have been beautiful and brilliant and so, so good (not to mention terrifying to anyone who truly crossed her). But she was also a little freak who’d rather be digging in the mud than sipping champagne. And God, did he love her for it.

By all rights, Bruce Wayne should check—at most—one of his boxes. After all, no one in Gotham would doubt that the man is, fundamentally, a good person. He's kind, generous, and incredibly handsome. He adores Tim, would make the most perfect stepfather to the boy that Jack could ever hope for. But the rest just don't line up with the Bruce Wayne everyone knows. 

These past months, Jack has come to know a different Bruce. A Bruce who thinks in strategies and backups. Who plans his every action in advance, and prepares multiple dates in the same night in case Jack doesn't care for one. Who, apparently, is such a nerd that an autographed dvd collection breaks right through his carefully curated public facade. Ridiculous. 

He buys the collection while Bruce is in the restroom, hiding it in his trunk and re-entering the store just in time to duck behind a bookshelf and pretend he'd never left. 

"Find anything good?" Bruce asks as he laces his hand in Jack's. 

Jack just shrugs. "Ready for dinner?"

As they walk towards the car, all Jack can think is that this cannot be the same Bruce the society pages write about. The same man who knocks over champagne towers, falls into fountains, and tells reporters who ask about WEs green initiatives that he’s really much more partial to the color blue. And he comes to a realization. Bruce Wayne is a lying troll. He's convinced the entirety of Gotham that he's an air headed socialite. Relishes in the performance, as far as Jack can tell. And yet, here he is, letting Jack in. Letting himself be intelligent, be thoughtful, be endearingly uncool. It's exhilarating. It's terrifying. Suddenly, Jack knows that the 3 years of this he’d hoped for—to keep Bruce’s attention until Tim leaves for college—could never be enough. Nothing short of a lifetime with this man could be.

They end up in Wayne Manor's media room after dinner. Jack had unsubtly angled for an invitation. Bruce isn't entirely sure why, but Dick and Tim are still out "skateboarding" (likely a cover for rooftop tag), so there's no competition for the room with the best viewing screen. Bruce sets himself to making popcorn after repeatedly assuring Jack that he absolutely knows how (surely there's instructions online?). Jack runs to the car for a forgotten sweater, telling Bruce that he'll meet him back in the media room once the popcorn is finished. 

He manages not to burn the popcorn—though it's an admittedly near thing—and heads to meet Jack. When he walks in the room, the very first episode of "Gray Ghost" is waiting on the screen, the autographed box set from the old book store resting next to the TV. He freezes in the doorway, caught off guard in a way he so rarely is. Jack noticed. Jack saw that Bruce was intrigued by the box set, got it for him as a present, successfully hid it from him, and set up a movie date just for him. 

This is… something new to process. It's bad enough that his heart feels like it's going to explode in his chest every time they hold hands while they trail behind Tim as he wanders the photography store, or make meaningful eye contact above the boy's head as he rambles about Bernard. How is he meant to survive an intimate movie night, watching his favorite show that Jack purchased on DVD just for him?

He knows that he's a means to an end for Jack. A way to provide stability in his life. He's happy to do so, wants nothing but the best for both Tim and Jack. But here, in this moment, it's hard not to want. To dream of a version of himself who could really, truly have this. A version who marries Jack. Who moves him and Tim into Wayne Manor where they belong. A version who has breakfast with Jack every morning before dropping Tim off at school, sits in the lounge with him every evening to read by the fire while Tim plays video games with his friends in the media room. Who shares his life with someone kind, loving, and good instead of going out every night to face Gotham’s darkness. 

But Bruce knows that version isn't him and can never be. He can’t ask Jack to be okay with who he really is. Could never tell the man that he's Batman, that Tim is Robin. Never have a fully honest relationship with him. So he’ll give Jack what the man expects: anything Bruce can buy him, simple chaste dates, and family outings with Tim that are starting to feel more and more real with every moment. Jack won’t ever want more. So it doesn’t matter that Bruce can’t give it. No matter how badly he wants to.

Jack turns to smile at him, finally noticing him in the doorway. Bruce moves to sit on the couch next to him, lacing their hands together. Jack's head drifts to Bruce's shoulder as the show continues. It will hurt later, he's sure. For now, Bruce lets himself be content. Lets himself be happy. For however long it lasts. 

Tim heads straight to the kitchen when he enters Drake Manor. Train surfing with Dick was great, but he definitely has some bruises that can't be explained by skateboarding without taking some creative liberties with physics. Fortunately, Jack is still on his date with Bruce, so there's no one in the house to catch him icing them. 

He has… strong mixed feelings about that relationship. On one hand, he loves both Bruce and his dad dearly. They make each other happy, which is an absolute plus. And his life is way simpler if he can easily spend time with both of them without them getting jealous of the other. On the other hand, he doesn't want to think about what will happen if they break up. No more hanging out with Bruce and Dick outside of patrol. Probably a reduced ability to go on patrol if his dad gets all post-breakup clingy like he's heard of parents doing after divorces. Their relationship doesn't seem that serious, yet; but they are already functionally coparenting him.

He's so focused on his internal pros and cons list as he digs the ice packs out of the freezer that he doesn't register the footsteps until they're nearly on top of him. He doesn't have time to turn before pain radiates through the side of his head, barely managing to press his civilian panic button as he falls to the ground. The world is swirls of gold, blue, and red as it fades to black. 

They're just starting episode 3, Jack having slowly shifted into what could properly be considered cuddling, when Bruce goes rigid underneath him at the sound of his phone chiming. He sits up, dislodging Jack as he scrambles for his phone. 

