Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His hands were clammy.  He could feel his heart beating in his throat, pulsing with every swallow.  The folder he was clutching to his chest trembled as his fingers shook, and he forced himself to take deep breaths as he made his way up the drive.

He could do this.

He had to do this.

He—he was the only one who could.  It was his responsibility.  He needed to stop being such a scaredy-cat, because Bruce Wayne was on a business trip.  Nothing to worry about.  No one to stop him from talking to Jason.

Tim hadn’t wanted to believe it.  Hadn’t even wanted to consider it.  This was Batman he was talking about.  Gotham’s protector.  The Dark Knight.  He was on the Justice League, for gods’ sake.  Surely someone would’ve put a stop to it by now if it was true.

But Tim couldn’t ignore the facts.

Fact number one.  Jason Todd had run away from home.  They’d tried to cover it up with a story about him going to visit his mother and not telling anyone, but Tim had been there when Batman searched through Gotham, he knew that Jason had run.

Fact number two.  Jason Todd’s injuries were not consistent with a car accident.  His reported injuries—the leg broken in three places, the broken ribs, the broken collarbone—sure, but Jason had splints around his fingers and Tim had caught a glimpse of him, that first week he’d been recovering in the Manor, and he’d seen the vivid, hand-shaped bruises around Jason’s throat.

Fact number three.  Batman had gotten significantly, demonstrably more violent.  Tim had run the data three times.  There were five times the number of criminals headed to the hospital with broken bones.  Tim had watched, huddled on a fire escape, while Batman nearly pulverized a goon’s face.  The Joker had been put back into Arkham barely breathing.

Fact number four.  Dick Grayson had apparently vanished off the face of the planet.  Several tabloids had reported him going on vacation to some sunny, tropical island, but Tim couldn’t find a single photo of him in the past two months.  Nothing of him even boarding a plane.  Dick Grayson’s last verifiable appearance was one week before Jason had run away.

It didn’t paint a pretty picture.

Tim had tried to come up with another explanation.  Some other reason that Dick wasn’t reported missing and Jason’s injuries were a lie.  Some other reason that Batman was suddenly not hiding his violence.  Something other than Batman finally going too far, killing his first kid, and beating his second half to death before turning his aggression to the streets to avoid killing that one too.

Dick—maybe Dick was on a mission.  As Nightwing.  Maybe there was an explanation that didn’t involve the cheerful, smiling older boy lying in a shallow grave.

But Jason wasn’t a vigilante.  Jason was just a kid, and they were covering up his injuries, and if they weren’t covering it up because of a secret identity, then they were covering it up because of something bad.

Tim clutched the folder more tightly.  He could do this.  He had to do this.  Before Jason ended up like Dick.

He reached up and rang the doorbell.

There was muffled cursing on the other side and Tim shifted from foot to foot before the door was finally wrenched open.

Dark hair.  A scowl fading to suspicious confusion.  High-collared shirt, Tim noted, and long-sleeved, even though it was almost summer.  “Uh,” Jason Todd said, staring at him, “Can I help you?”

Come on, Tim.  He could do this.

“Hi,” Tim said—not squeaked, it wasn’t a squeak, even if Jason’s eyebrows raised—and thrust out his hand, “I’m Tim Drake.  I live next door.”

Jason stared at him for another moment, before shifting to one crutch and using the other arm to shake Tim’s hand.  “Hello,” Jason said blankly, “I’m Jason Todd.”

“I know,” Tim replied.  Which was obvious, why else would Tim be here—okay.  He needed to get back on track.  “Can I talk to you?”

Jason’s eyebrows raised again.  “Sure,” he said, hopping back a step.  Tim tried not to stare at the cast—it was massive, extending from Jason’s hip all the way down to his toes—and stepped over the threshold.  “Come on in.”

Tim tiptoed after Jason, scanning the Manor with wide eyes.  It didn’t feel as…cold as his house was, as sterile.  The Manor felt like a home.

Tim swallowed, and paid closer attention—you never knew when a minor detail was important.

“We can talk in the library,” Jason said over his shoulder, limping down the hall, “This about something for school?  You go to Gotham Academy, right?  You seem familiar.”

“Uh, yes,” Tim stuttered—Jason had recognized him?  Tim wasn’t getting tutored, and he didn’t realize Jason paid attention to other kids, but he supposed that seeing him at the Bristol bus stop every day might’ve imprinted on his memory.

“Jay-lad,” a warm voice spoke up, and Tim felt ice run down his spine.  “I didn’t know you had friends over.”

Bruce Wayne was leaning against a doorway, observing them both with sharp blue eyes.  Bruce Wayne, who wasn’t supposed to be here.

The lump in his throat wasn’t letting him swallow.

“This is Tim Drake,” Jason waved a hand at him, “The neighbor.  It’s some school thing.”

“Ah, yes, the Drakes,” Wayne said warmly, stepping closer and offering his hand, “It’s nice to meet you, Tim.”

Not taking his hand would be rude.  Would invite suspicion Tim couldn’t afford.  He’d planned for Mr. Pennyworth, but not for Wayne, and he needed to talk to Jason privately or lose his chance.

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Wayne,” Tim almost stuttered, gingerly shaking the man’s hand.  Wayne smiled.

“We’ll be in the library,” Jason called back, already hobbling away.  Uneasy to spend time in his guardian’s presence?  Wayne was all smiles now, but Tim knew that didn’t mean anything.

“I’ll get Alfred to make you some snacks,” Wayne said, still smiling.  Tim edged around him and followed Jason, darting a quick glance to make sure Wayne wasn’t following them.

The library was huge, and Tim almost forgot to be afraid when he saw the towering shelves.  Jason smiled at the look on his face, and beckoned him over to a small nook near the windows, collapsing onto the couch with a mostly suppressed groan.

Tim took the seat opposite him, and let the folder rest on his legs.  His feet were tapping against the floor, and he took a nervous glance around the room to confirm that they were really alone.

“So, what did you want to talk about, Tim?  Is this about summer homework—”

“Uh, no,” Tim cut him off before Jason could get into his practiced tutor spiel.  “It’s not about schoolwork.  Sorry.”

Jason blinked, before switching tracks, “That’s fine.  Is this about a school-related issue, or something at home—”

“I know how you got those injuries.”

That was not what he meant to say.  He’d practiced this.  He’d looked up information on how to talk to people you suspected of being abused.  But Wayne was here and he wasn’t supposed to be and Tim didn’t know how much time they had.

Jason’s expression was three-parts confusion, one-part suspicion.  “I’m sorry, what—”

Tim gripped the folder more tightly as he said, low and rushed, “I know Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

A flash of emotion darted across Jason’s face, before his eyebrows raised in clear incredulity.  “Kid, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason said firmly, but Tim had seen the fear in his eyes.

“I know he’s Batman,” Tim repeated, “I know Dick Grayson is Nightwing.  I—I have evidence.”  Jason’s face was beginning to look like a storm cloud.  “I have pictures.  I—I can help you.”

“Help me?” Jason frowned, “Help me with what?”

“I know he’s hurting you,” Tim whispered, leaning forward, “I know you tried to run away.  But I can—”

“Okay,” Jason said, his voice turning cold, “If this is a joke, it’s not very funny.”

“No, no, Jason, I just want to help,” Tim said, frantic, “I can get him to stop, I can threaten to expose him, okay, you—you can leave him—”

“Threaten to expose what?” Jason snarled, lurching up to his feet.  Tim scrambled to his feet as well, holding his folder—Jason didn’t believe him, and why would he, Tim was just a kid—but if he showed him the photos maybe—“That my dad is Batman?  Do you realize how insane you sound?”

“I have proof,” Tim repeated, rushed, “I swear, Jason, I can get him to stop—”

“He’s not doing anything to stop!” Jason snapped back, and the raised voices had clearly alerted someone, because Wayne poked his head around a shelf.

“Everything okay, boys?” Wayne asked, his gaze darting to Jason.

Jason was looking at Tim like he was gum stuck to his shoe.  Please, Tim begged inside his head, please believe me, I can help you.

“Tim thinks you’re Batman,” Jason said, low and mocking, and Tim froze.  “He says he has proof.”  Wayne was frowning now, and Tim felt his heart skip a beat.  “He says he has pictures.”

Wayne’s gaze dropped to the folder in Tim’s shaking hands, and he took a step forward.  Tim instinctively jerked a step back, but the wall was behind him, and they were in a corner, and there was nowhere to run.

He hadn’t planned for Wayne being here.  He hadn’t planned for Batman being here.  He hadn’t—he hadn’t—

He could still see the black gauntleted fist come crashing down on a face, over and over and over until everything was red and swollen and the goon couldn’t even scream anymore.

He could hear the sound of bone cracking and choked-off sobs and futile begging.

Batman didn’t have mercy.  Everyone knew that.

“Shit,” someone cursed, but it sounded very distant.  Everything felt very distant, from the wall pressing into his back to the hazy figures in front of him to the burning in his chest.  “Tim!  Tim!”

That was his name.  Tim.  Tim, the idiot kid that thought he could get one over Batman where the whole city had failed.  Tim, the idiot that thought he could actually protect someone.  Tim, the stupid, stupid kid that had probably just made Jason’s life even worse.

“Tim, I’m so sorry, Tim, please, you need to breathe.”

What was the point in breathing?  Batman was just going to choke him out anyway.

“Tim, kid, breathe.”  Hands on his shoulder, and Tim couldn’t even flinch—but they were too small to be Wayne’s, and he could feel the edge of the splints through his shirt, and worried blue eyes in front of him, and his knees felt like jelly, and suddenly he was sitting on the floor.

Someone was taking gasping breaths, too-loud and too-fast.  Tim could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, in tune to the sickening terror that clawed up his stomach and shackled his limbs and laughed in his head.

He thought he could outsmart Batman.

He—he’d actually believed he could blackmail Wayne, that he could get Jason away from him, that he could help.  That he could succeed where Nightwing had failed.  That somehow he was smart enough to find a loophole that neither Dick nor Jason had discovered after all these years.

“Shh, kiddo, just breathe.  Come on, you can do it.”  There was a hand rubbing up and down his spine, and something soft under his cheek.

The thing—the worst, most horrible thing—was that Tim could’ve done it.  He could’ve kept his photos in a lockbox or had a drop set up with the police or something, anything, to ensure his safety.

But he hadn’t expected Wayne to be home.

And now he’d just made everything a hundred times worse.

There was no way Wayne was letting him go.  Batman didn’t kill, but Tim had heard enough stories of people disappearing to know that death wasn’t the worst card on the table.  Tim shuddered harder, and clutched at the soft material he was pressed against—a shirt, it was Jason’s shirt, and Jason’s arms around him, and Jason’s low voice in his ear, and how pathetic was it that the boy he’d come here to save was protecting him.

Tim took a hitched, stuttered breath, and another—the shirt was wet under his face, and his vision was blurry when he raised his head.  Jason was looked at him, worried and guilty, but Tim didn’t blame him.  Tim was the one who’d come here and messed it all up when Jason had enough difficulties trying to manage on his own.

“Tim?” Jason asked softly, “You okay, kid?”

Tim nodded, not willing to trust his voice, and shuffled back, out of Jason’s arms—Jason, who was sitting awkwardly on the ground with his cast stretched out because apparently Tim could do nothing but inconvenience him at every turn—and looked up.

Wayne was sitting on the ground, a few feet away, flipping through Tim’s folder.  His face was carefully blank.

It wasn’t all of Tim’s photos.  But it was enough to be proof, enough to show that Tim did actually know that Bruce Wayne was Batman.  It was enough for Wayne to take him as a threat.

Wayne looked up, and met Tim’s gaze, expression still masked.  “Who else knows?” he asked, quiet but firm.

“Bruce,” Jason said lowly, but Tim shifted away from him—Jason was already hurt, he shouldn’t be protecting Tim.

He thought about lying, but he didn’t think he could bluff Batman.  “No one,” he said quietly.

Wayne raised an eyebrow, “No one else has these pictures?”

Tim shook his head.  Something darkened in Wayne’s expression.  “Who took them?” he asked, spreading them out on the ground—there were a couple of dark shadows that were Batman, but most were of Robin, brightly colored and mid-flip, and Tim had included newspaper articles of Batman and Robin, the Flying Graysons and their death, and the calculated statistics matching Bruce Wayne’s absences and Batman’s appearances.

Tim swallowed.  “I did,” he whispered.

Wayne’s gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowing.  Jason made a soft, surprised sound.  Wayne looked at the pictures, back to him, and the pictures again, his expression growing darker and darker.

He looked mad.

Tim bit his lap, and cast Jason a sideways glance.  Jason, who finally seemed to be recovering.  Jason, who looked brighter and healthier than the sullen boy Tim had caught sight of two months ago.  Jason, who was healing before Tim came and messed everything up.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said, slowly scooting forward until he was half in front of Jason, between him and Wayne.  “I—I’m sorry.”  He couldn’t say I didn’t mean to, because he did, he’d just failed.

He had to do damage control.  He had to fix this.  He—he couldn’t be the cause of Jason getting hurt again.

Unfortunately, there was only one thing Tim had left to bargain with.

“I—I’ll give you all the pictures,” Tim said softly.  Wayne already knew they existed.  Giving them up was a gesture of goodwill.  “Just—just please—please don’t hurt Jason.”

Wayne stared at him, eyes wide.  Jason made a sound like he’d been punched.  Tim kept his gaze on Wayne, even though he really wanted to curl up into a ball, and waited.

Tim had no leverage.  Wayne didn’t need to accept the deal, he could just go ransack Tim’s home and life until he found all the pictures.  And even if he accepted, he didn’t need to hold to it—with the pictures in his hand, he could do anything he wanted to Jason.  Or Tim.

“You don’t have to give me the pictures,” Wayne said softly, and dread almost strangled him.

“Please,” Tim stuttered, scrambling until he was fully in front of Jason, “Please, I’m sorry, it’s not his fault—he didn’t do anything, I swear, don’t hurt him, please—”

“Tim,” Jason said quietly, his voice all choked up, and arms encircled him and tugged him back, “Tim, no.  Bruce isn’t going to hurt me.”

Tim knew he should break Jason’s grasp, twist free and do something, but Jason’s arms were warm and Tim could feel his heartbeat against his cheek and he buried his face into Jason’s shirt and shuddered.  “I’m sorry,” Tim said wetly, “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Tim, I swear, he’s not going to hurt me, Bruce would never hurt me—”

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated, trembling fingers clutching Jason’s shirt, “Believe me, Jason, I’m so—”

“Tim,” Wayne cut him off, “Could you look at me, please?”

Not like that was really a choice.  Tim raised his head and twisted slightly, still firmly in Jason’s hold, until he could meet Wayne’s gaze.

All the photos had been tidied back into the folder, and Wayne was staring straight at him with those piercing eyes, some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.

“I have never raised a hand to Jason,” Wayne said softly, “And I never will.  I do everything in my power to protect him, always.  You have my word.”

Tim stared at him.  Lying, a part of his mind whispered, but Wayne’s expression was carefully crafted, and Tim could find no hint of insincerity.

“Why did you think I hurt him?” Wayne asked.

Ah.  Trying to figure out where he’d tripped up.  Tim didn’t want to tell him—even if Tim had failed, surely someone else would catch it, someone would figure it out—but he had next to nothing to bargain with, and anything that put Wayne in a better mood was good.

Tim cast a side glance at Jason.  “It—a car accident wouldn’t have left those kind of injuries.”  Wayne frowned, and Tim rushed to continue before he was given another meaningless denial, “And I saw the bruises around his throat.”

Jason’s arms tightened around him.  Wayne looked abruptly tired.  Tim shrank back, and waited.

Wayne sighed.  Jason’s hands moved, tugging Tim around until he was facing the older boy.  “You’re right,” Jason said quietly, “It wasn’t a car accident.”  His expression twisted, and smoothed out, “It was the Joker.”

Tim stared at him.  “I made the stupid decision to go find my birth mom without telling anyone,” Jason said, something bitter and poisonous in his tone, “And when she realized I’d been adopted by Bruce Wayne, she sold me out to the Joker to pay off her debts.  The Joker decided I’d make a great hostage for a showdown with Batman and—and he tortured me while he waited for Batman to show up.”  Jason met his gaze, blue eyes glimmering.  “None of it was Bruce’s fault,” he said hoarsely.