"Jack, we need to go. Tim is in danger; I'll explain on the way."

Jack's blood runs cold, but he doesn't think to doubt or question Bruce as he follows him through the halls. 

"When Tim came to stay with me," Bruce explains as he tears the car out of the driveway at a speed that would impress the most seasoned of Gotham's getaway drivers, "I was worried that someone might try to take him for ransom. I'd have paid anything, of course, but deals can always go south. I gave him a watch with a tracker and a panic button to make sure I'd know immediately if he was in danger and where to go. I wasn't even sure if he was still wearing it—it was made identical to the one he previously favored—but I never disabled the alerts. Just in case he needed me."

They pull into Drake Manor's driveway, and Bruce pulls a pair of some sort of nightsticks out of the glove compartment. He hands one to Jack, pausing only to show him the button on the side to activate the built-in stun-gun before racing into the house. 

It's been ransacked, that much is clear. Whoever was here left in a hurry, probably scared off by the car pulling in. Jack finds Tim first, unconscious on the kitchen tile. Bruce runs in at his cries. He checks Tim's pulse first, then his pupils, relaxing slightly at whatever he finds. Jack hadn't known Bruce even knew how to check those sorts of things. 

"He's unconscious, but his pulse is strong and his pupils are reacting properly. We still need to take him to a hospital, but those are good signs, Jack."

He hands his nightstick to Jack, lifting Tim carefully. "Stay alert; we can't be sure they're really gone. I don't want to transport him long-distance like this, but we can call an ambulance in the car and wait at home where it's safe."

It's as they're settling Tim in the car that the boy starts to shift, and Jack hears it. "Ba'man?"

Bruce strokes his cheek soothingly. "It's Bruce, Tim. Your dad and I have you. You're safe now. Try to stay awake until the EMTs get here, alright kiddo?"

"Yeah, B," Tim says simply. And Jack feels his heart stutter in his chest as the pieces start to click together. 

The airheaded act. The intelligence hiding behind it. The love of contingencies. The sort of resources that could fund this kind of crusade. The first appearance of Robin, soon after Bruce took in a little boy who could fly like no other left in the world. The death of the second Robin, so soon after Jason. Batman coming to rescue him and Jan. Bruce taking Tim in after he failed. The panic button. The ease with the electrified night sticks. His knowledge of first aid. Tim calling him a nickname that could so easily be Bruce… or something else. 

Bruce Wayne is Batman. He made Jack's son Robin. And once Tim is safe, Jack is going to kill him for it. 

Chapter Text

Bruce can barely breathe as he drives back to Wayne Manor. He's worried about Tim, careful not to jolt him in case of any injuries he missed. He doesn't know who hurt him, can't go hunt them down as Batman with Jack here. Jack doesn't seem to have registered Tim's little slip, likely chalking it up to the concussion, but he would notice Bruce running off while Tim is in the hospital. 

Jack calls for police and an ambulance as he keeps Tim steady in the backseat. Bruce barely had the semblance of mind to switch on his comm, hoping Dick will be home and able to check out the scene as Nightwing before the police get there. Even if he isn't, he deserves to know Tim is hurt. 

The ambulance meets them not long after they arrive. Tim is still out of it, but he's able to answer the basic concussion questions with little trouble. The EMTs confirm he has no further injuries beyond the head wound and can safely be transferred. Jack rides with him in the ambulance, and Bruce promises that he'll meet them at the hospital as quickly as he can. As soon as he gets in his car, he pings Dick's comm. 

"Nightwing, come in."

"Nightwing here. Assessing Drake Manor now. Cameras have been tampered with, so we're relying on physical evidence."

"Acknowledged, be advised police are inbound."

"Acknowledged, going dark."

And Bruce is left to wait as he drives through the city. Had Tim been injured on patrol, he'd be treated in the Cave where Bruce could keep an eye on him. Could make sure he's safe from harm. Instead, he's left to soothe his anxieties with the knowledge that an attacker meaning to kill Tim would have done so in the house. That he is almost certainly out of danger now. It's not as calming a thought as he'd hoped.

"Batman, come in."

"Batman here. En route to Gotham General now. What do you have, Nightwing?"

"Couldn't check out the scene as thoroughly as I'd have liked, but it's clear the attacker was here looking for something. It's likely Tim came home while they were still searching, and they knocked him out and ran."

"So there's risk of them coming back, since they haven't found what they're looking for."

"Agreed. The Drakes should stay elsewhere until a suspect is apprehended."

"Speak with Gordon. Nudge him towards the same conclusion, then change to civvies for the night."

"Acknowledged, Nightwing out."

Dick isn't sure what pushes him to return to Drake Manor after the police have left. 

He doesn't want to be out as Nightwing. Wants more than anything to get to the hospital, to see with his own eyes that Tim is alright. But he just can't shake the feeling that he missed something important the first time around. He won't take risks with his brother's safety by ignoring it. 

It's as he opens the door to the Drake's display room that he finally places it. There's a strange feeling to the air, an aftertaste of heat and ozone. It prickles along his skin, even through the suit. Magic. 

Dick takes pictures of the display room. Once he finds a believable cover to show them to Jack, hopefully the man can identity what may be missing from the pieces. He sends a clip of the fritzed-out security feed to Raven, just to confirm, before changing quickly at the Batcave and heading to the hospital. 

He calls Gordon on his way, using the secure line Babs established before leaving for her mission with the Birds of Prey. 

"Commissioner. Is Victor Goodman still in Arkham?"