Wayne made a soft sound.  Jason’s eyes narrowed, and he repeated, stronger, “None of it was Bruce’s fault.”

The Joker, beaten half to death before he was locked back up in Arkham.  Batman’s sudden, uncharacteristic violence.  And Tim could understand why Jason would want to hide that he’d gotten kidnapped and tortured by a supervillain.

It…added up.

“And Dick?” Tim asked softly.

Jason frowned, “Dick?  What about Dick?”  Jason huffed, “Kid, he’s not even on the planet, he didn’t hurt me.”

“What do you mean, he’s not on the planet?” Tim asked, his voice rising higher.

“He’s on a mission,” Jason blinked at him, “As Nightwing.”  And then he winced, like he realized that maybe giving out mission details to a strange thirteen-year-old wasn’t the best idea.

Dick…was on a mission.  Because of course heroes took missions in outer space.  Jason had been hurt by a supervillain.  Batman was just mad that Jason got hurt.

It made sense.  All of it.  And Tim had taken the facts and jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

He felt exceedingly stupid.

“Oh,” Tim said in a small voice, “Um.  Sorry.”  He couldn’t look at Wayne.  He couldn’t look at Jason.  No wonder Jason had thought he was crazy.  That was what he was, a crazy stalker.

Tim stared at his knees and tugged at a loose thread in his jeans.  Wayne wasn’t going to hurt Jason.  That was good to know.  At least something had come out of Tim playing all his cards at once.

“I,” Tim started slowly, “No one’s going to notice I’m gone till the end of the week.  Maybe later, if Mrs. Mac doesn’t go looking.”  So just get on with it, he finished mentally.

He knew that bad things happened to people that got too close to discovering Batman’s secret.

“What?” Jason said, “What are you talking about?”

“You—you don’t have to worry,” Tim said quietly, “No one knows I came here.”  Originally, because he didn’t want Wayne to figure out where Jason had gone.  “I—I can get the photos for you, first, if you want.  Or—or not.”  Wayne had already said he didn’t want the photos.  “Sorry,” Tim added, still staring at his knees.

He should’ve been on his feet.  Face it like a man, his father’s voice echoed in his head.  But Jason was still hugging him, and it felt so nice, and Tim was the most selfish person on the planet but he was willing to leech off Jason’s heat for as long as he could.

“Tim,” Wayne said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jason squawked and held Tim tighter.  “I would never let anyone hurt a kid,” he growled, and Tim could almost believe him.

Tim shrugged, a quick up-and-down.  “Okay,” Tim said, still not looking up.  It helped to know that it wouldn’t hurt.  Whatever it was.  Batman didn’t kill, so maybe it was a memory wipe?  Some sort of witness protection thing?  Or just a special jail built for people who got too nosy?

“Tim,” Wayne said slowly, “What are you scared of?”

How did he know Tim was scared?  Tim wasn’t even looking at him, and the tears were silent, and—oh.  His fingers were shaking.

Tim couldn’t stifle the next sob.

“I’m sorry,” Tim mumbled through hitched breaths, “I—I know you’re going to do—whatever you do when someone figures out your identity.  I’m sorry.  I—I never told anyone, I was never going to tell anyone, I just.  I’m sorry.”

“Tim, kiddo, no,” Jason drew him closer, until Tim was sniffling into his shirt again, “No one is going to hurt you.  No one is going to attack you.”  There were fingers drifting through his hair, and Tim shuddered, pressing closer to the older boy and squeezing his eyes shut.  “I promise, we aren’t going to kidnap you or whatever it is you’re thinking.  You get to go home, I swear—”

Wayne cleared his throat, and Tim trembled.  “About that,” Wayne said slowly, “When you said ‘no one’s going to notice’—”

“Bruce,” Jason snapped, cutting him off, and Tim raised his head enough to see Wayne exchange a long look with Jason.

Wayne looked away first.  Jason made a wordless grumble, and clutched Tim tighter.

“I apologize,” Wayne said calmly, “But if you’re spending your days unsupervised, I know Jason would be happy to host you here at the Manor.  You could return to your home for dinner, and come over after breakfast.”

To keep a closer eye on Tim, and make sure he didn’t tell anyone?  It was a better deal than a memory wipe, anyway, and this way Tim could watch Jason and make sure he wasn’t getting hurt.

“O—okay,” Tim said, shrinking back into Jason’s embrace as Wayne smiled.  The smile quickly dimmed to something more melancholy, and Wayne nodded to Jason as he got up and walked away.

“I was getting a little stir-crazy by myself, actually,” Jason hummed, “It would be great to have someone around!  There’s a ton of fun stuff to do in the Manor.”

If Tim got a hug like this every time, he didn’t care what he had to do.

Chapter Text

It was the bottom of the ninth.  One out left.  First and second bases loaded.  One strike down.  The Knights were three points behind.

“You never know,” Dick said optimistically, having replaced Steph on Bruce’s other side.  The jeering and boos had mostly died down, though Bruce knew that several people had taken photos of him in Metropolis blue-and-yellow.

Jason scoffed from Bruce’s left, “What—this is their season, or something?”

“You never know,” Dick repeated, a fixed smile on his face, with the eerie cheerfulness of someone who knew their optimism was misplaced but was unwilling to change.

“The Knights haven’t won a Meteors game in fifteen years,” Tim piped up from Jason’s other side.  Jason elbowed him, and the kid hissed back.  Cass was supposed to be sitting between them, but she’d disappeared somewhere with Damian, and Steph was too focused on the game to pay attention to what they were doing.

Second strike down.

“Ah, the sweet, dulcet sounds of hope fading,” Jason grumbled, “Bruce, why haven’t you done something about this team yet?”

“I’m not sure what you think I can do, Jay-lad.”

“Batman should do something,” Dick murmured, “They say it’s a curse, you know.  That the Knights always choke.”

“Sure, blame it on magic,” Tim scoffed.

The batter actually managed to connect bat to ball.  “Foul ball,” the stadium groaned in unison.

“Where is Damian?” Bruce asked, scanning the seats around them.  Cass had disappeared for snacks nearly twenty minutes ago, and they still hadn’t come back.

“I don’t know, but they were supposed to get me popcorn,” Jason said, stealing a handful from Tim’s neglected bucket as he said it.  Tim kicked Jason in the shin to get it back, and pulled it to the other side, without actually eating any.  Bruce had to wrap an arm around Jason’s shoulders to keep him from retaliating.

Steph absently took a handful, watching the game intently, and—

A hit.  Everyone moved up a base, and a happy groan echoed in the stadium.  “He should’ve ran,” Steph hissed, glaring at the player on third base.

“We have a chance!” Dick cheered, “One home run, and we’ll win!”

“Wow,” Jason marveled, “It must be so nice inside your head.  All sunshine and unicorns and fairies.”

“They can do it,” Steph said determinedly, paying very little attention to the conversation—she was at the edge of her seat, eyes fixed on the game.

Tim scoffed loudly, and Steph threw popcorn kernels at his face without looking.  Jason squawked, and tugged the bucket away from both of them.  “No wasting food,” he snarled.

“It’s stale popcorn,” Tim rolled his eyes, “At least this way the rats will get to eat.”

Another loud groan.  One strike down.

“No, seriously,” Bruce said, “Cass and Damian should’ve been back by now.”

“There’s apparently a cricket game going on right now, and they’ve escaped to go watch it on Damian’s phone,” Dick grumbled, crossing his arms and sulking.

“Careful, chum, if Alfred hears you talking about cricket like that—” Bruce cautioned, but he was cut off with a roar as the batter swung in a full arc and connected with a crack.

Dick leapt up to his feet, Steph was practically on the railing, and the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath as the ball spun through the air, descending and descending and descending and—

There was a palpable hush before the stadium erupted.

“Yes!” Steph screamed, pumping her fist.  Dick was dancing on top of his seat and the whole stadium was shouting, delirious in joy.  Tim’s groan was almost lost amidst the gleeful cheers, and Bruce grinned as the players jogged around the bases with hands held up high.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jason said quietly, and Bruce turned to see him smiling softly, the expression so reminiscent of the twelve-year-old’s awe that Bruce felt his heart ache.

“Miracles happen,” Bruce reminded him, and Jason turned that soft expression towards him, eyes gleaming in contentment.

“Jaybird is their lucky charm!” Dick proclaimed, clambering over Bruce to hug Jason—Jason squawked and flailed and Dick laughed as he squirmed out of the hold.  “I’ll go get Damian and Cass,” Dick said, heading for the stairs and walking along the seat backs instead of using the aisle like a normal person.

“I guess this means I won the bet,” Jason gave a crooked grin, happiness overtaken by mischievousness, and Tim choked as he leapt up and backed away from Jason.

“I didn’t agree!” Tim protested, “You can’t just unilaterally declare bets, that’s not fair—” He bumped into Steph, who was blocking his path with glee as Jason unfolded the sweatshirt.

Tim darted a hunted look to the sides, but people were crowding the aisles above and below them, and there was no escape.  Jason shook out the sweatshirt, and advanced.

“Bruce,” Tim pleaded, eyes wide, lower lip trembling, and Bruce couldn’t help the smile.  Tim’s expression twisted to furious betrayal before Jason pulled the sweatshirt over his head and it was concealed by purple cloth.

“I hate you all,” Tim complained, his voice muffled, as Jason tugged the sweatshirt down, trapping him in the large fabric.

“Love you too, Wonder Boy,” Steph giggled, holding up a V sign and making sure Tim’s scowl was in the frame before she clicked a selfie.

Bruce rested a hand on Jason’s shoulder, and his son turned to him with the impish smile that his second Robin had always worn.

It was a miracle, and Bruce refused to let it go.

Chapter Text

Dick wasn’t expecting anyone to be at the Manor, and especially not at six in the morning, but Damian had halted in the doorway of the den, and Dick could hear the tinny sound of the TV and a language he couldn’t quite recognize.

“Something wrong?” he asked, peering around Damian, because surely if there was a threat, Damian would’ve gone for his sword—

There was a large lump on the couch, and it took Dick a long moment to figure out what it was.

There was only one person Dick knew that had a streak of white through the front of their hair, but Dick still had to take several seconds for his brain to recalibrate and conclude that yes, that was Jason sleeping stretched out along the couch, with the TV flickering light over his closed eyes.

That was Jason, one arm slung around the back of another figure wrapped up in a blanket, and the other hand buried in soft, dark hair.

Damian made an inarticulate noise that indicated that he was also having difficulty processing the scene.

“Pollen?” Dick suggested, his voice strangled.  He hadn’t heard any news about Ivy, but maybe she’d gotten upset, and Hood was toeing the line of ally nowadays, so maybe he’d helped Red Robin?

That didn’t explain why they were in the Manor.  Why they were both in the Manor—Tim spent more time in his Nest, and Jason had several safehouses peppered throughout the city.

“No reports of Ivy causing a disturbance,” Damian said, clipped, staring at his phone.

“Alternate dimension?” Dick suggested.  It was a mark of how ridiculous the situation was that Damian didn’t even scoff.

Dick quietly crept over, something in his heart twisting at the sight of Jason protectively curled over Tim, at them both sleeping in the den with what appeared to be two empty mugs of hot cocoa on the coffee table, with the background noise of a Turkish drama.  Damian turned the TV off as Dick crouched in front of the couch, staring at Jason’s sleeping face.

“Little Wing?” he asked softly, brushing a stray bang out of Jason’s face.  Jason wrinkled his nose unconsciously, and Dick laughed quietly, feathering another lock of hair across his forehead.

Jason blinked blearily, squinting at Dick, his expression still sleep-soft.

“There you are, Jaybird,” Dick said softly, unable to stop himself from the quiet croon.

Jason frowned—a mere twitch of his eyebrows, compared to his normal fearsome scowl.  “S’pposed to be in ‘Haven,” he mumbled.

“Realized I forgot something in the Cave,” Dick answered—and Damian had refused to let it go until Dick agreed to come back and get the equipment, the extended commute be damned.  “What happened?” he asked softly, flicking his gaze to a sleeping Tim.

Jason followed his gaze, eyebrows scrunching as though he didn’t know why he was cuddling Tim either.  “Buried,” Jason said slowly, squinting, “S’meone buried the kid.  Found him.”

What.

“Tim?” Dick asked, barely remembering to keep his voice low, “Someone buried Tim?”

Someone dared to bury his little brother?

“Yeah,” Jason exhaled, blinks getting longer and longer, “Bastards.”  He sounded exhausted, and Dick could only imagine what they’d both gone through to go from ‘buried alive’ to ‘cuddling in the Manor’.

He couldn’t control the low, furious growl, and Jason blinked again, wariness bleeding into his expression.  Dick shushed him and ran his fingers through Jason’s hair until green eyes fluttered shut again.

He pressed a soft kiss to Jason’s forehead, “Sleep, Little Wing.  You’re safe now.”

He waited until Jason’s breathing had evened out before he lurched to his feet and headed to the Cave.  Damian followed him silently, waiting until they were through the clock door before speaking up, “Is it true?”

“Can’t really imagine why Jason would lie,” Dick said, stalking over to the Batcomputer, “But you’re right, we need more information, and I want to let them both sleep.”  No one had filed a report for the night, but it was easy enough to bring up the comm footage.

There was little action for the majority of the night, Tim occasionally turning the comm on to report something on patrol but leaving it off for the most part.  There was a long, stretching period of complete silence after midnight, and Dick fast-forwarded through it, feeling his heart claw up into his throat.

He paused when the silence shifted suddenly into harsh breathing.  “Hello, this is Red Robin,” a shaking voice reported, “I need immediate assistance.  I’m trapped in an unknown location.”

A beat of silence.

“Hello?  Hello, is anyone there?”

More jagged breathing.

“Guys, this isn’t funny,” the voice said faintly, “I’m trapped.  I—I think I’m underground.  I’m in a coffin.”

Dick’s fingers pressed into the arms of the chair.

“Hello,” the voice rose higher, “Hello, is anyone there?  Please?  Please, if anyone’s there, please help, please.”  A sob.  “Please, I’m trapped, I need help.”  A harsh inhale.  “Again, this is Red Robin calling for assistance.  Anyone copy?”

He’s right upstairs, Dick reminded himself.  Jason found him.  Tim was okay.

There was a gap of about a minute before the harsh breathing broke into hyperventilation.

“Hello—hello, somebody, please.”  Gasping sobs.   “Help—please—I—I need help—please—anyone—help—” the voice choked out into silence.  “This is Red Robin.  If anyone is hearing this, please respond.  I need assistance.”  The voice was cracking.  “This is Red Robin.  Anyone—please—I need help.”  It was breaking apart.  “This—this is Red Robin.  Please—please—”

“Christ, Replacement, would you shut up?  You’re giving me a headache.”

Dick exhaled in relief so strong his legs wavered.  Damian let out a soft breath, and pressed closer to the chair.

“Hood,” Red Robin stuttered, “Hood, are you there?  Hood, I—I need help, I—”

“I got that part loud and clear, Replacement,” the mechanized voice growled, “You know you’re on the public line, right?  Go bother one of the Bats and leave me alone.”

“Hood!” Red’s voice rose, desperate, “Hood, wait, don’t—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Replacement, are you trying to make me deaf?  Guess that’s what I get for linking the comms in the first place—”

“Hood, no, please, don’t leave—please, there’s no one else, please, I’m trapped, please don’t go!”

No response.  Dick’s fingers were tightening into fists again.

“Hood—Hood, please, no one else is in town—I know you hate me, but please, I’m trapped, I need help, please—”

“What do you mean, no one else is in town,” Hood said slowly, and Dick couldn’t hide the frown.

They were both alright.  They were both upstairs.  That was what he had to remember.

“They’re—they’re all gone—”

“All?  I know Oracle and B, but Agent A?  N?  Spoiler?”

“Vacation, Bludhaven, taking the week off.  No one is answering me, I’m—I’m stuck in a box, I think I was drugged—”

“Black Bat?  Robin?”

“Out, and in Bludhaven.  Hood—”

“Wait.  Are you seriously telling me that Gotham is Bat-free tonight?”

Hood sounded gleeful.  Dick snarled.

“Hood, please—”

“Except for you, I guess.  But you’re trapped—exactly how trapped are you?”

“I’m in a coffin!”

Finally.  Dick exhaled again, his foot bouncing up and down.

“Is that supposed to be a fucking joke?”  Hood sounded murderous.

“Why would I joke about being buried alive?!” Red almost wailed, before his breaths dissolved into jagged, tearing gasps, too-fast and too-shallow, and Dick felt his own lungs squeeze in sympathy.

Hood’s voice echoed through the line, no longer angry, and cracking audibly, “Deep breaths, you need to calm down, Red Robin, deep breaths, come on, Red, I need you to calm down.  Red, breathe, come on, four beats in, one beat hold, six beats out.  You can do it.  Four in, one hold, six out.  In, two, three, four, hold, out, two, three, four, five, six.  In, two, three, four, hold, out, two, three, four, five, six.”

The harsh gasps slowed as Hood repeated the pattern, and when the line was only broken by hiccups, Hood stopped.  “Red?  You there?”

“‘M here.”

“Okay.  Okay, you need to hold tight.  I’ll be back.”  The distorted voice couldn’t entirely hide the panic of its own.

“Wait.  Hood, wait—” But the man was already gone.

Dick shifted uneasily at the silence, and darted a quick look at Damian, whose expression had gone eerily blank.  “They’re okay,” he offered, unsure of who he was reassuring.  Damian made a soft tutting sound, and crossed his arms.

The comm line only echoed with Red’s hitched breaths, and Dick fast-forwarded again, until Hood came back.  Hood extracted information about Red’s surroundings and last-known location, and clearly did some searching of his own to discover other clues.

Drugged and buried alive.  Dick wanted to punch something.  He wanted to yell at the two of them as Hood started planning out a search—why hadn’t they called someone?  Sure, Bruce would be hard to get ahold of, but Oracle could’ve surely helped, and Steph was in town, and—

“Do you want me to call Nightwing?”

Dick froze.  He frantically tried to remember if he missed any calls—this was two thirty in the morning, he would’ve been out on patrol, he’d had his phone on him—

“No,” Red said softly, and Dick felt his heart crack.

“Richard,” Damian stepped forward—“What if your lead doesn’t pan out?”—and laid a hand on his arm, “You were an hour away.  They were making a tactical decision to focus on the mission instead of bringing others up to speed.”

“I told you, I’ll retrace your steps from Coventry.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

Dick appreciated the thought.  But he didn’t think either Jason or Tim were making tactical decisions.  They were making half-panicked ones, and neither of them thought that letting him know would be a good idea.

Tim could’ve died.  Tim could’ve died, and Dick might’ve listened to his last words being ‘don’t tell Nightwing’.

“Then I’ll talk you through crawling out.”

“What?  I—I can’t do that—I’ll suffocate—”

“You’ll manage.  I did, and I didn’t even have any gear.”

Dick abruptly started paying attention to the recording again.  “What?” he croaked out, in tune with Red Robin, “What did he say?”

“I’m the dead Robin, or did you forget that already?”

“J—Hood, what?  You were buried alive?”

Dick echoed Tim’s clear shock.  When?  Why had Jason never told them?  Did he really believe that they wouldn’t have come for him?  As soon as he was done listening to this, Dick was going to wrap his little brother in a hug and refuse to let him go until he accepted that Dick would always, always come for him.

“No, I was buried dead.  Unfortunately for everyone, I woke up.”

Dick—Dick didn’t understand.  He couldn’t understand.  Damian made a sharp inhale, and pressed closer to him.

“I thought the Lazarus Pit brought you back to life.”

“The Pit can’t bring the dead back to life,” Damian said softly, echoing Hood’s snarl.

“It just fixed half the broken stuff inside me, and made the rest worse.”

“I don’t—I never—you woke up inside your own coffin?”

Fuck.  Fuck.  He had—they had—they’d buried him—Dick had always thought that Talia had dug him up, that the information they had on the Pit was a lie, that—

He’d been there.  In Gotham.  Before the Pit, before the Red Hood, Jason had woken up in Gotham and they—they’d never known.

“Yeah.  Fun trip.  Never want to do that again.  Anyway, if it comes to that, I’ll walk you through digging yourself out—and with batarangs and rebreathers, it’ll be much easier for you than it was for me.”

Dick couldn’t help the choked sob.  Jason, fifteen-year-old Jason, opening his eyes to a coffin—with no one coming, without even a chance, desperate and panicked, just like Tim had been, except there was no comm, no gear, nothing to help him get out.

No wonder Hood’s breathing was as unsteady as Tim’s as he reached Fun Gardens cemetery, and relayed information back to Red as he prowled around the graves.

“Found two freshly filled graves.  I—son of a fucking bitch.”

“What?”

“I think this one’s yours, but just to be sure, take out your comm and listen for ten seconds, and tell me if you hear this.”

Two muffled bangs.  “Did you shoot something?”

“The dirt.  Okay.  This is definitely yours.  Someone thinks they’re funny.”

“What did they do?”

“Grave marker for a Robin Rouge.  Fuckers.  They’re going to be red when I get my hands on them.”

Jason wasn’t going to get his hands on them, because Dick didn’t think there would be any pieces left when he was done with them.  Judging by Damian’s scowl, he wasn’t the only one that felt that way.

“I—just get me out first, please.”

“Yeah, I’m working on it.”

“Hood?”

“Give me a second.”

“Hood?”  Red Robin was panicking again.  “Hood?  Hood—Hood, please, get me out, please—Hood, please, don’t go—”

“Not going anywhere, Repl—Red, calm down.  Just trying to find something to dig with.”  Dick could hear Hood’s breathing stutter, unsteady and unbalanced.  “Red?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to take off my helmet for a little bit, okay—”

“No.”

“You’re hyperventilating, and I need you to calm down.”

“I can calm down!”

“Red.  I can’t listen to you and dig you out.  You’re panicking, and I’m going to panic, and then we’ll get nowhere.  Give me five—give me ten minutes, five to figure out how this backhoe works, and five to dig you out, okay?”  A stretching beat.  “Red?”

“Ten minutes,” Red Robin finally rasped, defeat in his tone.

Jason had clearly put his helmet nearby, because they could hear the whir and groan of machinery.  Dick’s knuckles were white where he was clutching the arms of the chair, and Damian was perfectly, completely still.

The sound of machinery stopped.  Dick held his breath.

“Shh,” Jason said, his voice faint, “It’s okay.  You’re out, you’re safe, you’re okay.”

“T—thank y—you,” came the broken reply, “Thank you.”

“Of course.  Of course, baby bird.”

Dick felt his heart squeeze painfully.

“Can—can we go home?”

“The Manor?”  There was a stretching pause.  “Sure, baby bird.  We can go home.”

Dick didn’t realize he was crying until the tear drops splattered on his hands.  They’re safe, he reminded himself as he curled up, burying his face in his knees, they’re safe and alive and right upstairs.  Tangled up with each other, as though they couldn’t bear to let the other go, as though it was the only thing keeping both of them from reliving a coffin buried six feet below.

“We will find who did this,” Damian replied curtly, “And we will see how they appreciate being buried alive.”

Dick wanted to tell him no.  Wanted to say ‘that’s not how we do things’ and ‘that’s torture, Dami’ and ‘it’s okay, they’re safe, they’re here, they’re going to be fine’.

But he couldn’t, because that was exactly what he wanted to do.

Chapter Text

Dick only paused long enough to do their reentry check, make sure everyone went through the decontamination shower, and confirm that they had no urgent messages from the Watchtower before taking the zeta back to the Cave.

It had been nine weeks, he’d never spent that much time out of contact with his family, and he was itching to give them all hugs.  Jason had been in a bad mood when he left, and a twisting coil of dread had kept him anxious the whole trip.

It was stupid.  Just familiar anxiety.  His little brother was fine, and the only reason Dick was rushing to get out of his suit was because he wanted to give him a hug without getting complaints about being sweaty and gross or contaminated with space cooties.

Dick took the shortest shower he possibly could, didn’t bother to dry his hair, and changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants before heading out into the Cave proper.  Bruce would’ve gotten a notification that someone had used the zeta, but it was two o’clock, he would still be at work, and Jason might be at tutoring, but Dick didn’t really want to wait for them to get home and—

And there was a boy standing in the middle of the Cave, staring at him with wide-eyes.

Dark hair.  Blue eyes.  Younger than Jason, and slighter, and the features were all off, so this wasn’t some de-aging magic, which meant that there was a strange boy standing the middle of their secret hideout and—

“Nightwing,” the kid breathed out, his face lighting up, and Dick had to double check to make sure his domino was off.  “You’re alive!”

What.

“Excuse me?” Dick replied, his heart hammering—who the fuck—what the fuck—why the fuck was ‘you’re alive’ this kid’s first reaction, what the hell had happened—where was Bruce, where was Jason, fuck, Dick had felt that something was wrong—“Who are you?”

The kid didn’t answer, still staring at Dick like a blind man seeing the sun.  Dick was extremely uncomfortable by the sheer relief that the kid was exuding—he actually swayed in place, and Dick automatically stepped closer to catch him if he fainted.

“Timmers?” echoed loudly through the Cave, and Dick felt like collapsing himself—thank all the gods, that was Jason, he was okay—and whirled around to see his little brother limp towards them.

Limp.

Because he was on crutches.

Because there was a cast practically swallowing his right leg, and his fingers were splinted, and there were fresh scars on his arms.  “Dick!” Jason grinned when he saw him, the earlier storm cloud of rage and depression nowhere to be found.  “You’re home!”

Dick stared at him, frozen.  “What happened to you?” Dick breathed out, horrified.

The kid squeaked, and Dick paused to shoot him a glance to make sure he wasn’t in any danger before turning back towards Jason and stalking closer.

“Little Wing,” Dick exhaled, scanning over every visible injury and being unable to stop his mind from dreaming up the non-visible ones.  Jason stiffened when he got too close, and Dick stilled—he hadn’t seen that reaction in a long time.

He looked at the injuries again.

“Jay,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “Who did this?”

Jason let out a sharp breath and practically threw himself forward—Dick caught him easily, wrapping him up in a hug and letting the warmth of his little brother bleed into him and wash away the exhaustion and loneliness of the last two months.  “Jaybird,” Dick murmured into Jason’s hair, clutching him tightly, “I missed you, kiddo.”

“Missed you too,” Jason said, low and choked, and Dick held him close.  When Jason finally eased back, his eyes were shining, and he roughly rubbed them against his sleeve before looking up again.

“What happened, Little Wing?” Dick asked softly, holding Jason at arms’ length to get a good look.

“It’s a long story,” Jason said hoarsely, “But I’m fine now.”  Well, that didn’t set off every one of Dick’s honed vigilante senses or anything, but Dick let the topic drop.

“And who’s this?” Dick asked, turning to the younger kid, who was still looking at him like Dick was the answer to all his problems.

“I’m Tim Drake,” the kid said shyly.

“Our neighbor,” Jason clarified, as though that explained what he was doing in the Cave.

“Okay,” Dick said, still confused, but further questions were halted by the ding of the elevator, and Dick grinned and cartwheeled over to launch himself at Bruce, who caught him and stumbled back with a long-suffering expression.  “Hi, B!” Dick grinned, wrapping him in a tight hug, “Did you miss me?”

Dick expected a grunt, one that Dick could interpret to ‘yes, of course, what would I do without you’, but wasn’t prepared for the soft, heavy, “Every day.”

Dick squeezed tighter, his heart twisting, and when he trusted his voice again, he murmured, “I missed you too.”

He disengaged from Bruce before the poor man could get hives from all the emotional talk, and made his way back to the kids—Tim was half hovering behind Jason, though he gave Dick a cautious smile when Dick beamed at him.

“I see they’ve multiplied,” Dick said to Bruce, grinning at Jason, “I leave for two months, and you adopt a whole new kid?”

Dick’s tone was teasing, but Bruce was not laughing.  He was, in fact, looking constipated.

“Bruce,” Dick said, astonished, “What, seriously?”

Jason groaned.  Tim’s eyes were as round as saucers.  “Are you stealing me?” the kid asked quietly, now fully hiding behind Jason.

Jason looked at the ceiling, like he was praying for patience.

“Okay,” Dick said, swiveling to observe everyone in the room, “I can sense there’s a lot to unpack here—I’m going to go get lunch, and you all are going to explain what happened the two months I was gone.”  Bruce gave him a weary nod, and Jason made a face, but agreed.

“But first,” Dick crouched, peering at Tim from around Jason and holding his arms out, “Can I get a hug from my new little brother?”

The kid’s eyes were so very blue, and Dick nearly fell back on his ass from the force with which Tim jumped into his arms.  The kid was shuddering, and Dick didn’t know the full story there, but he didn’t need to know it to hold the kid close and rub soothing circles into his back and murmur soft reassurances that it was okay, Dick was here, and he would never ever let anyone hurt him.

Chapter Text

“You do not attack allies, Damian,” Todd snarled, pacing back and forth in front of him.  Most everyone else was out on patrol—Damian had timed his play near-perfectly.  He hadn’t accounted for Todd wandering downstairs, or for the weakling to be more resilient than he’d calculated.

“How is anyone supposed to trust you if they keep waiting for a sword in their back?” Todd exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

“Trust is for fools,” Damian replied curtly.

“This is not Nanda Parbat,” Todd snapped immediately, “We are not the League of Assassins, and when you’re in Gotham, you follow the Bat’s rules!”

Damian flinched back at the rebuke.  He knew all of that.  He just—he hadn’t—there were different rules here?

“In Gotham, we work as a team,” Todd stressed, “And if you cannot trust and be trusted, then no one will agree to have you on the team.”

The weakling was not supposed to be a member of the team.  She didn’t live in the house.  She wasn’t affiliated to the Bat.  Damian had done his research.

“If you want to follow the League’s rules, Damian,” Todd said coldly, “You’re welcome to go back to them.”

Damian took a step back in surprise.  Go back?  To Mother?  In disgrace?  No—no, absolutely not, Damian wouldn’t, Damian couldn’t—

He didn’t realize he was shaking his head until Todd’s voice softened, “Damian, no one is forcing you to leave.  But if you want to be a part of the team, you need to follow the rules.”  Todd stared at him, green eyes intense.  “And that means no attacking allies.”

Damian didn’t know what the stupid rules were, no one had told him anything since Mother finally agreed that it was safe for him to visit Gotham, and Father—his father, Batman—had picked him up in a stealth plane and had also not explained anything, and then—then there was Todd, and Damian had been so happy to see a familiar face, but an older boy kept stealing half his time, and then there were the two puny weaklings demanding his attention, and—and it wasn’t fair.

Todd was his.

Damian was just ensuring that Todd spent his time with those that deserved it.

No attacking allies.

But who counted as an ally?  The League?  The various vigilantes of Gotham?  All the heroes in the world?

No.  It couldn’t be.  Surely Todd didn’t mean for Damian to surrender to everyone, to be helpless in front of anyone who called themselves a hero.  That was ludicrous.

But Todd’s expression was not conducive to asking for a clarification.

“Also, you owe Steph an apology,” Todd said, crossing his arms.

“Just an apology?” the weakling squawked from the medbay, “Alfred’s still not done removing all the broken glass!”

“You owe Steph an apology and the favor of her choice,” Todd amended, still glowering at Damian.

Damian stared at Todd, but he made no motion to edit his previous words, or to tack on any limitations to ‘the favor of her choice’.  What would she ask for?  What was Damian willing to give?

If she was smart, she would ask for something so egregious that Damian would have no choice but to refuse, thus forcing him back to the League of Assassins.  But Damian didn’t know where he’d draw the line.  How much humiliation he’d take to avoid returning to Mother and Grandfather in dishonor.

“Very well,” Damian said, clipped, turning to face Brown, “I apologize.  What is your favor?”

The weakling considered him for a long moment, eyes drawing into a sharp expression with the faintest grimace as another sliver of glass was drawn out of her back.  Damian shivered—she could ask for punishment, or for him to be her lackey, or any manner of horrible things, and no one would stop her.

Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled.  It was not a pleasant smile.

“I want hugs,” Brown chirped gleefully.

Damian stared at her.  Todd made a muffled sound behind him.  Damian didn’t know what her game was, but he refused to play it.  “No,” he snapped, crossing his arms.

Brown’s gaze moved to Todd, her expression twisting to one of obvious manipulation.  “Jay,” she whined, hissing as another piece of glass was extricated, “I want hugs.”