"He escaped several hours ago, but we have no evidence of activity from him. Doctors say he seemed pretty tethered in reality up to his escape, so his recapture hasn't made high priority."

"I have reason to believe he staged an attack in Bristol tonight. Evidence of magic was found at the scene, strongest near the homeowner's archeological collection, which contains several pieces from Egypt."

"You think Goodman is after something in the Drake's collection?"

"I do, yes. And until we know for sure whether or not he found what he was looking for tonight, it won't be safe for the Drakes to return home."

"I'll talk to Jack Drake. Let him know they should stay with family for a bit. Maybe get out of the city."

"Thanks, Commish."

Dick will need to find a way to update Bruce and Tim without raising Jack's suspicions. If King Tut has gotten his hands on real magic, he could be a serious threat to all of them. 

Tim wants to crawl into a very dark hole and never come back out. 

A home invasion? A random ass burglar he didn't even realize was in his house? Got close enough to knock him out? Bruce is never gonna let him be Robin again. Not even once his concussion heals.

No, no thinking like that. He is Timothy Jackson Drake. He became Robin through sheer force of fucking will because the city needed someone and no one else was stepping up to the plate. He will fly again, no matter what Batman has to say about it. He will grit his teeth through the battery of tests, all full of nauseating light and sound. He will accept the dreaded concussion protocols as he heals. He will even submit himself to whatever remedial situational awareness training Bruce, Dick, and Babs conspire to heap on him. But he will not—so help him—let them clip his wings. He's worked too hard for this. 

The scans come back as clean as could be hoped under the circumstances. Definitely a concussion, but no risk of a bleed. He'll have headaches, dizzy spells, and all the fun accompaniments; but at least he'll get to sleep through the night. He'll even be released in the next couple hours. Things are actually starting to look up until Commissioner Gordon walks into the room. 

"Mr. Drake? I'd like to speak with you for a moment." Gordon's eyes flick to Bruce, seated at Jack's side. At Jack's nod, he continues. "We have reason to believe that the break-in tonight was the work of a recent Arkham escapee, Victor Goodman. He likes to call himself King Tut. We think he was searching for something in your collection when Tim came home and interrupted him. I'd strongly advise you not return home until he's apprehended."

And seriously? Fuck Tim's entire life. King Tut? He'll never hear the end of this. 

Dick arrives not long after Gordon leaves. Tim is braced for the teasing, the jokes. Instead, Dick just squeezes his hand and presses a kiss to the uninsured side of his head. "I'm so glad you're safe baby bird."

"I'm fine, Dick." Tim grumbles. "It wasn't even one of the cool villains."

Dick flicks his ribs. "Good."

"Commissioner Gordon says we can't go home until they catch him. Maybe we could come stay with you and B for a few days?" He looks hopefully between Jack and Bruce, trying his best to channel the puppy dog eyes Dick taught him. 

Jack hesitates, but Bruce takes his hand and speaks lowly, "I just want you both safe." Jack nods, and that's that. 

Jack's hands shake with rage as they drive towards Wayne Manor. He shoves them into his pockets, out of Bruce's sight. He needs to be rational about this, for now. Needs proof before he confronts Bruce. And he will be confronting the man, that's for damn sure. Just as soon as he shuts up the part of himself that insists the man who held Tim's hand through the tests and kissed his forehead so gently afterwards could never put his son in danger night after night. That the Bruce he knows would never do that to him. 

Tim settles into his old room, Jack into a guest room near Bruce's. The electrified nightsticks Bruce gave him are still tucked into his coat's inside pocket. He keeps them there. Keeps the coat on. Jack doesn't sleep, listening instead for movement in the hall. When he finally hears it, he slowly peeks out to see Tim making his way towards the main living area. It's clear his son is trying to be stealthy, likely failing due to his impaired balance and coordination from the concussion. He doesn't even notice Jack trailing behind him all the way to Bruce's study. 

Jack waits just out of sight until he hears the gentle click of a door swinging shut, poking his head into the study just in time to watch the clock hands revert to midnight. Tim is nowhere in sight. A secret passageway then. There are so many times the access code could be set to, but a crusade as personal as Batman? With his phone on hand, it's not hard to find an old news article listing Thomas and Martha Wayne's time of death. The clock swings open. 

"Tim, go back to bed." Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

"B, I know I messed up, but you can't just send me away and shut me out. I've trained for this, fought for this. I deserve to be here."

"I'm doing neither of those things, Tim. You have a concussion. You need to rest. Dick and I can handle King Tut."

Instead of settling, Tim flinches at his words. "Bruce, please. Please don't take Robin away."

"What the hell is going on, Bruce?" Jack's voice rings out from the top of the Cave’s staircase. Bruce feels his blood run cold. 

"Jack, please, I can explain."

"Explain what?" he asks as he descends into the Cave. "Explain how it wasn’t enough that this crusade of yours got your own son killed? How you had to go and drag mine into it as well?"

Bruce sees both Dick and Tim flinch in his peripheral as the ever-present ache of Jason's loss wells up in his chest. He opens his mouth, but his voice breaks on a quiet, "Please."

Jack is in front of him now, all cold anger and fury. None of the warmth Bruce has come to know. He should have known Jack would put the pieces together, just as his son did. He just thought he'd have more time. 

Jack rounds on Tim, still shaking with rage. "We're leaving, Tim. Go get your things." Tim wavers, then starts to head up the stairs.