Todd coughed again.  “You heard her, brat,” he said, sounding distinctly amused, “She wants hugs.”

Brown grinned and opened her arms in wide invitation.

Damian was not such a fool that he’d agree to an open-ended deal.  “How many hugs?” he hissed in distaste.

Brown made another considering face, before her eyes brightened.  “How many pieces of glass did you pull out of me, Alfred?” she asked.

The butler dressing her wounds replied dryly, “Do you wish me to stitch your wounds, Miss Stephanie, or count them?”

“You’re right, we can count them later,” Brown hummed, and waggled her fingers, “Come on, Damian, there’s at least—ah—twenty there.”

“If you would stay still, Miss Stephanie, and avoid overcomplicating my task.”

Todd nudged him forward, and Damian resisted the urge to dig in his heels.  Twenty hugs.  The butler had moved from the top of her back to the bottom, so he should be close to finishing.  Thirty maybe.  Forty max.  Damian considered it.

He could endure forty hugs.  And if he couldn’t, then he would return to the League of Assassins, but he’d make sure to permanently disable Brown before leaving.

Damian shuffled forward.  Brown beamed at him.  Damian consoled himself with thoughts of driving a knife through her spine, and pushed up onto the bed before crawling over to Brown’s open arms.

Brown was still in her workout wear, her shirt half cut off to allow the butler access to her back, where the majority of the broken glass was lodged, and Damian paused to check that there weren’t any pieces sticking out to lacerate him before gingerly easing onto her lap.  Brown’s arms swiftly encircled him, trapping him in the cage.

Mother never hugged him like this.  They were more one-armed gestures of pride and affection, careful to never allow him too close to any vulnerabilities.  This was…encompassing, and Damian stiffened as Brown hissed in pain.

Mother had once gripped one of her followers’ hands when the doctor had come to clean out an infected wound, and when they were done—Mother having remained still and silent throughout the procedure—the hand she’d been clutching was red and swollen, with at least four broken bones.

The way Brown was holding him, the maximum damage she could do would be to his ribs, and Damian subtly shifted so that nothing would be in danger of puncturing his lungs.  Brown hissed again, and Damian braced himself for pain.

It didn’t come.  Brown didn’t squeeze tighter—her arms were rigid around Damian, but she wasn’t pressing, and they locked up again as Brown let out a strangled cry, but there was still no pressure.

“Almost done, Miss Stephanie,” the butler said, and Brown let out a ragged breath into Damian’s hair, hitched and slow.

“Don’t you two make a pretty picture,” Todd laughed, accompanied by the click of a false shutter, “Dick’s going to be pissed you got hugs first.”

Damian twists his head enough to see Todd holding the phone up, smiling faintly.  “That’ll be,” Brown said, her voice cracking, “My crowning—ha—achievement.  Beating—fuuudge—Nightwing to hugs—Alfred!”

“Would you like me to leave the glass in?  No?  Then please let me do my work.”

Brown grumbled something indecipherable in Damian’s hair, and Damian could feel her arms trembling.  She was digging the nails of one hand into the other, and was close to breaking skin.

Damian stared at them.  Mother would’ve called it the height of weakness, to refrain from taking an advantage won.  Grandfather had never once taken on pain to spare another.  Father—what would Father do?

He saw Todd’s worried expression, and slowly shifted in Brown’s lap, extricating a hand and hesitating for a beat before wrapping it on top of Brown’s.  Brown stilled, and gradually relaxed.  Todd gave him a surprised smile, and Damian felt a curl of pride inside his stomach.

Chapter Text

Bruce took a moment to breathe.  Both his sons were in his arms, no one was dying, no one was injured, and he could take a moment to marvel at the warmth, at Jason curled into his side and Tim tucked between the two of them as they rested on the bed.

The bed.

In the strange room.

In the apartment Bruce had broken into.

Jason clearly heard his heart rate pick up, because he spoke up, voice muffled by the armor, “Calm down, old man.  We have the room for the rest of the night.”

In the apartment in the building the Red Hood had bought and leased to a group of sex workers.

Bruce wanted to believe it was a coincidence.  That Jason found Tim and took him to the closest safe place.  He desperately wanted to believe it.

But Tim was wearing civilian clothes, and his children had exchanged an unsettling conversation about an apology for an event Bruce did not remember.  Tim and Jason would’ve never run into each other at a gala.  Not now.  Not before.

Unless they’d known each other before.

“Tim,” Bruce said slowly, “Why didn’t you tell me you got hit with pollen?”

Tim went rigid.  Jason stiffened as well.  Bruce held them both tightly, and waited.

“It was fine,” Tim mumbled, “I was dealing with it.”

Jason scoffed loudly.

“I was dealing with that,” Tim repeated, louder, sounding strangely on the verge of tears, “I was handling it, okay!  I’m not a child.  I don’t need to go begging for hugs.”

Bruce was shocked by the outburst.  Jason, instead of riling Tim up even more, stayed strangely silent.

“Tim,” Bruce said slowly, “It’s pollen.  It’s a normal reaction.  If—if you didn’t wish to be held by me, I’m sure Alfred would have—”

“It’s not you, Bruce,” Tim sighed, “It’s okay.  I know no one really wants to hug me.  I’m fine dealing with it on my own.”

Jason hissed, and tightened his grasp on Tim, constricting the younger boy into a snug hug.  He raised his head to glare at Bruce, and his expression was one part rage to one part helplessness to one part desperate hope.  An expression Bruce had seen often on a younger Jason.

This is wrong and I don’t know how to fix it, Bruce please.

“Tim,” Bruce said quietly, “I do want to hug you.  You’re my son.  I want to do everything in my power to keep you safe and happy.  That’s what being a parent means.”

Jason’s expression twisted into a grimace.  “Really?” Tim laughed hollowly, before burrowing further into Jason and leaning into the gentle hair stroking.

Bruce was not emotionally unobservant.  He knew that he was missing something here, something Jason already knew and Tim didn’t want to tell him.  Bruce just had difficulty finding the right words to tease it out.

“Tim,” Bruce said, suspicious, “How long have you been dealing with this on your own?”  He tried to remember if Tim had ever come to him for a hug, and drew a blank.  Tim had tolerated Bruce’s affectionate pats and Dick’s enthusiastic greetings, but there were no flying tackles or quiet heads dropping against his shoulder or hands curling around his.  Bruce had just assumed that Tim wasn’t a tactile person.

Bruce had assumed.

Rookie mistake, detective.

Tim muttered an answer too quiet for him to hear, and Bruce didn’t even have the time to frown before Jason interjected, his voice low and furious, “Since he was nine.”

What.  Bruce’s first thought was ‘how had Tim gotten exposed to Ivy’s pollen as a child?’ before he swiftly realized that that wasn’t the question Jason had answered, because that wasn’t the question Bruce had asked.

“How long have you been dealing with this on your own?”  Dealing with…what?  Touch starvation?  Bruce knew that the Drakes were frequently abroad, but that level of emotional neglect was—

“Fuck you,” Tim snapped with uncharacteristic venom, and shifted enough to elbow Jason.  Hard.  Bruce, taken by surprise, didn’t have enough time to tighten his grip before Jason unbalanced and fell out of their little knot of cuddles.

Jason made an involuntary gasp, sprawled on the bed and blinking too often, hands beginning to tremble.  He made no attempt at getting back up, though, merely watching Tim as the younger boy twisted in seething fury.

“You—you can’t apologize for not believing I would keep your secret, and then just go and reveal one of mine!” Tim hissed.

“He’s your dad,” Jason said hoarsely, staying where he was, “He needed to know.”  Your.  Bruce wanted to choke.

“That’s not the point!” Tim shouted—and he was crying again, and Bruce didn’t understand why.  “How would you feel if I told him about you?”

Jason’s eyes flicked to Bruce, expression eerily blank.  “Go ahead,” he said softly, “Not like it matters anymore.”

Bruce desperately wanted someone to tell him what was going on.  He kept holding onto Tim, who’d quieted into soft sniffles as he stared at Jason.

“I’ll make it easier for you,” Jason half-shrugged, fingers curling into fists where he was clutching the bedsheets, “I was—”

“No,” Tim cut him off, tearing himself from Bruce’s grip to crumple on top of Jason, holding the older boy tightly, “No, Jason, you don’t—”

Jason shifted enough to wrap Tim in a hug, still flat on the bed, weary green eyes locking with Bruce’s gaze.  “I was a prostitute,” he said levelly, but Bruce could see the shiver.  “Before I met you,” he clarified after a beat.

“Jay,” Tim mumbled softly.

“That’s how I knew Tim,” Jason said, the blank expression cracking as he stared at Bruce’s cowl, “Before.  He wanted hugs.”

Some things were clicking together in Bruce’s head.  Didn’t you recognize him after you came back, he wanted to ask, because nothing about the state Tim had been left in at Titans Tower suggested that they’d been friends.  But Jason was still looking at him like Bruce was going to explode, and Bruce couldn’t figure out why.

“Of course,” Jason exhaled, dropping his gaze and burying his face in Tim’s hair.  “Of course you already fucking knew.”

Bruce wasn’t sure how to respond.  It—it hadn’t been difficult to pair Jason’s skittishness and triggers and the two years he spent on the streets.  Hadn’t been difficult to imagine why Jason was so fiercely violent towards rapists.  And half of Hood’s actions upon returning to Crime Alley—no one touching kids, the familiarity with sex workers, the hard rules he’d laid down—had painted a pretty clear picture.

“Jason,” Bruce said softly, daring to place a hand on Jason’s shoulder.  Jason shuddered, and Bruce nearly drew it back, but his son leaned into the touch and he left it there.

“You managed to figure that out, and not that the kid’s touch-starved?” Jason muttered.

Bruce placed his other hand on Tim’s back, gently stroking down his spine and watching Tim’s slight shivers ease.

“Even the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t perfect,” Bruce said quietly, and Jason made a wordless huff.  Bruce hesitated a moment, before deciding to go for it—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Jason’s forehead, and another to Tim’s hair, and both his sons relaxed.

“…You know there’s still pollen there, right?” Jason mumbled.

“More time cuddling with my children isn’t a hardship.”

Chapter Text

Tim woke up slowly.  He was nice and warm and something was vibrating gently on his hip and he felt like he was cocooned in protection.  He felt safe.

There were muffled sounds around him, and a heartbeat under his cheek, and a low conversation in the distance and Tim blinked open his eyes to see a dark T-shirt.  Smelled like Alfred’s preferred detergent.  Not Kon then.

It didn’t look like he was in his Nest—this actually looked a whole lot like the Manor, and Tim blinked again as he wondered what he was doing in the Manor.

Coffin.  He couldn’t breathe.  Jason.

“Tim?” came the sleep-hoarse yawn, an arm tightening around him, clearly sensing the jump in his heart rate.  “You okay?”

Jason had saved him.  They’d drank hot cocoa together and cuddled.  Tim was fine.  “Yeah,” he croaked back, letting his head rest on Jason’s chest for a moment longer and reveling in the warmth.  Jason’s height and solid frame had been terrifying when he’d been coming after Tim, but like this, wrapped protectively around him, he felt like Bruce, like Tim was safe and tucked away, like nothing could get to him.

“Mind getting up?” Jason ask-yawned, tugging at his hair, and Tim huffed a laugh.  Oh, god, he didn’t even know how long he’d been sleeping—he had W.E. stuff to do—

The vibrating spot on his hip made a quiet sound as he shifted, and Tim froze.

“Tim?” Jason asked as Tim slowly tugged the blanket all the way off his face, “What happened?”

Tim stared at the little kitten curled on top of the blankets, fast asleep.  So adorable.  So, so dangerous.

“Oh no,” Tim whispered softly.

“What is it?” Jason asked, sounding much more awake.

“Alfred’s sleeping on me,” Tim said, still a whisper.  The kitten was purring softly, curled up with its tail near its ears.

“Alf—Tim, what—”

“The cat,” Tim hissed, “Alfred the cat.”  Steph had named it Catfred, but Damian promised to skewer anyone who called it that and—wait a minute, wherever his pets were, the little demon was not far behind.

“I swear you’re speaking English, baby bird, but it’s still incomprehensible.  Can you please get off?”

“No!” Tim whisper-yelled, “There’s a kitten sleeping on top of me.  Damian’s kitten.  If I move, it’ll wake up!”

A long, stretching silence, and then a low groan.  “Are you fucking serious,” Jason said, but his tone was more resigned than angry, “I’m being held hostage by a cat.”

“Kitten,” Tim concealed his smile, “The big, bad Red Hood, held hostage by a kitten.”

“Funny,” Jason grumbled, “Any idea when the kitten will stop napping and I can get up?  My foot’s asleep and I’m hungry.”

“Oh, you guys are awake!” a cheerful voice chirped, and Tim carefully twisted to see Dick leaning over them, slightly manic smile on his face.

“Oh fuck,” Jason said, very quietly.  Tim shrank back from the expression on Dick’s face.

“Quick question—do you guys want waffles before or after your lecture on calling for help when in trouble?” Dick asked, still smiling.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Bludhaven?” Tim asked—though if Damian’s pets were here, that meant the demon brat was here, which meant that Dick would obviously not be far behind.

“I was, then I came over to pick something up and discovered that one of my little brothers had been buried alive and neither of you bothered to let me know.”

Tim remembered that they hadn’t written a report, “Did you want a summary, or—”

“No, Tim, I already listened to the comm footage.”  There was something cracked in Dick’s expression, and Tim burrowed deeper in Jason’s hold.  “And at no point did either of you consider calling for help.”

“You were in Bludhaven—”

“You didn’t know that,” Dick snapped.  Oh.  Dick was furious.  “You had no idea where I was.  You had no idea how long it would take me to get to Gotham.  And I didn’t even need to get to Gotham—I could do research just fine in Bludhaven.  So could Babs, on the other side of the country.  And Steph was in Gotham, and you didn’t let her know!”

“I—I’m sorry,” Tim hadn’t thought of any of that—hadn’t considered calling Steph—“I was—I wasn’t—”

Jason came to his rescue.  “Forgive us for not hunting down every Bat and Bat-adjacent vigilante,” he said acidly, “We were a bit more concerned with the immediate problem of getting Tim out.”

Dick’s fixed smile faded, and he folded gracefully into a crouch, coming down to their eye level.  The vibrating pressure disappeared from Tim’s hip, and he panicked for a moment before he saw the kitten curled up in Damian’s arms, the younger boy watching them with an impassive face.

“I know it was scary,” Dick said softly, pressing a soft kiss to Tim’s forehead and ruffling Jason’s bangs, “For both of you.”  His gaze shifted pointedly up to Jason.  “And I’m so, so sorry that you both had to go through that.”

“Yeah, well, we’re both in one piece, which is more than I can say for some of my other messes,” Jason drawled, and if he was hoping to make Dick back off with a death joke, then it failed.  If anything, Dick looked more determined.

“You need to remember to call for help next time,” Dick said gently, “Both of you.”  He smiled, “I’ve already drafted some drills to help you guys with that.”

Oh no.  Not Nightwing’s drills.  Tim hastily looked for a distraction, and saw Steph entering with two plates piled high with waffles that smelled mouthwateringly good.

“Damian and I helped with them too,” Steph said cheerily, a tone that did nothing to disguise her narrowed eyes.

Shit.  They really were screwed.

“Is it too late to grab a shovel?” Jason muttered under his breath.

Chapter Text

Jason poked the waffle, swimming in a sea of syrup, and pressed his lips together tightly as his stomach churned.  This was a bad idea.

The waffles.  The random cartoons playing on the TV.  Sitting on the same couch as Tim, when the kid would probably prefer that Jason got out of his sight.  Jason should’ve made the kid waffles and come up with a bullshit excuse to flee.  Clearly Tim didn’t want to kick him out of his own house, but Jason could feel the awkwardness, could remember Tim screaming his name and begging him to stop and pleading and sobbing and—

A warm weight dropped on his shoulder.  Jason froze.  On the screen, Bugs Bunny chewed on a carrot.

Tim made a soft, muffled sound, and squirmed closer, leaning heavily on Jason, his breaths tickling the hair on Jason’s upper arm.

Jason dared to sneak a glance.  Tim was still awake, blue eyes fixed on the TV, though his blinks were getting longer and slower.  His empty plate was sitting on the coffee table.