Bruce reaches out to snag Jack's wrist before he can follow. "Jack, please, just think—"

"Don't fucking touch me." The words are punctuated by the cold press of an escrima stick to the underside of Bruce's jaw. He hadn't even noticed Jack grab it, too distracted by his world shattering. "Tim and I are leaving. Whatever game or manipulation this was to you is over. If you so much as come near him again, I will tell everyone who you are. Now let go of me."

"Jack," Dick's voice is soothing and commanding in equal parts. It's just as Bruce taught him as Robin, and his chest clenches at the reminder of how his mission has become as much a part of his children as himself. At the danger it puts them in, no matter how he tries to protect them. "King Tut is still after you. If you know who we are and what we do, then you know Wayne Manor is the safest place in Gotham for you. For Tim. I understand why you're upset, but please. Let us keep you both safe until he's caught."

Jack doesn't look at Dick as he speaks, eyes locked on Bruce's. "The second it's safe, I'm taking him and leaving. He will never be your Robin again."

Bruce's heart breaks, but he means every word. "So long as he's safe."

Jack turns on his heel and follows Tim up the stairs. Bruce doesn't go after him. 

The arguments only escalate from there. 

Every time Tim turns around, they're screaming at each other again. Bruce took it stoically at first, but bringing up Jason's death the way Jack did snapped something in his composure. Now he shoots back, the two of them circling each other like wolves.

"—not your decision to make, Bruce!"

Very, very loud wolves. Have they forgotten that Tim has a concussion? The concussion that started this whole mess? Tim groans as he follows the shouting, wincing every time the volume pitches higher and higher.

"Dad, please. Do you have to do this today?"

Neither man turns to greet him, too much dignity riding on their staring match. 

"Go back to bed, Tim," Jack tells him. Bruce doesn't argue. Doesn't so much as acknowledge that he's there. Tim obeys.

"Maybe if you'd been around to watch your son—"

"Oh, so now it's my fault?"

He covers his ears until the words bleed into meaningless sounds.

Dick is reading in the library with Tim, pretending his book is actually engaging enough to distract from the muffled shouting emanating from Bruce's bedroom, when the house goes quiet. He meets Tim's eyes. For a moment, they wait. Paused in time together. Then a loud crash replaces the voices, and Dick is on his feet before Tim can fight his way out of his blanket cocoon.

"Stay here. I'll check on them."

As he gets closer, more sounds start to slip into the silence. A thud here, a gasp of pain there. The shattering of glass has him running the rest of the way, opening the door as silently as if he were on mission as Nightwing. 

He shuts it immediately, barely retaining the presence of mind not to slam it closed as he makes his hasty retreat. That was… 

Well he's not entirely sure he can say they're not fighting. He can think of a few times he's gotten those wires a bit crossed with a certain opponent. But for fuck's sake, they could've at least locked the door. 

He takes a deep, steadying breath in the hall as he prepares to lie to his little brother about what he just found their respective dads doing. Tim may be a detective to rival Bruce, but Dick Grayson is a born performer through and through. Easy peasy.

Tim curls up against Dick's side as he watches a movie, screen brightness on low and volume down. He's not allowed to watch the screen, but if he keeps his eyes shut then Dick will run his fingers through his hair and describe anything important Tim misses in a soothing murmur. He's just starting to fall asleep there—the house quiet for once—when the bedroom door is flung open.

"Get up."

Between the concussion and his half-asleep state, it takes Tim a minute to parse out Jack's command.

"Jack, he's finally resting," Dick tries to defend him. Jack is unmoved.

"Don't pretend this whole thing isn't just as much your influence as Bruce's. If you cared about him, you wouldn't have let him put on your old suit after your brother died in it."

Tim feels Dick tense underneath him. That, more than anything, spurs him into action.

"I'll go back to my room, dad. Just, give me a minute to get upright? It's hard with the dizziness."

Jack nods brusquely before leaving, door still open. Tim uses the little time he's bought himself to hold Dick tightly, pretending not to notice the way his brother's breath hitches. It's not much, but it's all he can do. It's worth every bit of dizziness when he pushes himself straight to standing and walks to his room as Jack's footsteps return.

As Dick opens the clock to enter the Batcave, he's met with more shouting. Wonderful. 

He ignores Bruce and Jack's latest argument as he suits up, staring blankly at the wall opposite them to avoid getting dragged into it. He's learned the hard way that eye contact will provoke them when they're like this. That's how he ends up noticing the muted alert on the Batcomputer. 

The police have found King Tut's location, but they're stretched too thin tonight with Gotham's normal breed of crazy to engage. Dick looks at his father for a moment, then back to the screen. Bruce is already suited up to leave, but is getting his help really worth getting sucked into their domestic spat? Nightwing can fly on his own. Whatever magic King Tut used to get through Drake Manor’s security undetected won’t stop an electrified wingding from dropping him.

It's only as he walks towards his bike that Dick freezes in place, blood chilling in his veins. 

Back when Dick was Robin—after the very first time he snuck out to fight while injured—Bruce implemented a rule. While benched, Robin's suit will be placed in a glass case, prominently displayed in the cave to prevent tampering. He did it to Dick. Every attempt to steal it resulted in increased security measures.He did it to Jason. Nowadays that case is virtually impenetrable. And he did it the night Tim was concussed. Tonight, the case is empty. 

"Bruce," the urgency in his voice cuts through the argument still raging behind him. "Where is Tim?"

The Batcave falls silent in horror, just in time for a shrill alarm to pierce the silence. Robin has activated his panic button. 

Chapter Text

Look, Tim knows he's not supposed to be in the Batcave right now. He didn't even come down here to do Robin things!