Jason felt sick.  You don’t have to do this, he said in his own head.  Tim didn’t have to prove that he trusted Jason.  Didn’t have to press close to the man that had tortured him in his hallucinations.  Didn’t have to use Bat stubbornness to prove anything.

He slowly eased up, waiting until Tim took the hint to lift his head, and leaned forward to put his plate on the table.  He wasn’t going to finish that.  Not when he felt like throwing up the emptiness inside his stomach.

Jason dropped back onto the couch, shifting to rest against the arm and crossing his legs to make it more difficult for Tim to press against him.  Jason didn’t know why the kid was still here—should Jason offer him a ride home?  Call a pickup?  Check if any of the others had gotten back into town?  Ask him why he was—

Jason watched as Tim grabbed the side pillow and the blanket hanging of the back of the couch, shaking out the latter as he shifted.  He opened his mouth to point out that he had a perfectly serviceable bed when Tim crawled over and put the pillow on his thigh before dropping down after it.

“What are you doing?” Jason asked once he regained his breath, trying to breathe too deeply to avoid jostling the kid curled up in his lap.

“Taking a nap,” Tim replied, tucking the blanket around himself and wriggling until he found a comfortable position.

“And you found no other place in this entire apartment to take a nap?” Jason tried to go for indignant, but failed, still ending up at breathless.

“Nope,” the little shit said, and curled closer before making a sleepy hum and closing his eyes.  Jason sighed, and gently brushed the bangs out of the kid’s face, his fingers drifting to run through the soft hair in quiet, repetitive strokes.

Tim made a pleased noise and Jason squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears slip down his cheeks.

He didn’t deserve this.

Not after everything he did.  Not when he was a teenager’s literal worst nightmare.  Not after he hurt his family so many times, over and over and over again.

He didn’t deserve this.

But he got it anyway.

Chapter Text

Impossible.

That was the only thought running through Bruce’s head as he frantically drove through the streets, following Tim’s tracker.  Impossible.  It could not be.  It didn’t make any sense.  It—it couldn’t.

His son, his—Tim, that was Tim on the phone, before a voice that was hoarse and rasping called him a name that only one child had ever used.

Impossible.

That child was dead.

Impossible.

And yet Bruce couldn’t stop himself thinking what if as he raced through traffic, ignoring speed limits—later, he’d deal with everything later—to the location blinking in the East End.  Barbara had given him the address and her response to his half-hysterical “is it true?” was a neutral “Tim thinks it is”.

He haphazardly parked the car—he hardly cared if it was still there by the time he got back—and ran into the building.  Old construction, but solid, and Bruce knocked on the right door before losing his patience and picking the lock.

It was alarmed, but it only took him another ten seconds to disable that.  And step into the apartment—open plan, kitchen table in sight, Tim blinking owlishly at him from where he was standing next to an older boy in a chair, bent over a stainless steel mixing bowl—

The boy looked up.  Vivid green eyes were the first thing he noticed, they almost seemed to glow.  A streak of white in his bangs.  A face that looked young, hesitant and exhausted and open despite the broad frame—until it recognized him, tightened in panic, and hunched over the bowl again, heaving but bringing up nothing but bile.

“Shh,” Tim said quietly, rubbing the boy’s back, “It’s okay.  It’s just Bruce.”  The boy shuddered, his grip tight on the bowl.  He didn’t look up at Bruce again.

Trick, said the cold, ruthless part of his mind, the logical side, the analytical side—his son was dead, had died years ago, and this young man that looked so much like him had to be an imposter.  Twin, shapeshifter, clone, hallucination—the possibilities were endless.  There was no way Bruce was lucky enough to get the miracle he so desperately prayed for.

Trick.  It had to be a trick.  It had to be a trick.

“He’s sick,” Tim said as Bruce neared, reporting like a good Robin, “He’s been sick for the past couple of days—thankfully, his fever broke and he’s more lucid, but now he’s started throwing up—”

The boy—the thing—the not-Jason punctuated the statement with another dry heave.

Tim watched him, nervous, always the smart, brave child that followed ‘better to beg forgiveness than ask permission’ and was consistently terrified that that forgiveness would not come.

But Bruce couldn’t find the words to reassure him.  He turned to the—the boy—the—not-Jason, and observed him with as dispassionate a gaze as possible, trying to catalogue—trying to find—something that prove that this wasn’t his son.

Not-Jason glanced up at him—and eyes went wide when they saw him looming, a terrified twelve-year-old’s instinctual reaction to a man twice his size, and Bruce was crouching before he knew what he was doing.

This boy was not small and defenseless.  He was almost as broad as Bruce.  He looked trained.  But Bruce could still hear the soft exhale as he crouched, looking up at a face that dared to remind him of everything that he lost.

He should’ve been interrogating the imposter.  Figuring out who dared to pull this kind of trick.  Making sure they never did it again.

“Br—Bruce?”

That wasn’t his son’s voice.  It was deeper than his son’s voice had been, and sounded sleep-hoarse and sick-raspy.  It wasn’t his son’s voice.  Even if the inflection of uncertainty sounded so familiar.

Bruce reached out—the boy froze, not moving, hardly daring to breathe—and laid a hand on the forehead.  It was warm—warm in comparison to a healthy temperature, burning in comparison to the cold, lifeless corpse he cradled in his arms.

He gently brushed a thumb across the forehead, and Jason melted.  “Dad,” he said-sobbed, and Tim got the bowl out of the way as Jason practically collapsed forward, as clingy as he always was whenever he got sick, and Bruce caught him, wrapped his arms around a living, breathing body and listened to his son sob into his shirt.

It had to be a trick.

But for now, it was a miracle.

Chapter Text

Dick controlled the flinch as the green-eyed, sneering face of his little brother bared his teeth.  “What’s the matter, Dickiebird?” Jason crooned, “Disappointed to have me back?”

Dick kept his breathing steady.  In and out.  Slow.  Calm.

“Or disappointed I didn’t finish the job?” Jason asked coldly, “I should’ve put a bullet in your head when I had the chance.”

No.  That wasn’t his little brother talking.  He knew it.  They all knew it.  Luckily Bruce had had a tranquilizer ready, because the affectionate wolf had shifted back into an enraged murderer with barely a second of dissonance.

Jason had blinked at them, bewildered, once, twice, before his eyes turned green and he lunged at Tim.  The tests were all conclusive.  The near-rabid, snarling boy in the containment cell had been dunked into a Lazarus Pit.

Something had uncurled inside of Dick at the confirmation.  At the relief that his little brother didn’t really hate him, didn’t actually want to kill him slowly, didn’t want to tear apart the pack and burn the pieces.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t managed to get Hood to shift back.  No amount of pleading or threats would do it.  Bruce in alpha form, growling at him, only netted a laugh.  Tim keening quietly caused Hood to saunter closer and detail exactly how he wanted to tear the pup part.

But Hood had shifted last time, of his own accord, at the sight of a scared, wounded pup.  Which meant that either the Pit’s influence was getting stronger…

Or their replication wasn’t quite making it through a glass wall.

“Ready?” Dick murmured to Tim.  Bruce, who would’ve definitely objected to this plan, was upstairs in the Manor.

Tim swallowed.  “What if it has to be a pup?” he whispered, too low for Hood to hear.  Hood narrowed his eyes at them, watching suspiciously from his casual perch on the cot.

“No,” Dick hissed, “If you think I’m sending you into that cell, you’re delusional, baby bird.”  He flicked Tim’s forehead.  “We’re trying it this way first.”

“And what if it doesn’t work?” Tim asked, wary eyes fixed on Hood.

Dick carefully suppressed the shiver.  “Then you hit the button for the knockout gas, and get me out.”

Tim didn’t point out that the knockout gas took a good twenty seconds to be effective.  That Hood could do a lot of damage to a still-injured Dick in twenty seconds, especially since Dick was going in unarmed.

Dick was grateful.  He was already regretting this, there was no need to make it worse.

“What’re you whispering about, Dickhead?” Hood asked as Dick came closer to the cell.  He was lounging on the cot, apparently at ease.  Good.  Enough space for Dick to get in and shut the door before Hood took the opportunity to escape.  “Still trying to pretend I’m part of the pack?”

Dick took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“You are part of the pack, Jaybird,” he said, and hit the lock release before Hood could open his mouth.  Hood sat up, green eyes narrowing as Dick slipped through the door before slamming it shut behind him.  “And I’m going to prove it.”

A slow smile spread across Hood’s face as he straightened up, and Dick could read the dark intent in his posture.

Another deep breath.  Calm down, Dick told himself, little brother.  Pack.

If this worked, anyway.

Dick shifted.

It was painful—broken bones grated as they changed shape, burns screamed as skin stretched, and the sharp scent of blood made it clear that he’d popped some of his stitches.  His right arm buckled immediately, and Dick awkwardly crumpled, tilting his head back enough to see Hood looming over him.

Little brother, he’d called, but Hood was as big as Bruce, and trained, and Dick might’ve had the advantage of claws and teeth but everything hurt and trying to defend himself against Hood would be acutely painful.

Hood took a step forward, still all menace, and Dick couldn’t stop the terrified whine as he stumbled back into the corner.  Pack, his mind tried to soothe, pack—but Dick couldn’t help but remember the vicious cruelty as Hood attacked, not to disarm or defeat or even to kill, but to hurt.

Dick kept himself curled into the corner, trying to stop trembling.  There was nothing more he could do—if Hood attacked, it was up to Tim to stop him and get Dick out.  Dick squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that his little brother wouldn’t attack him.

A tongue dragging across his fur, rough and wet.

Dick shivered, and went limp, relief making him lightheaded.  Jason whined as he nudged at him, licking his face—trying to get him out of the corner, or maybe figure out where he was injured—and Dick let him, too exhausted to move.

Everything hurt—everything except his heart as he saw the gray wolf carefully nose at his fur, making annoyed chuffs and pausing every few seconds to lick Dick’s face again.  He smelled pack-upset-regret, and Jason whined louder when he found Dick’s ripped stitches, returning to bare his neck in apology with guilt thick in the air.

So he was remembering a little from his human form.  That was good—Dick didn’t want to do this dance again, and if Jason remembered that he had to stay a wolf until they found a cure then that was a load of stress off his back.

Dick leaned forward enough to lick at Jason’s neck and nose at his little brother, accepting the apology.  Even that effort sent sharp flares of agony up and down his body, and Dick slumped back down.  He didn’t have the energy to reassure Jason, or respond to his little brother’s increasingly acrid scent as guilt-upset-desperation roiled off of him.  Jason whined, then keened, and Dick winced at the sound—he turned enough to spy Tim through the glass wall, and stuttered out a short howl, ragged as he tried to breathe with broken ribs.

Tim thankfully understood, and the cell door clicked open again, the wolf pup padding inside.  Jason’s attention was thankfully diverted—he slinked over to Tim and applied the same tremulous apology, soft, upset whines overlaid by Tim’s stuttering rumbles as he tried to soothe his older brother.  Jason managed to corral Tim next to Dick, and turned his upset attentions upon them both, whining in clear distress.

“What is going on here?”

Jason keened even louder at Bruce’s startled voice, twisting to lay on his back, neck and belly bared.  Surrendering to the alpha.  If Dick could get up, he would’ve groomed the wolf, pushed him out of submission and calmed him down, but right now, all he could do was watch Bruce glare at him.

“This was an incredibly stupid idea,” Bruce growled.  Dick rolled his eyes.  But it had worked.  Bruce narrowed his eyes—and in the next instant, alpha stood there, growling his displeasure.

Dick flattened his ears and fought the urge to bare his neck.  Tim huddled closer to Dick, and Jason keened.

Distraction accomplished.  Bruce swung his heavy, disappointed gaze from Dick and padded into the cell, nosing at Jason’s exposed belly before grooming the wolf, low rumbling assuring Jason that he wasn’t in trouble, he wasn’t getting kicked out, alpha wasn’t angry, shush pup, it was okay.  Protect-fierce-mine rose sharply, drowning out guilt-upset-surrender and hurt-fear-pain and surrounding them with the warm feeling of protection.

Dick knew that he was going to get a long lecture.  But the pack was whole again.

Chapter Text

Jason groaned when he opened his eyes to the artificial light and shadows of the Cave.  He couldn’t believe he’d been talked into coming back here, but Bruce had made a point about security and safety and Tim still being in his civilian clothes and Jason had grumpily agreed to relocate.

At least the pollen had worn off.  There was no itchy skin or dull ache and Jason squinted at his surroundings.

No Bruce.  Good.

No Dick.  Great.

A head of dark hair nestled against his shoulder.  Apparently fast asleep.  Well, if he slowly and gently got a hand between the forehead and his shoulder, and quietly raised it, and—

“Planning to run?”  Blue eyes blinked at him.

Whoops.

“Your bony forehead is digging into my collarbone,” Jason saved easily, but judging by the kid’s raised eyebrow, he didn’t believe him.

“Bullshit,” Tim dropped that bony forehead right back down on his shoulder, “You didn’t have any issues with my forehead the last time we cuddled.”

Oh.  They were talking about this then.  Fantastic.  Exactly what Jason had wanted.

“Kid, you were paying me more than enough money to keep my mouth shut about your pointy forehead and bony elbows,” Jason retorted, and only realized that that was the wrong thing to say when Tim lurched up.

“Right,” Tim said, leaning away from him and twisting to the side of the cot, his eyes narrowed and his tone bitter, “Because that’s why you hugged me.  Just the pathetic kid that handed you way too much cash to pretend to care about him for a couple of hours.”

Fuck.

“Tim,” Jason said slowly, “That wasn’t what I meant—”

“No?” Tim raised an eyebrow as he hopped off the bed, “That’s what you said, though.  Twice.  Three times, if you count the insults when you attacked me at Titans Tower.”  Jason winced—he hadn’t—well, he had—he’d been so angry—he had never meant for it to go that far.  “I should really learn how to take a hint, huh.”

“Tim,” Jason exhaled, reaching out to catch the kid’s arm, “Baby bird.  I didn’t mean it.  I was just teasing.”

Tim roughly pushed away from him, stumbling off the bed and a good few steps away.  His eyes were glittering, and his voice was hoarse.

“You know, I was planning to run away after my tenth birthday,” he said quietly, “Because my parents didn’t care about me, but I sure thought someone did.”

If the kid had stuck a knife between his ribs, it wouldn’t have hurt this much.

“That’s how much I trusted you,” Tim said, his voice wavering, as his expression crumpled.  He spun on his heel and stalked away.

Jason couldn’t move.  Jason couldn’t breathe.

This was, from a theoretical standpoint, the best opportunity to leave.  Bruce was nowhere in sight, Tim had walked away, the pollen had worn off—time to skedaddle before they all remembered that he was the Red Hood and he got a series of lectures.

He felt like someone had taken a rusty knife and pried out his still-beating heart.

Guilt and shame and the icy sting of betrayal and he regretted attacking Robin after he returned to Gotham, and he regretted ignoring Tim when he’d been Robin, and he regretted that he hadn’t just stolen Tim that last night, hadn’t just dragged him with him and when he’d happened upon the Batmobile, both of them could’ve been adopted.

He was drowning, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to swim.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, rooted to the spot, but there were quiet, quick footsteps, and a body slammed into him, arms around his waist, clutching tight and shuddering.

“You owe me seven years of hugs,” Tim said, his voice choked up.

Jason slowly encircled the trembling kid and squeezed tight.  “Okay,” he rasped.

“With interest.”

“Okay.”

A quiet sniffle.

“And I’m not paying you.”  It was probably intended to be determined, but the kid’s voice trembled halfway through, and Jason buried a hand in soft, dark hair and gently tugged.

“Of course not,” Jason said quietly, “You don’t pay family.”

Chapter Text

“You know it’s not just the pollen, right?” Tim asks, hesitant.  He’s bracing a laptop on Dick’s legs, but sneaking glances at Jason over the edge of it.

Jason exhales slowly, and keeps carding his fingers through Dick’s hair.  The demon brat is curled up like a cat, head on Dick’s thigh, but Jason knows he’s awake.  And so is Steph, who has Dick’s hand wrapped in hers, and Cass, who’s pressed up against Dick’s other side.  The only one asleep is Bruce, on the other side of Damian, with a hand wrapped around Dick’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jason says.  He can feel his fingers trembling.  “I know it’s not just the pollen.”

It’s one of the truisms of the world—sun rises from the east, water is wet, Dick Grayson likes hugs.  And Jason knows that, he’s seen Dick’s casual affection bestowed upon everyone everywhere, he’s watched Dick’s careful respect of boundaries because the older boy always knows when to back off.

And Dick’s ultra-vigilant acknowledgement of their boundaries meant that none of them knew he was hurting until he stuck his hand in a fire.

“Why—why didn’t he just tell us that he wants a hug?” Steph asks, expression drawing into a frown.

“Because he’s a martyr,” Jason snarls, soft enough that it won’t wake his brother.

Tim sighs, looking abruptly exhausted, and Jason remembers that the kid spent hours trying to figure out what was up with the pollen.  “He doesn’t want to obligate anyone, I’m guessing,” Tim groans, “It’s stupid—it’s, okay no, it’s not stupid, but it’s just—he thinks we don’t want to hug him, and he’s afraid of being rejected.”  The baby bird sounds just a tad too knowledgeable, and Jason nudges Cass.

His sister understands him instantly, and reaches up to tug the laptop away and haul Tim forward, depositing him between her and Dick.  Tim’s protest is delayed by a full two seconds, which is pretty much proof that he needs sleep.

“Need to fix it,” Cass says firmly, wrapping an arm around Tim and stretching it across Dick’s stomach, “Big brother is sad.”  She turns her face up and gives him pleading eyes, like Jason hasn’t been carrying around a pit of guilt ever since he saw Dick reaching for the fire in the corner of his eye.

“We give him hugs,” Steph says, like it’s that simple.

Everyone stares at her.

Maybe it is that simple.

Chapter Text

Dick barely managed to park his bike before he sprinted through the Cave, following the hoarse shouts.  “Jason!” Bruce called out, sounding absolutely gutted, and Dick almost missed a step.  Fuck.

Tim was curled up in a seat next to the cot, hands pressed over his ears, tears streaming silently down his face.  Dick paused to get a blood draw kit, and drew a small vial of blood from both of them before he collapsed in the chair next to Tim and drew his baby brother into a hug.

“Jason,” Bruce said brokenly, gaze fixed on something none of them could see, “Jay, please, please wake up.  Jay.  Jason.  Robin, please.”

Tim shook harder.  “Shh,” Dick murmured into his little brother’s hair—he needed to hold him, he needed to wrap his arms around one little brother and feel the warmth and the heartbeat and the breathing.  “Shh, it’s okay, I’m here.”

“Jason, please open your eyes, Jay-lad, please—”

“It’s okay,” Dick murmured, feeling tears slip down his own cheeks.  His first brother, laughing and mischievous and a star burning bright, and Dick could see him nearly every time he closed his eyes.  “It’s okay, baby bird, I have you, I’m here.”

“Jay,” Bruce begged, “Please, Jay, please.”

“I’m s—sorry,” Dick said hoarsely.

Because Jason was dead, and no amount of begging in the world would bring him back.

Chapter Text

The doorbell rang and Jason was already shuffling in the hallway so he loudly called out, “I’m getting it!” before Alfred or Bruce could poke their heads out.

Jason wasn’t an invalid—sure, his right leg was full of metal and he couldn’t see half his scars, but Jason refused to be treated like he was some fragile piece of china.  Bruce hadn’t even been able to look at him that first week, but thankfully they’d gotten over his stupid martyr complex and inability to communicate and all the anger and tears when Alfred forced them into the same room and refused to leave until they actually talked.

Things were better now, but it was still pretty fucked up that it had taken a lunatic with a crowbar to get them there.

Jason cursed under his breath as he fiddled with the lock, but he finally managed to wrench the door open.  There was a kid standing on the first step, wide-eyed and nervous, vaguely familiar and not what Jason was expecting.  “Uh,” he said, staring at the kid, “Can I help you?”

“Hi,” the kid squeaked—honest-to-goodness squeaked—and thrust out his hand, “I’m Tim Drake.  I live next door.”

‘Next door’, like it wasn’t a good ten-minute walk away.  “Hello,” Jason said, shifting his weight onto one crutch to shake the kid’s hand, “I’m Jason Todd.”

“I know,” the kid replied, and Jason fought not to flush—right, the kid had come here.  “Can I talk to you?”

Jason took in the kid again—neat, expensive clothes, anxious, a folder in his hands.  “Sure,” he said, awkwardly maneuvering a step back, “Come on in.”

The kid followed him inside, and Jason led the way down the corridor.  “We can talk in the library,” he said, “This about something for school?  You go to Gotham Academy, right?  You seem familiar.”

Jason hadn’t attended the last month and a half of school, and had completed his assignments at home, but he was still marked down as a tutor, and even if it was summer, he wasn’t going to turn anyone away.

“Uh, yes,” the kid stuttered, but further discussion was halted by Bruce poking his head out of his study at the sound of voices—he was supposed to be on a ‘business trip’, but his JL mission had ended early, and Dick was arriving next week.

“Jay-lad,” Bruce said, catching sight of Tim, “I didn’t know you had friends over.”

“This is Tim Drake,” Jason waved a hand at him, “The neighbor.  It’s some school thing.”  One thing he could certainly do without was all the hovering—Bruce had already been overprotective, but now he was downright paranoid.

You couldn’t run away and get captured and tortured by an insane clown once without everyone losing their heads.

“Ah, yes, the Drakes,” Bruce said warmly, “It’s nice to meet you, Tim.”

Jason rolled his eyes and continued down the hall—it was a kid, he wasn’t going to hurt him.  “We’ll be in the library,” Jason called back, ignoring the exchange of introductions.

“I’ll get Alfred to make you some snacks,” Bruce responded, as if that wasn’t the most transparent excuse to check on them in a couple of minutes.

Jason just rolled his eyes and kept walking.  The kid followed him into the library, and his eyes went wide—Jason grinned, and led him over to a small nook near the windows.  Fuck it felt good to get off his crutches.

“So, what did you want to talk about, Tim?” Jason asked, “Is this about summer homework—”

“Uh, no,” Tim cut him off, “It’s not about schoolwork.  Sorry.”

Tim was giving him a slightly hunted expression.  Jason blinked, before switching tracks, because they had all learnt the kind of behaviors to watch out for as a tutor, “That’s fine.  Is this about a school-related issue, or something at home—”

“I know how you got those injuries.”

What.  The.  Fuck.

Jason’s mind rebooted, but he still couldn’t reconcile those words coming out of a kid’s mouth.  “I’m sorry, what—”

“I know Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Shit.

Jason couldn’t help the instinctual jolt of fear before training kicked in, Bruce’s patient voice in his mind as he repeated the words he needed to say—deny, deflect— “Kid, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason said firmly, but the kid cut him off again.

“I know he’s Batman,” Tim repeated, “I know Dick Grayson is Nightwing.”  Oh, this was even worse than he thought.  “I—I have evidence.”  What.  How?  “I have pictures.”  Oh no.  Oh no, he needed to get Bruce, this was bad— “I—I can help you.”

Hold on a second.

“Help me?” Jason frowned, “Help me with what?”

“I know he’s hurting you,” the kid whispered, leaning forward, “I know you tried to run away.  But I can—”

“Okay,” Jason said coldly—Bruce?  Hurt him?  No way in hell.  “If this is a joke, it’s not very funny.”

“No, no, Jason, I just want to help,” the kid said, eyes wide and pleading like that was going to convince him to listen, “I can get him to stop, I can threaten to expose him, okay, you—you can leave him—”

No one was taking him away from Bruce.  Jason refused to let them.

“Threaten to expose what?” he snarled, pushing up to his feet.  The kid lurched up as well, still clutching that damn folder—probably his evidence— “That my dad is Batman?  Do you realize how insane you sound?”

Jason wouldn’t let anyone hurt his family, not ever, and this kid had just waltzed in and threatened to ruin them.

“I have proof,” the kid repeated, rushed, “I swear, Jason, I can get him to stop—”

Stop what?  Being his dad?

“He’s not doing anything to stop!” Jason snapped, and exhaled in relief when Bruce poked his head around a shelf.  Bruce would know what to do.  Bruce would know how to stop this.

“Everything okay, boys?” Bruce asked, his voice mild but his eyes sharp.

Jason glared at the kid.  “Tim thinks you’re Batman,” Jason said, as derisive as he could manage with his heart pounding in his throat.  “He says he has proof.”  Fuck, please let him not have proof.  “He says he has pictures.”

The kid’s eyes were wide and betrayed, and something jolted in Jason’s heart.  Tim jerked back as Bruce stepped past the shelf, except they were already in the corner, so he hit the wall and—

And he was shaking.

The folder fell from his trembling hands, hitting the floor, and photos fluttered outwards.  Tim was taking shallow breaths, eyes glimmering with unshed tears, and the only thing on his face was stark terror.

“Shit,” Jason breathed out—shit, this was a kid, a kid that was scared of Batman for some reason, and Jason had just thrown him under the bus— “Tim!  Tim!”

Jason waved Bruce back, and limped closer, careful not to seem like he was blocking the kid in.  “Tim, I’m so sorry,” Jason whispered, “Tim, please, you need to breathe.”

The kid choked on a sob, and the tears spilled down his face, his eyes locked on some distant point, trembling violently.

“Tim, kid, breathe,” Jason pleaded, finally daring to put his hands on Tim’s shoulders—the kid shuddered, and then went limp, and Jason bit back the curse as he descended none-too-gently to the ground to cushion the kid’s fall.

“Jay,” Bruce said quietly behind him, picking up the photos that had fallen, but Jason waved him back and tugged the kid into a hug.

Jason was not qualified for this, but Tim was terrified of Bruce, and Jason channeled his big brother and rubbed Tim’s back.  “Shh, kiddo, just breathe,” Jason said, soothing him through the ragged sobs, “Come on, you can do it.”

The kid was so small—Jason couldn’t believe he’d taken him as a threat, that he’d seriously treated Tim like he would an enemy—the kid had just wanted to help—

“It’s okay,” Jason said softly, rubbing circles on the kid’s back as the shivering slowly quieted, “It’s okay, just breathe.”

Tim took a deep breath that cracked midway through, and another, and another, until his gasps had died to hiccups and he slowly lifted his head.  His face was blotchy and his eyes were still shining as he wiped the tears away with shaking fingers.

“Tim?” Jason asked softly, “You okay, kid?”

The kid nodded, and shuffled back a bit—Jason took the hint and dropped his arms.  The kid was still trembled on every large breath, but he sat back on his heels and looked up.

Bruce was shifting through several photos, his expression carefully blank.

“Who else knows?” Bruce said, his voice not cold, but not warm either.

Jason glared at him.  “Bruce,” he bit out tersely, trying to convey that this was not the time, please stop scaring him, but Bruce ignored him.

“N—no one,” the kid stuttered.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, “No one else has these pictures?”  The kid shook his head, and Bruce’s eyes narrowed a fraction.  “Who took them?” he asked, arranging them on the floor.

There were so many—Batman and Robin and graphs and notes and old newspaper articles.

“I did,” the kid whispered.

What.  How had—who had let the kid—Gotham at night was dangerous enough for the trained vigilantes—

“I’m sorry,” Tim blurted out, and Jason realized that the kid had taken Bruce’s growing anger the wrong way, “I—I’m sorry.”  He was shaking again.  “I—I’ll give you all the pictures,” the kid said desperately, “Just—just please—please don’t hurt Jason.”

Jason couldn’t breathe.

“I can help you.”

“I swear, Jason, I can get him to stop.”

Oh.  Oh fuck.  Jason wanted to bury his head in his hands and cry, because the kid had talked but Jason hadn’t listened, too scared of the threat of exposure, and the kid was trembling again—

“You don’t have to give me the pictures,” Bruce said softly, clearly recognizing the same thing.

But the kid gasped and lunged forward, until he was in front of Jason, until he was between Jason and Bruce, like he was trying to protect Jason.  “Please—please, I’m sorry, it’s not his fault—he didn’t do anything, I swear, don’t hurt him, please—”

“Tim,” Jason said quietly, the lump in his throat choking him, as he reached out and pulled Tim back into a hug, “Tim, no.  Bruce isn’t going to hurt me.”

“I’m sorry,” the kid said wetly, burying his face in Jason’s shirt, “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Jason wanted to cry.  Jason wanted to scream.  “Tim, I swear, he’s not going to hurt me, Bruce would never hurt me—”

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated, trembling fingers clutching him, “Believe me, Jason, I’m so—”

“Tim,” Bruce said levelly, and Jason looked up at him—fix this, he mentally projected at Bruce, they had to fix this.  “Could you look at me, please?”

Tim slowly drew his head up, his shaking fingers curled into Jason’s shirt.

“I have never raised a hand to Jason,” Bruce said softly, “And I never will.  I do everything in my power to protect him, always.  You have my word.”

The kid didn’t look like he believed him.  Jason hadn’t either, at first—it had taken months and months and Dick’s careful hovering before Jason had trusted Bruce, but Bruce was a good person, and a good dad, and Jason didn’t know how to get Tim to believe that.

“Why did you think I hurt him?” Bruce asked quietly.

The kid sniffled, and cast a side glance at Jason.  “It—a car accident wouldn’t have left those kind of injuries,” Tim said, and then, quieter, “And I saw the bruises around his throat.”

How had he—that wasn’t really the point, though.  Jason could understand how he’d taken two and two and reached five, the finger marks around his throat—choking, twisting, laughing as he wheezed—definitely screamed abuse.

He looked at Bruce, who gave him a minute shrug.  Up to you.

Jason turned until he was facing Tim.  “You’re right,” he said quietly, “It wasn’t a car accident.”  That had just been the convenient lie, because Jason hadn’t wanted to talk about it, hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, and Bruce had clearly not known what to do.

“It was the Joker.”

Jason had never been more terrified in his life.  The crowbar coming down, over and over, the bitter self-recrimination that if this wouldn’t have happened if he had been Robin, if he’d been trained, that unhinged laughter—the sickening pit of betrayal when his birth mother had lit a cigarette and watched a madman torture him.

Jason had nearly passed out from relief when Batman had showed up.

“I made the stupid decision to go find my birth mom without telling anyone,” Jason said—the stupid, stupid decision, passing up a family that loved and wanted him because he was a hotheaded idiot.  “And when she realized I’d been adopted by Bruce Wayne, she sold me out to the Joker to pay off her debts.”  Jason hadn’t believed her.  Not when the cuffs had clicked closed around his wrists.  Not when the Joker started talking.  Not until the first blow sent him to the ground and she didn’t even twitch.  “The Joker decided I’d make a great hostage for a showdown with Batman and—and he tortured me while he waited for Batman to show up.”

Agony as his bones shattered, as the knives carved along his skin, as that unsettling laughter never stopped.  Desperately wishing and praying and begging for his dad to save him—and wondering if it was too late, if Bruce would leave him there, if he’d wash his hands of Jason and walk away—and seeing Batman show up, seeing him turn the Joker’s face to pulp before Jason blacked out.

Jason met Tim’s gaze, his eyes prickling.  “None of it was Bruce’s fault,” he said hoarsely.

Bruce made a muffled sound, and Jason knew exactly how much guilt he was carting over the whole incident.  “None of it was Bruce’s fault,” he repeated pointedly.

The kid wasn’t looking at him like he was about to scream ‘liar’.  “And Dick?” he asked softly, and Jason frowned.

“Dick?  What about Dick?”  Oh, wait, Jason had only said it wasn’t Bruce’s fault.  “Kid, he’s not even on the planet, he didn’t hurt me.”

Dick Grayson?  Hurting a child?  Never.

“What do you mean, he’s not on the planet?” Tim’s voice rose sharply.

“He’s on a mission,” Jason explained, rushed, “As Nightwing.”  Ah, whoops.  He wasn’t supposed to say that, was he.  Bruce gave him an admonishing look, but didn’t say anything else.

“Oh,” the kid said quietly, “Um.  Sorry.”  He stared at his knees, unwilling or unable to look up.  “I,” he started, and then changed his sentence, “No one’s going to notice I’m gone till the end of the week.  Maybe later, if Mrs. Mac doesn’t go looking.”