But Bruce and Jack had been at it all day, and his skull was feeling ready to split open. Somewhere after the argument devolved into what sort of example Brucie Wayne was setting for Dick and Tim—and why Jack suddenly cared about Dick after the things he'd said to him earlier that day was beyond Tim—he decided his concussion entitled him to seeking out a quiet place to rest. Practically a medical necessity. And the Batcave has wonderful soundproofing. Not to mention an incredibly comfortable chair to curl up in and the ambient sound of a cave system as familiar as the stars on his bedroom ceiling.

It could be minutes or hours later that he wakes up still curled in that chair. The red marks pressing into his skin suggest the latter. He's perfectly still, breaths even and eyes barely slitted open to take in his surroundings. It's habit by now, even in the safety of the Batcave. It's why the chair doesn't swirl around to face Bruce and Jack as they storm down the stairs, still arguing about casual sex and excessive drinking and any number of ways that Bruce could corrupt "the children." 

"Jack, please," Tim hears from his hiding place. "I understand you don't want to be here. I'm trying to go find King Tut so you can leave. So can your commentary on my life choices wait five fucking minutes?"

Jack's response—undoubtedly not agreement—fades into white noise as Tim watches the alert come up on the Batcomputer. King Tut's location has been identified. 

Tim knows, really he does, that the responsible thing to do in this moment is to get Bruce. To admit he came down here for a quiet place to nap, woke up, and saw the alert. But what are the chances they'll even let him get that far before they start yelling at him? He's pretty sure if they yell at him with the way his head feels right now, it'll vibrate and shatter into a million pieces, just like glass in an opera house in the movies. There's a word for that, he thinks, but it's out of reach. Tucked away beneath the cotton his mind is bundled in. 

Tim knows he can take King Tut on his own. What happened at home was a fluke, the result of letting his guard down in a place he felt safe. The man is no match for him in the field. Maybe, if Tim does something impressive, Jack will even agree to let him stay on as Robin. If nothing else, it would get them out of this house. Get Jack and Bruce away from each other so they can't scream themselves hoarse at every opportunity. 

They don't even notice as Tim disarms the "Robin penalty box" and leaves with his suit.

Somehow, in all his planning, Tim had forgotten just how bright and loud Gotham is at night. 

He winces at every backfiring car and barking dog as he races towards King Tut's location. He has a mission, and a little pain isn't about to dissuade him. When has something like that ever stopped a Robin? 

He slips into the warehouse silently, perched in the rafters like any Bat would. King Tut is below, pacing and fiddling with an amulet of some kind. It looks familiar, though Tim's brain is still too fuzzy to place it. Maybe something his mom showed him before? She always did love Egypt. It's part of why he's insulted that King Tut isn't competent enough to be an A-lister. 

The amulet lights up, filling the warehouse with color and exposing Tim's hiding place. Crap. He has seconds before King Tut spots him. Time to move. He hooks his grapple to the ceiling and drops into a swing, bo at the ready to swipe at his opponent as he passes. He's particularly proud of this strike, one Dick taught him and drilled into him with dummies until he could do it in his sleep. When he lands it right, he'll dislocate the target's hip from its socket without shattering any of the surrounding bones. Incredibly painful, completely demobilizing, and—provided the target gets proper medical care afterwards—not permanently damaging. 

His bo swings down, and the world goes white. 

When he comes back to himself enough for the pain to hit, he's on the ground at King Tut's feet. The man is completely uninjured, and Tim realizes with startling clarity exactly why he remembers that amulet. He's walked by it nearly every morning for the past 4 years, knows all the stories attached to it. Stories that must be true, if the blinding pain in Tim's hip is any indication. Dislocated by his own strike. 

He presses his panic button, tapping out the only warning he can think to give them through his haze. 

The message comes through while Dick is typing away at the computer, trying to trace Tim's location by the looks of it. Bruce reads it aloud from where he stands, hand on Jack's shoulder, but Jack knows Morse Code. Knows what Tim is telling him. 

AMULET MOM

Part of Janet's Egypt collection must have had some real magic to it. King Tut got what he needed that day he broke into their home, and Tim is trying to warn Bruce and Dick so they don't walk into a trap saving him. 

"I need to go," Jack says as he pulls against Bruce's grasp. 

"Jack, I know you don't trust me right now, but please listen. You're not trained for this. In the field, you would only be a liability. I will do anything to get Tim home safely, but he needs you to be here—alive—when he gets back."

And despite everything, Jack had never doubted that. Had never doubted for a moment that Bruce would bring his son home at any cost. "He wants me to find out what amulet King Tut stole from Janet's collection. That's what the message means; I'm sure of it, Bruce."

Dick, apparently having finished his location trace, hands Jack an earpiece. "I took photos of the display room the night of the break in. They're loaded up on the computer. This will let you talk to us once you have the information. Tap twice to turn the mic on or off. You'll hear everything we say on comms." He looks Jack in the eye, pain and determination bleeding into every crevice of his features as he adds, "I won't lose him, too."

And were Tim not in danger, were Nightwing not already rushing off to save him, Jack thinks he may have done something foolish like pull Dick into a hug and apologize for everything he had said. Instead, he nods, puts in the earpiece, and sets himself to examining the pictures. 

"I know what the amulet is," Jack's voice rings through their comms as they race towards Tim's location.

"Report," Bruce replies gruffly. 

"It's an amulet of protection. A thorough one. If he's gotten it working, nothing you can do will touch him. You need to grab Robin and get out of there."

"What does the amulet do?" Dick has enough experience with magic users to know there's always a loophole. 

"J— Robin's mother could have translated it better. It reads 'The intent of those who would harm you will be turned on them instead.' Anything you hit him with will just hit you."