Well, that was a hell of a non sequitur.  “What are you talking about?” Jason asked, frowning again—what did he mean, no one’s going to notice—

“You—you don’t have to worry,” Tim almost whispered, “No one knows I came here.  I—I can get the photos for you, first, if you want.  Or—or not,” the kid added hastily, “Sorry.”

Jason still didn’t understand what was going on.  But apparently Bruce did.  “Tim,” Bruce said quietly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

What—no—Tim didn’t seriously think— “I would never let anyone hurt a kid,” Jason promised, holding Tim tight.

Tim just shrugged.  “Okay,” he said, still staring at his knees.  Tears were slipping down his face again, and Jason didn’t know what to do.

“Tim,” Bruce said slowly, “What are you scared of?”

“I’m sorry,” Tim forced out through choked sobs, “I—I know you’re going to do—whatever you do when someone figures out your identity.  I’m sorry.  I—I never told anyone, I was never going to tell anyone, I just.  I’m sorry.”

Jason felt his heart break into hundreds of little pieces.  “Tim, kiddo, no,” he said softly, letting his fingers drift through the kid’s hair as he pressed against Jason, “No one is going to hurt you.  No one is going to attack you.”  The kid had been this scared and yet he’d come here to talk to Jason, to help him, and Jason wanted to wrap him in bubble wrap and never let him leave.  “I promise, we aren’t going to kidnap you or whatever it is you’re thinking.  You get to go home, I swear—”

Bruce, the colossal idiot, cleared his throat, and Tim instantly shuddered.  “About that,” Bruce started, “When you said ‘no one’s going to notice’—”

“Bruce,” Jason snapped, because no, they weren’t talking about this now, they were getting the kid water and some of Alfred’s cookies and there was going to be no interrogation until the kid trusted that they weren’t going to hurt him.

Bruce tilted his head to concede.  “I apologize,” he said calmly, “But if you’re spending your days unsupervised, I know Jason would be happy to host you here at the Manor.  You could return to your home for dinner, and come over after breakfast.”

That was a good idea.  And Jason could slowly convince him that Bruce wasn’t abusive, and also figure out what the deal was with his parents and taking pictures at night and all of it.

“O—okay,” Tim said quietly, and Bruce gave him a sad smile before thankfully getting up and leaving.

Jason kept hugging Tim.  He was going to ensure that the kid never felt that afraid again.

Chapter Text

Bruce quelled the unease and waited patiently.  Robin was fidgeting next to him, but it wasn’t distracting—he needed something to focus on, something that wasn’t Barbara’s acidic ‘so this is what finally gets you to talk to him?’ or Alfred’s piercing stare when Bruce said he was going in costume.

“He’s your son.  Not a criminal.  Your son.”

But Bruce had no idea how to talk to him.  How to reconcile the bright, laughing child with the frenzied young man that had attacked him, the Joker’s blood still fresh on his knuckles.

Dick had refused to listen to him, had refused to come back to the Cave, had refused everything to do with him.  At least he’d listened when Bruce told him to stay out of Gotham—as predicted, the Joker’s death drew his enemies and allies out of the shadows and the saving grace was that the rumors of Nightwing being the one to end the clown had stayed rumors.

Bruce wasn’t good with words.  And Dick needed the right words, and Bruce didn’t know what those were, and his plan to just not say anything until he found them was being met with quiet disdain on all fronts.

Dick had killed the Joker.  Dick had killed—no, he knew that Dick had to use his gun as a police officer, but Nightwing had once agreed with Bruce’s philosophy.  Nightwing had killed the Joker, had killed the monster that murdered his son and—and it should never have been his burden to bear, it should’ve been Bruce’s, the clown was dead and it had taken both his sons from him.

“Did you tell him we’re coming?” Robin asked, peering over the edge of the rooftop.  Bruce stayed silent, and Robin groaned, “Seriously, B?  What if he’s taking a day off?”

He wasn’t.  Bruce kept careful track of Nightwing—which was where the trouble began, because the sightings of the new vigilante, Flamebird, didn’t match any hero that Bruce knew of.  They hadn’t displayed any meta powers, nor a proficiency with a bow and an arrow, and Bruce needed to know what Nightwing had gotten mixed up in.

Needed to know if Dick was okay.

“He’s coming,” Bruce grunted, and Robin straightened to watch the two figures loping across the rooftops towards them—one black with a blue bird splayed across the front of the uniform, material tight enough to allow the acrobatics Dick was so fond of.  The other was black with dark red accents, less skintight, a dark hoodie over the uniform and a dark red full-face mask.

Bruce tracked the newcomer—he was tall and broad, but the lack of a clear outline in his uniform made him seem smaller.  More wraith-like.  His movements weren’t as fluid as Nightwing’s, no unnecessary flourishes, but they were efficient.  He moved like one of them and there was no way that a couple of months of training could’ve imparted that deadly grace.

And yet not any hero or ally that Bruce knew of.  It was definitely cause for alarm.

“B,” Nightwing chirped when the vigilante landed on the roof, followed by his companion, “Robin!  What brings you guys to Bludhaven?”

Bruce could feel the weight of Flamebird’s stare.  It wasn’t pleasant.

“A discussion,” Bruce said.  He flicked another glance at Flamebird.  “A private one.”

“…Uh, sure,” Nightwing said slowly, “You want to talk here, or—”

“I said in private.”

Flamebird stepped forward at that—standing next to Nightwing, he looked even taller, an intimidating presence with his arms crossed.  “No,” the other vigilante growled.

“Flame—”

“This isn’t Gotham, Batman,” Flamebird said, low and seething, “You don’t get to have a private talk with Nightwing.  Say what you came here to say, or fuck off.”

“Flamebird,” Nightwing hissed.

“I’m pretty sure the kid’s heard worse,” Flamebird said, not looking at him.  Robin was still, head tilted to one side, observing Flamebird with quiet scrutiny.

Bruce wanted that private conversation with Dick now more than ever.  If Flamebird was holding something over Dick’s head—secrets or hostages or something—Bruce needed to know.

Flamebird sensed the intent in his stance, and shifted forward into a more aggressive posture, hands moving to the escrima sticks sticking out behind his shoulders.  Bruce tensed.

“Enough,” Nightwing said firmly, escrima out and blocking Flamebird’s path, “B, we can head over to the next rooftop.  Flame can stay here with Robin.”

Bruce wasn’t a fan of that idea either, but Robin gave a small nod when Bruce glanced at him—he could try to get some information out of Flamebird, and Bruce would just be one roof over.  He wanted to think that Nightwing wouldn’t leave Flamebird along with Robin if the other vigilante was in any way a threat, but he couldn’t bet on that.

Flamebird was still grumbling.  “You’re still on training wheels, little bird,” Nightwing said softly, and something jolted inside of Bruce at the quiet affection.

“Fuck you,” Flamebird said, but he backed off, hands dropped from the escrima sticks.  Bruce could tell that he was still glaring.

“Alright, kids,” Nightwing smiled at Flamebird and Robin, “Play nice.”  He took a running start to leap over to the next rooftop, and Bruce followed him.

Kids.  Flamebird was younger than Nightwing, then.  Bruce quietly revised his working theory to account for the new information—Flamebird was younger, and deferred to Nightwing on occasion.  He had a temper.  He was trained, but his primary weapon was the same escrima sticks Nightwing favored—and for all the reports of Flamebird being more brutal than Nightwing, Bruce had to admit that there had been no reports of murder.

“So?” Nightwing asked, smile dissipating to a neutral expression as he looked at Bruce, “What do you want?  Permission to follow a lead?  Intel?  You could’ve just dropped a—”

“Who is he?” Bruce asked, staring at Flamebird.  Robin looked like he was talking, but it was too far away to hear.  Flamebird was glaring in their direction, apparently ignoring Robin.

“What?”

“Your new partner.  Who is he?” Bruce repeated, swinging his stare to his eldest son.

Nightwing took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Of course you came here for an interrogation,” he muttered, “I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

“He’s trained,” Bruce said, clipped, “But not by you.  Not a hero registered with the Justice League or the Titans.  Are you telling me that I have no reason to be concerned?”

“I’m telling you that it isn’t your business, B,” Nightwing said lowly, “This is my city.  Who I choose to patrol it with isn’t your concern.”

“Does he know who you are?”  Nightwing remained silent.  “Does he know who we are?”  The trail to their identities was a slippery slope.  “Have you even properly vetted him?”

“I have,” Nightwing snapped back, “I trust him.  I trust him with my life.  I trust him with the lives of everyone in my city.  And right now, I trust him a lot more than I do you.”

Bruce imagined he could feel the knife scrape past his ribs.

“If that’s all you came here to say, B, you can go back to Gotham.  My life isn’t your business anymore.”

Bruce caught Nightwing’s wrist before the younger man could leap back off the rooftop.  “No,” he said.

“Let go of me,” Nightwing snarled, tugging at his wrist, and Bruce let go right before the shift in air heralded a furious Flamebird.

“No,” Bruce repeated, ignoring the other vigilante, “It will always be my business.  You’re my son.”

Nightwing froze.  Flamebird, on the edge of the rooftop, went silent.  Robin, following after Flamebird, eyed the situation with unease.

“Please, Nightwing,” Bruce said quietly, “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Nightwing turned towards Flamebird, clearly having a silent conversation.  Flamebird made a huffing, resigned sound, and Nightwing turned back to Bruce.

“If you really want to talk, you can stop by for dinner.  You know where I live.”

Chapter Text

Of all the fucking times for Jason to be the only Bat as backup, it had to happen when Red Robin, in all of the kid’s infinite stupidity, decided to take on two A-list Rogues by himself.

Ivy and Scarecrow had been attacking each other, Jason peacefully sitting on a nearby rooftop and watching the two fight, until a red-and-black blur had gotten between them.

The kid had gotten a face full of fear gas and been doused by a cloud of pollen and he was lucky that Jason had a full-face helmet so that he could wrangle the kid’s stupid ass into a shower before the pollen really set in.

Jason had antidotes for fear gas and antidotes for pollen but he didn’t think combining them was a good idea.  Best case scenario—the toxins canceled each other out, and Tim spent a thoroughly miserable but still lucid night sweating it out in Jason’s safehouse.

Tim stiffened and pulled free of Jason’s grip while he was trying to settle them in the corner.  And then he gasped like he’d been punched, eyes going wide, body trembling, fists opening and closing but unable to move.

“Shit,” Jason cursed, and hauled the kid back into his lap, “So much for that hope.  You still with me, Timmers?” he asked, peering into wide blue eyes.

“H—Hood,” Tim stuttered.

“Yup,” Jason murmured, and the kid flinched.  And again, trembling starting back up.  “Shh, it’s okay, you got hit with fear toxin.”

Tim made a sharp gasp and abruptly twisted in Jason’s lap.  Jason let him, bewildered, and crossed his arms over Tim’s hands, interlacing their fingers.  “It’s okay,” he said quietly, gently rubbing a thumb over the back of Tim’s hand.  “It’ll be over soon.”

Tim stiffened.  “S—stop,” he said, hitched, and Jason broke off the movement.  “Hood, don’t—”

“What happened?” Jason asked, but Tim only tensed further.

“Fuck you,” Tim hissed, which was not the reaction Jason had been expecting.

“Tim, you’ve been hit with pollen,” he said slowly, “I can’t let you go—”

“Hood, please, just—” Tim’s voice dropped, turning more ragged, “What do you want?”

“Tim,” Jason said, something cold curling in his gut, “Tim, it’s not real.  It’s the fear toxin.”  They were getting the worst of both worlds today.  “Tim, baby bird, it’s not real.”  He grabbed Tim’s hands again, and held on tight.

“No,” Tim said, strangled, “Hood, stop.”

“It’s not real,” Jason repeated, wincing as Tim’s pained whines grew louder, “Timbird, it’s not—”

Tim screamed.  Jason loosened his grip in surprise, and Tim took advantage to yank himself away, landing hard on his side and gasping in breathless shock.  He was writhing, pollen seething under his skin, and Jason hardened his heart and pulled Tim back up, forcing him back against his chest.

“Shh,” Jason said softly, “It’s okay, I have you, you’re okay.”  He took a ragged breath.  “Whatever you’re seeing, Tim, it’s not real.  You’re safe.  You’re okay.”

“F—fuck y—you,” Tim snapped.

“It’s not real,” Jason repeated, low and steady, “It’s not real.  I’m helping you.  You’re safe.  You’re—”

“You’re n—not helping.”

Jason wasn’t sure how much of his words were getting through.  “It’s okay,” he said as Tim whimpered, “You’re safe, baby bird.  We just need to last it out.”

“Hood, no—stop—”

“It’s just the fear toxin.  It’s not real.  You’re safe.”

“Hood,” Tim whispered, “Please—just tell me what you want—you don’t need to do this—Hood, please—”

“I don’t want anything, Tim,” Jason said softly, “I just want to help.  You’ve been hit by pollen.”

“You asshole,” Tim said hoarsely, “You’re not my brother.”

Jason missed a breath.

“It’s not real,” Jason repeated tonelessly.  He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

Tim shuddered again, and Jason adjusted his grip, rubbing a hand along the kid’s back to soothe him through the shivers.  “Don’t,” Tim pleaded, his breaths hitching as he trembled, “Stop—please—”

“I can’t,” Jason said quietly, “Tim, you’re hurting, I can’t let you go.  I wish I could, I wish someone else was here, but I can’t—”

“No,” Tim said, his voice climbing higher, “Hood, we don’t, I’ll do it later, you don’t—” He broke off into a shriek, pressing desperately against Jason, his back arching as he tried to get away from Jason’s arms.

Jason stopped patting his back, freezing as Tim gave ragged breaths.  “Stop,” Tim said, his voice cracking, “Hood, please, stop, please.”

“I can’t let you go,” Jason said hollowly.

“Not like this, Hood, please,” and he was crying now, Jason could feel the tears soaking into his shirt.

“Tim, I’m sorry—”

“Please, Hood, just—you’ve had your fun, just stop.”  Tim’s voice broke, and Jason took a ragged inhale, resting his chin on the kid’s hair.

Fuck.  He desperately hoped that someone would find them.  That he could hand Tim over to someone else, anyone else, and not listen as his little brother was tortured by a demon wearing his face.

“The pollen will wear off soon and we’ll go our separate ways and we won’t ever have to see each other again,” Tim said, his angry tone broken by the waver, “Could you stop being an asshole for that long?  Please?”

“Sure, Timbo,” Jason laughed wetly.

“Hood, don’t—” Tim shouted, and Jason exhaled raggedly, “Don’t, please—” and then Tim started screaming again, writhing in his lap and pressing closer as he sobbed.

“I’m so sorry, baby bird,” Jason said hoarsely, burying his face in the kid’s hair, “So, so sorry.”

“You’re not sorry, you fucking asshole—”

“I am,” Jason whispered, his eyes burning, “I’m so sorry—”

“Stop, Hood, Jason, please,” Tim sobbed, and Jason’s heart broke into little pieces, and those pieces were ground in dust.  “Jason, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please stop, please.”

“It’s not real,” Jason said quietly, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real—”

“I’m sorry,” Tim said desperately, his voice cracking, “I’m sorry for Robin, I’m sorry for replacing you, I’m sorry for all of it, please, Jason, stop, I promise I’ll give it up, I promise I’ll leave, just please stop.”

Jesus fucking Christ.  “Fuck,” Jason exhaled, his fingers trembling, “Fuck, baby bird, I’m so sorry, I can’t—it’s not real—Tim, please, it’s not real, okay, I wouldn’t—I’m not hurting you—” I would never, he wanted to scream, but that wasn’t true, was it.

There was a reason Tim was screaming his name.

Tim lost words in a breathless shriek, and Jason couldn’t even distinguish his panicked, agonized babble, ‘sorry’ and ‘please’ and ‘Jason’ the only things that stood out as the kid sobbed and screamed, unable to move, unable to leave, unable to do anything but take whatever his hallucination was dishing out.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, ragged, and began rubbing circles in Tim’s back again—he couldn’t soothe the monsters in Tim’s mind, he couldn’t do anything, but at least this way he felt a little better.

The screams trickled to desperate sobs and died to hitched breaths as water slid steadily down the kid’s cheeks.  Tim relaxed, inch by inch, and Jason moved his hand to his hair, gently running through the soft strands, not daring to tug, to do anything that the fear toxin could twist the wrong way.