"Let us know if you find anything else. We're coming up to the warehouse now. Nightwing out."

They slip into the rafters to what's likely the tail end of a very long monologue. Robin is chained to a wall, his entire body weight held on his left leg. He's sweating and trembling, but there's no blood on the scene. A broken or dislocated bone? The runes painted on the wall around him suggest some sort of ritual. 

"Street vermin are all well and good for proof of concept, but real power requires real sacrifice. A human life will power this amulet for years to come, and then no one will be able to stand in my way. Thank you, Robin, for this wonderful gift."

King Tut raises the knife. Batman and Nightwing raise their grapples. In that moment, several things occur to Dick in quick succession. 

Firstly, there's nothing they can do to stop King Tut from delivering his blow. They can't drive him back without the amulet intervening. They can't grab Tim and run while he's chained. Bruce knows this just as well as Dick. He's planning, just as Dick is, to do only thing he still can to save Tim: put himself between Tim and the blade.

Secondly, Bruce and Dick wear very different suits, reflecting that Batman and Nightwing are very different fighters. This close, with enough force, the knife will likely go through Bruce's suit. He'll need stitches, could even be in danger if it strikes in the wrong place. But the armor protects the most vulnerable parts of him. Makes it hard to land a strike to his heart. Gives him a far better chance of surviving than Dick's suit, which the knife will shred like paper. 

And finally, most crucially, he realizes something that Bruce likely hasn't. He realizes exactly how he can stop King Tut. 

King Tut brings the knife down. Batman fires his grapple. Nightwing re-aims his own, firing seconds after his father. 

Tim's scream is heart wrenching as he cries out for Batman. Jack is panicked on comms as he asks for an update, frantically begging to know if his son is safe, if his family is safe. Dick tunes them out, focusing every fiber of his being on putting on a show. 

"How can I fight against magic that knows my intentions," he had asked Rachel one day at Titans Tower. They were coming down from a mission, the sort that had very nearly gone bad thanks to magic that none of the Teen Titans could figure out how to work around. Fortunately, Rachel was strong enough to simply shatter the spell, leaving her teammates to apprehend the magician while they were both weak from the blowback. 

"You can't," she had replied simply. When he had stared at her, incredulous as any teenager at the suggestion of something being truly impossible, she had clarified, "You can't intend to do what the spell wants to stop you from doing. The trick is to find something that gets you the same—or at least an acceptably close—end result. Then put whatever it is you'd rather be doing out of your mind, and focus as hard as you can on the new plan. If the spell senses even a hint of your original intentions, it'll stop you. But if you can clear your mind of everything but your workaround, it won't know to interfere. That's how you fight a magician like today's if I'm not around."

Dick has been a vigilante for two-thirds of his life. He's been an aerialist even longer. A grapple may be a far cry from a trapeze, but settling into his best approximation of his old routine still feels a bit like coming home. He puts everything out of his mind—Jack screaming in his ear, his brother crying, his father bleeding out—and the last of the Flying Graysons soars. 

Finally, his routine is cut unceremoniously short as his grapple line tangles around King Tut, knocking the man to the ground in an awkward tangle of limbs and wire. Dick smirks as he struts over to him, mind carefully focused on nothing more than inspecting the amulet as he lifts it off of Kikg Tut's neck and places it in his utility belt. Spell severed, he breaks the man's nose for good measure before cuffing him for the police. 

Bruce has already made good progress towards field dressing his own wound. Dick makes quick work of picking the locks on Tim's chains, supporting him on his right as they go. Definitely something wrong with that leg, but they can deal with that in the Batcave. He helps Bruce stand as much as he can without jostling Tim, and together the three set off for the Batmobile. Dick drives them home, leaving his bike at the scene and calling the GCPD to pick up King Tut. The guilt twists in his gut with every gasp out of Bruce's mouth, every twitch in his hands as he keeps pressure on the wound. But he knows he made the right call, made the only call that had a chance of getting all three of them out of there alive. Somehow, that will have to be enough. 

"I've got them." Jack nearly collapses in relief as the earpiece finally comes to life again.  "Batman and Robin both sustained injuries, but neither are critical. We're headed back to the Cave for medical now. Please alert Agent A."

"Alfred," he shouts as he races up the stairs. The words tumble out as soon as he finds the man, "Tim and Bruce are injured. Dick said to get you."

Alfred follows Jack back down the stairs and begins readying the medical bay. "Did Master Dick happen to mention what sort of injuries we should be preparing for?"

Jack taps on the earpiece. "Nightwing? Agent A is asking what their injuries are."

Dick's response comes quickly, the hum of an engine in the background. "Robin has a dislocated hip. I was unable to relocate it in the field without risking further injury. Batman has a knife wound to the abdomen, but it's shallow and there's no indication of intestinal damage. Blood loss minimal, under the circumstances."

"Thank you, Nightwing."

"We'll be back soon."

Jack relays all this to Alfred, following the man's directions for thawing a frozen bag of Bruce's own blood. And isn't that just like the man—insane as it may sound—to keep bags of his own blood frozen should he need a transfusion? There's three shelves in the freezer, and Jack would bet Drake Indistries that one is for Dick and the other for Tim. Just another way that Bruce works to protect the stubborn, reckless, impossible children he's taken under his wing. "No stranger to difficult children" was certainly understating it.

Jack's ruminations are cut short by the roar of an engine. He and Alfred wheel over the beds, getting Tim and Bruce to the medbay with as little aggravation to their injuries as possible. From there, the night is a blur of stitches and transfusions and the heart wrenching scream Tim lets out as Dick resets his hip while Jack pins him down. He's shaking, afterwards. Jack holds him until the trembling stops, watching Dick pace at the foot of the bed. His hands twitch every time he comes near enough to touch, wanting to reach out and comfort Tim yet unsure of his welcome. The way Tim tenses in his arms every time, holding himself back from leaning forward to meet him, makes up Jack's mind. 

"Dick? I'm going to go check on Bruce. Can you sit with Tim for a bit?"

The relief on Dick's face, mirrored in the sudden sag of Tim's body, just about breaks his heart. "Yeah, I can do that." A pause, and then, "Let me know how he is?"

"Of course."

He's just on the other side of the curtain, so it's easy to hear the way Tim launches himself at Dick once he's close enough. Bruce is still asleep, out of the woods and sedated by Alfred, leaving Jack free to eavesdrop.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I ruined everything. I didn't mean to Dick, I swear, I just wanted to help. They wouldn't stop fighting, and it hurt so much, and I just needed them to stop. I'm so sorry Bruce got hurt—" he breaks into gasping sobs as Dick holds him. 

"I know, Tim. I know," Dick soothes. "Trust me, sneaking out and getting in over your head is practically Robin tradition at this point. Why do you think there's so many traps on that case?"

Tim laughs slightly between sniffles. 

Dick continues, "I'm not going to lie and say no one is mad. I think we all are right now. But Tim, I promise, we all love you too much and are too relieved you're safe to stay mad. Alright?"

"Alright."

When Jack walks back in to sit at Tim's bedside, he's already fallen asleep. Dick is still holding him. 

"He did this because of how much it was hurting him to see you two fighting," Dick tells him. 

"I know."

Dick is quiet for a long moment, chewing his lip and stroking Tim's hair. "You need to fix this."

He sighs. "I know."

Jack just wishes he knew how. 

Chapter Text

Tim is sound asleep in his room upstairs, Dick having carried him while Jack trailed behind. He'd wanted to do it himself, but Dick insisted he had more experience carrying injured people without jostling them, and how was Jack to argue with that? They wind up in the kitchen, making sandwiches and decaf coffee side by side. It's not the conversation Jack most needs to have, but it's an important one too. Not to mention the less terrifying option. 

"I'm sorry," he starts simply. "No matter how mad I was at Bruce, it was unfair of me to drag you into it. And I never should have said—" he can't even bring himself to repeat it. "Some of the things that I said," he finishes awkwardly instead.

"He's my brother," Dick whispers, almost to himself. It takes a moment for him to speak again, the words coming out in a rush once he does, "I know he's your son. I know we won't get to stay in his life when all this is settled. But I love him more than just about anyone else in this world. I'd die for him, Jack." Jack isn't sure if he's meant to hear it when Dick adds quietly, "I think I'd kill for him too, if it came to it."

Jack doesn't know how to comfort this young man, who seems all at once an old soldier and a scared child. But the way the tension bleeds out of Dick as he sets a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes tells him he must be doing something right. "Drake Manor is just next door."

Dick turns to him, cautious hope and fear written across his face, and Jack gives in to the instinct to pull him into a hug. Dick goes easily. 

"I'll talk to Bruce," Jack promises. "I don't know what we'll be at the end of it, but you'll still have a place in Tim's life."

Neither of them mention Dick's tears as he dumps their cool coffee and starts a new pot. 

Bruce wakes up alone in the medbay. Someone is moving about the main cave, cleaning by the sounds of it. So he's injured enough that Alfred is stress cleaning the Cave rather than sleeping, but not so injured that the man is unwilling to leave his side. Good to know. 

He remembers the panic of seeing King Tut preparing to kill Tim and knowing there was no way to stop the knife from falling, only compounded by Dick's clear readiness to take the blow as he himself was intending to. He's still not sure what changed Dick's mind, but he's grateful for it. Could never survive one of his children sacrificing themself for him. 

At least Tim is safe now. He'll be returning home with Jack, if he hasn't already. Jack, who Bruce has fallen madly in love with. Jack, who will never speak to him again. This past week has been its own kind of hell, giving in to the man's every desire to fight—to do more than fight—because Bruce couldn't stop himself from accepting whatever interaction Jack was willing to give him. Wasn't ready to resign himself to becoming strangers. He's still not ready, but that won't make much of a difference. 

He's expecting Dick, when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. Ready for his eldest to scream, to rail at him for the loss of his brother. Alive and well, yet an unreachable world apart, even just next door. It's what Bruce deserves for causing all of this. Instead, it's Jack who hesitantly takes a seat at Bruce's bedside. 

"It's been brought to my attention," Jack begins without preamble, "that our fighting has been negatively impacting Tim."

Bruce blinks. "Dick?" he asks. 

"Dick," Jack nods. "He's a good kid. You did alright with him, somehow."

He laughs, wincing as it pulls at his stitches. "Trust me, I wonder every day how that happened."

"It happened because, despite all appearances, you're a good father."

Bruce wishes that were true. "I don't think a good father would have let his sons follow him down this path."

"I don't think a bad one would have taken a knife for his son without hesitation."

It's the first time either of them has openly acknowledged it, what Tim is to Bruce. His son, who Jack will take away any moment now and he will never see again. The knife was nothing, compared to this. 

"Bruce?" Jack asks. "Why did you do it?"

At least it's an easy question. "Because I could never live with myself if he got hurt. Because there is no world in which my life is half so important as his."

"No, I—," Jack takes a breath and mulls over his words. "Why did you make Tim Robin? Why, after…"

"After Jason, you mean." Jack nods. "Jason didn't die because he was Robin. That may have been why Joker targeted him, but Jason died because he didn't feel he could come to me for help. Didn't trust me to be there for him. That was the mistake I swore to never make again after Tim first put on a suit and ran into the field after us. That if he was determined to do this—with or without my approval—I would be there for him, protect him no matter what it took." Bruce sighs, "Maybe I could have done more. Could have found a way to keep him out of the field if some selfish part of me hadn't wanted him there with me. Maybe it was too easy to use the blackmail as an excuse."

"Blackmail?" Jack asks. 

Despite himself, and his stitches, Bruce laughs again. "You mean Dick hasn't told you? Tim figured out our identities when he was nine."

"Nine? Nine years old? The Batman's greatest secret was discovered by a child?"

"A brilliant, precocious child with a long-standing love of the Flying Graysons, yes. He recognized Dick, back when he was still Robin, by some of his tricks."

"And this led to you getting blackmailed by a teenager?"

Bruce nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth without cackling until he tears his stitches. 

Jack stares at the ceiling for a long moment in amused resignation. "I should have known—when I fell in love with the most brilliant, stubborn, reckless, ruthless menace of a woman I had ever met—that our son would be exactly like her."

"He's something else, Jack."

"He really is, isn't he, Bruce?"

Jack puts his foot down on their cover story allowing for Tim to see a "real" (civilian) physical therapist for his hip. Dick and Bruce manage it, with a little help from Leslie. Officially, Tim tripped on the stairs trying to get himself water in the middle of the night with a concussion. He took offense to this story, when Dick told him, but Robins who get injured violating groundings don't get a say in their cover stories. 

So Dana Winters comes to Wayne Manor for Tim's appointments, and Dick watches his little brother get stronger by the day. Were he still Robin, he'd be flying again in no time. As it is, Dick doubts it'll be long before he's once again roped into supervising skate park trips. He looks forward to it. 

Bernard is a surprise, though the knowing looks Dick catches between Jack and Bruce suggest that this isn't exactly a new development. He stops by after school with Tim's homework and notes to help tutor him, and Tim looks like a star fell to earth and landed right in his palms. Bernard is just as bad, teasing Tim to his face but staring at him like he's his whole world every time Tim looks away. Alfred catches them all trying to eavesdrop as the pair works on pre-calc at the kitchen table, shooing them away. Dick can't wait until his little brother finally realizes he has a crush so he can tease him about it. 

Tim has been recovering at the manor for nearly two weeks when Bruce finally works up the courage to broach the subject. They're standing in the doorway to the media room, watching Dick and Tim fight over Mario Kart. Tim cackles with glee after striking Dick with a blue turtle shell, causing the elder to lose the game. Jack leans into Bruce's side as if it's natural. They've been doing this again, the casual contact. He's still not sure what to make of it. 

"King Tut has been in Arkham for 12 days."

"He has," Jack agrees. 

"The amulet is safely locked away in the Justice League's magical storage."

"It is."

"You and Tim are free to return home."

Jack turns his head to meet Bruce's eyes, making no move to pull away from his side. "Haven't we?"

When their lips meet, it's like coming home. No urgency, just the safety and warmth that comes with enduring love. It's chaste, a far cry from the things they've already done in anger. But it's their first kiss, and Bruce couldn't ask for a better one. 

Even when Dick and Tim take notice, making retching sounds and chucking nearby throw pillows at their heads, he wouldn't change a single thing about it.

"We need to talk about Robin," Jack tells Bruce over dinner one night. 

Tim had raced up to his room the second he finished his plate, excited to play some new online game with Bernard. Dick has gone back to his life in Bludhaven, though Jack suspects his weekend visits will be far more frequent with Tim back at the manor more nights than not. They haven't fully moved in, but with Drake Manor right next door, it's easy to get anything they want or need and then just… come back. Back to what's feeling more and more like home by the day. So long as Bruce wants them here, and Tim wants to be here, Jack can't find it in himself to muster up a hurry to leave. 

"I promised, Jack. No more Robin," Bruce says simply. There's an underlying hint of sadness in the words, but no trace of a lie. Jack likes to think he'd know, now that he knows who Bruce is, if the man lied to him again. 

"You did promise that. And then Tim successfully took the suit, while he was heavily concussed and we were both right there in your cave, and ran off to fight King Tut on his own. What chance do you think we stand of stopping him if he sets his mind to it once he's fully healed?"

Bruce considers this for a moment. "Are you suggesting applying some form of 'you'll do it under my roof' parenting to underaged vigilantism?" 

Jack chuckles at the comparison to something so mundane as drinking or sex, but well… Bruce isn't wrong. "More or less, actually. Allowing him to continue on as Robin, with both our approval, in exchange for significantly stricter rules than you've been letting him get away with. Supervised patrols only, earlier curfew on school nights, adding extra body armor to his suit, enforcing longer downtimes after injuries. That sort of thing."

Bruce looks at Jack like he's gifted him the very heavens. It seems as good a time as any for the condition he's less sure will be easily accepted. "And Bruce? I know you don't kill. But if that monster hurts my son, I will personally put him down, and you will find a way to live with that."

Bruce winces slightly, but agrees. Tim does too, when they break the news to him. Dick just smiles, bittersweet with a solemn nod. 

It's not perfect, Jack knows. There's too many things that could go wrong, too much hurt that they're still trying to heal from. But he loves Bruce, Bruce loves him, and they both love this little family they've created. That's reason enough to face the future together.