Tim’s breath cracked again as he hiccupped, and Jason shushed him, “It’s okay, you’re safe.  It’s okay.”

Shudders eased, and Jason kept stroking, and soon Tim was limp in his lap, sobs dying to soft sniffles.

“You’re safe, baby bird,” Jason whispered, and tears slipped silently down his face.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t breathe.  He gasped but his chest was squeezing and his stomach felt like it was going through a blender and he could see graceful feet come closer—

“Jason?”  He couldn’t do anything about the hands around his arms, rolling him over—he tried to scrabble back, but his fingers slid uselessly against the mats as Grayson’s face appeared above him, a blob in his blurry vision.

“Shh, Jason, it’s okay, just relax.  Relax and try to breathe.”  Easy for him to say.  “It’s okay, you can do it, you’re going to be okay.”

No, he wasn’t—he still couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t move—Grayson was looming over him, and his hands curled around Jason’s elbows and—

And the world was tilting around him and he was suddenly way too close to Grayson, he could feel the man’s warmth surrounding him, caging him.

“It’s okay,” Grayson said, and he was running a hand down Jason’s arm—fuck, something in Jason went cold, he’d never yielded the fight—“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.  Just relax and breathe.”  Jason tried to fight the grasp.  “Relax, Jason,” Grayson ordered, tone harsh.

Jason went limp.  He couldn’t tolerate a punishment, not when his chest kept spasming, his best bet was to lie still and let Grayson take whatever he wanted.  Endure.  Please, please let it not hurt too badly—he buried his face against the closest soft thing to hide his face.

Let it be over soon.

“Relax and breathe,” Grayson said softly, “That’s it, Jaybird, you’re doing so well.”  Gasps turned to hiccups and Jason tried to keep still, but he couldn’t stop shivering.  “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

Was—was that an apology?  From Grayson?

The world shifted in a rhythmic motion, and Jason realized that he was rocking them.  That Grayson’s hands remained where they were—one around his shoulders, the other rubbing circles in his back—and neither wandering.

“Just keep breathing, slow and steady,” Grayson hummed.  Jason could feel himself relaxing despite himself—the soothing pattern eased away the tension, and the deeper breaths he could inhale, the easier breathing became.  Tears still dripped down his face, but Jason could suppress the gasps to minor sniffles.

“You’re doing great, Jaybird,” Grayson said, and Jason was almost distracted but Grayson’s hands were moving and drifting down his legs and—and curling Jason against his chest as he straightened.  “Let’s go find an ice pack for that bruise, okay?”

He was going to get treatment?  Jason swallowed past the lump in his throat as he clutched Dick’s shirt, still hiding his face—what was that going to cost him?

“Jaybird?” Jason said instead, his voice shaky.

“Bird nicknames run in the Family,” Grayson said, carrying him through the corridors.

Jason hadn’t—did he really—he knew that there was no other reason to keep him here, but no one had formalized it yet—

On the other hand, Jason finally had a clear-cut route to earning his place.

“Family?” he repeated, voice small.

“Family,” Grayson confirmed.  He deposited Jason on the couch on one of the sitting rooms, and Jason managed to wriggle upright by the time Grayson returned with the promised ice pack.  It was soothing against the tight, clenched pain above his stomach, and Jason eyed the older boy carefully, but Grayson didn’t demand any payment, seemingly content to linger in Jason’s personal space and ruffle his hair.

Family.  Okay.  He could do this.  He didn’t want to be an enforcer for the Waynes, but it was a lot better than ending up dead.

Chapter Text

One of the thugs had hit his helmet hard enough to crack a lens—though thankfully not his face—and Jason was forced to tug it off with a growl.

The thug had the audacity to look pleased.

He looked significantly less happy when it exploded in his face, and Jason mopped up the rest of the minor drug operation with some judicious application of rubber bullets.

He’d almost made it a month with that helmet too.  They weren’t cheap, they were highly modified and had high-tech electronics and—and he should really stop blowing them up whenever they got the slightest bit damaged, but he had too much fun making them explode.

Unfortunately, he was now down protective headgear and a comm, and he still had a couple routes left on his patrol.  He made his way through them cautiously, but ran into no other trouble, and swung home to his latest safehouse.

The first thing he noticed was that the tripwire on his window was disengaged.  Unfortunately, he was already sliding the window up at that point, so he grabbed his gun instead of retreating, and slipped inside.

He exhaled when he caught sight of the cowl and the black-and-blue, flicking the safety back on his gun.  “Don’t you guys know how to use a phone—”

Jason rocked back, nearly unbalancing as Batman lunged at him, arms locking tight around him and squeezing so tight Jason swore he felt his ribs creak.  “Jay,” came the hoarse, guttural tone, so discordant that it took Jason a moment to realize that was his name.

“What—B, what—” Batman wavered, and Jason wasn’t equipped to hold up Batman’s full weight, not with his arms pinned at his sides, and they collapsed to the ground slowly.  “Wing,” Jason wheezed, “Some help—”

But Nightwing wasn’t looking at him.  Nightwing was leaning against the couch, shoulders shaking, face buried in his hands.  He was making soft, choked noises.

“Nightwing?” Jason asked slowly, “Batman?”  Neither responded.  “Guys?  You’re freaking me out here?”

Nightwing raised his head at that, voice hoarse, “You?  Freaking you out?  Imagine how we felt when your tracker disappeared, followed by your comm shorting out and rumors of an explosion!”

Ah.

Whoops.

He’d forgotten about that tracker.

“Sorry?” Jason tried, awkwardly wriggling—Batman held on tighter, and Jason gave up.  “I—I didn’t do it on purpose.”  Nightwing had slid down the couch and curled up against it, burying his head in his knees.  “I blow up my helmet semi-frequently, I just forgot—”

Batman’s grip tensed even further.  Nightwing dragged his head up.

“Blow up your helmet?!”

Jason slumped further in the hold and rested his forehead against Batman’s shoulder.  He had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Dick strolled into Robinson Park, idly juggling an escrima, and headed for the far corner of the park—the path of vines obligingly parted as he neared, and Dick entered inside.

Ivy had escaped Arkham a couple of days ago, as predicted, aided by Harley, so this was the perfect time for Dick to stop by for a chat.

“Bluebird!” Harley cooed as he came into view.  He allowed her to pull him into a hug and air-kiss his cheeks.

“Harley,” he greeted politely, “Glad to see you’re doing well.”  Harley grinned at him—she’d turned the orange jumpsuit into a style piece, though the Suicide Squad collar still glinted around her neck.  “Ivy,” Dick said, turning his attention to the other woman, “Please don’t tear up downtown when your girlfriend doesn’t respond to your texts.”

“Nightwing,” Ivy rolled her eyes, “Don’t pretend like you Bats ever cared about the infrastructure of this city.”  She stalked towards him, eyes narrowed, “What brings a Bat to my humble abode?”

Dick tossed the escrima in the air a couple of times, pondering how best to start.  “Your pollen,” he said finally.

Ivy looked confused.  “What about it?”

“Aww, is ol’ Batsy upset about forking out hugs?” Harley giggled, “Does it mess with his dark, brooding image?”

“Batman’s not the one that’s upset,” Dick said levelly.

“That demon child of yours definitely needs a hug,” Ivy scoffed, “I don’t care how much he complains, he’s a spoiled brat, and I’m not going to stop.”

Dick stayed silent for a long moment.  “Did you ever wonder,” he said slowly, “What someone would think when a two hundred pound nightmare of shadows lunged at them and then pinned them to the ground?”

Harley’s smile slipped.  Ivy’s expression became colder.  “He’s your father,” she snapped.

“Yes,” Dick responded, “Because trauma and fear responses are so very rational.”

Harley looked horrified.  Ivy looked like she was chewing on a lemon.  “The man needs to learn how to give a hug,” Ivy retorted, vines curling defensively around her, “He has no right taking in all you kids if he can’t—”

“He’s trying,” Dick said quietly, “It doesn’t come naturally to him, but he’s trying.  And your pollen is not helping.  All it’s doing is making them more skittish of touch.”

“Who?” Harley asked, eyes wide and shining, “You—you never had a problem with it before, so it has to be someone new—”

Dick gave her his best disapproving expression.  “You know that’s not how it works, Harley.”  Harley subsided, chewing on her lip.  Ivy looked defensive and guilty.

“I’ll…tone it down,” Ivy said through gritted teeth.  Which wasn’t an outright agreement to stop, but was a concession that Ivy realized the severity of what she was doing, and would use it accordingly.

“Tell Batsy to give you all hugs from Auntie Harls,” Harley said, her expression drooping, “And I’m sorry, bluebird.  I didn’t think.”

“Why don’t you bring back the pollen that made the Batsuit pink?” Dick asked, “That one was funny.”

Ivy and Harley both shuddered.  “No,” Ivy shook her head, “We got an extremely snippy letter that Batman wasn’t the one who washed the Batsuit, and to please cease and desist.”

“We’re not messing with that,” Harley shivered.

Dick thought about Alfred’s likely reaction to pollen that changed the color of whatever it touched, and winced—that was definitely a battle that no one wanted to start.

Chapter Text

Jason groaned as the door creaked open again, jamming the pillow over his head.  “Would you just go the fuck to sleep?” Jason hissed, twisted to bury his face in the mattress and gritting his teeth through the pounding headache.

Jason was trying to sleep.  Jason was trying very hard to sleep.  It didn’t help when his bedroom door was opened every two hours, breaking through the haze and forcing Jason up.

“Jay?” came the hoarse voice, and Jason snapped.

“No, I’m a talking dinosaur!” Jason growled, forcing himself upright to glare at the figure in the doorway.  Suddenly sitting up was not a good idea, however, and Jason was forced to clutch at the blankets to prevent from toppling over or losing his lunch.  “For fuck’s sake, Bruce,” Jason forced out through clenched teeth, “It’s me, I’m alive, we went through this whole song and dance four days ago, can you please just let me sleep.”

Bruce was staring at him like he was haunted.  “I’m sorry,” he croaked out, and slowly shuffled back, closing the door.

Great.  Now Jason felt like the asshole.

Jason flopped back on the bed, allowed himself a moment to groan loudly, and extricated himself from the sweaty blankets.  He half-rolled off the bed, grabbing his pillow, and clung to the side of the bed until the head rush passed.  Once he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t faceplant on taking a single step, he made his way to the door.

The corridor was empty—everyone was in various states of exhaustion, even Tim, and the Manor was silent—and Jason slowly shuffled down to the right door.  He didn’t bother knocking, just opened the door and slipped inside, ignoring the sleepy mumble from the figure underneath the covers.

“Jay?”

“Shut up,” Jason grumbled, climbing on top of the bed and moving Bruce’s pillows to make way for his own.  “I’m tired of you waking me up.”  He wriggled under the covers and curled up, his back facing Bruce.

A hesitant hand rested on his back.  When Jason made no sign of protest, it slipped around his waist, tugging him back against a broad chest.

“Too hot,” Jason complained, and the grip eased slightly.

“Jay-lad,” came the quiet murmur, fingers drifting up to comb through sweaty hair, “My miracle.”

“Go to sleep.”

A quiet huff that could’ve been a laugh, dry, cracked lips against his hairline, and finally, silence.

Jason nudged his head further into the soft strokes, and let sleep slowly draw itself around him.

Chapter Text

“Jason,” came a voice from the study, and Jason stopped in his tracks.  Great.  The last person on the long, long list of people who’d lectured him and hugged him and cried on him—thanks for nothing, Dick—and Jason was not in the mood.

“You can save the spiel, old man,” Jason groaned, wondering if he could just walk away from Bruce.  Tim hadn’t warned him that Bruce was back, so he was probably fresh off that Justice League mission.  Jason was supposed to have left days ago, but he had a different clingy sibling hanging off his arm at every turn, and when he’d finally managed to escape all of them, Tim had called him at three in the morning, hyperventilating after a nightmare, and Jason had given up to stay—temporarily—in the Manor.

“I already got it from Dick, Steph, Barbie, the demon brat, and a mildly terrifying stare-down with Cass.  Call for help.  Noted.  Next time I’m in trouble, I’ll go down the list of contacts and try you one by one before I even bandage a bleeding wound, okay?  You’ll all be—”

“Jason,” Bruce said again, cutting him off, and Jason didn’t have any time to recover before he was suddenly encircled in a hug.

“What,” Jason said.

“Jay,” Bruce said softly, “Jay-lad.  I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Jason snapped, “It was the Replacement that got buried, not—”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeated, “I—I didn’t know.  About your grave.  God, I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Jason froze.  “It wasn’t,” he started softly, “You—you didn’t know.  You—no one would’ve known.”

“I buried you,” Bruce said, voice wavering, “And you woke up there.”

“You didn’t know.  You couldn’t have known.”

“Not the first time someone’s come back from the dead,” Bruce said softly.  Which was—which was true.  Death wasn’t a guarantee in their business, though usually resurrection was the providence of aliens and gods and metas.

“So next time,” Jason huffed into Bruce’s shirt, “Don’t make the same mistake.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Bruce growled, practically crushing Jason, and Jason wheezed.

“Bruce—Bruce, you know we’re human, right?  We’re going to die one day.”

Bruce finally let him go, stepping back only to cup Jason’s face in his hands.  Jason stood stock-still, unsure of what to do in the face of this unexpected affection.  Bruce was holding him like he was something delicate.  Something precious.

“Not as long as I live,” Bruce vowed.

“You’re going to drag us back through the gates of hell?”  Jason intended it to be a sneer, but it came back as a whisper.

“If that’s what it takes,” Bruce promised.

Chapter Text

“Hood?” Dick called, as Bruce gathered everyone near the Batcomputer—Hood had paused near the uniform cases, and they needed to start soon.

Bruce looked up, and stilled—Hood hadn’t just paused near the uniform cases.  He’d stopped in front of one in particular.

“Hood?” Dick called out again, walking over when he got no response.

Before he could call again, Hood crumpled to his knees.

Bruce felt a spike ram through his heart—the uniform right behind him, bloody and torn, and carrying his son’s limp, lifeless body, and Dick was already running towards Jason—

“Jason?  Jason!”

—But Jason wasn’t moving, wasn’t responding, was only swaying on his knees and the commotion drew the attention of everyone.

“Jason,” Dick crouched at his brother’s side, hands fluttering over the body armor, “Jason, can you hear me?”

Tim and Cass jogged over, and Bruce finally forced his feet to move, ripping his gaze away from his son’s shroud to the living, breathing child on the ground.

“Jason?” Dick said tremulously, before looking up, eyes wide and panicked.

“Hyperventilating,” Tim diagnosed calmly, dropping on Jason’s other side, “Take off his helmet.”

Cass leaned over and fit her fingers into the grooves, finding the catches and—

Ticking.

“Why the fuck did he put a bomb in his helmet?” Dick asked, horrified, and Bruce was running.

“Shut up and let me defuse it,” Tim snapped tersely, switching his mask to infrared and fiddling with the catches until the ticking stopped.  “There,” he breathed out as Bruce reached them, his heart in his throat, “Take it off now.”

Cass yanked the thing off and tossed it into a far corner.

Jason was pale, eyes open but unseeing, trembling all over, and Bruce dropped to his knees next to his son, reaching for him as he gasped shallow breaths.

“Bruce,” Jason choked out, and Bruce held him tightly, “Bruce, please—”

“I’m right here, Jason,” Bruce said lowly, brushing a gloved hand over Jason’s face, cold and clammy with sweat, “I’m right here.”

Panic attack?  Blood loss?  Bruce didn’t understand—Jason had been fine when he’d come, and Bruce could see no traces of blood anywhere.  What could possibly have—

Jason started screaming.

“Jay, I’m here,” Bruce held him tighter, his heart in his throat, “I’m right here.”

“No—no—it hurts—make it stop, please, B—make it stop—” and Bruce didn’t even know what Jason was looking at, what monsters he was fighting, what he was begging Bruce to save him from.

“I got you,” Bruce said, struggling not to feel helpless, “It’s going to be okay, I have you, Jason—”

Jason stopped breathing altogether, and Bruce had a minor heart attack.

“Jason.  Jason, breathe.”

He pressed a palm to the armor, but there was nothing physically wrong, and Bruce forced the diaphragm to contract so that Jason wheezed and sucked in a stuttering breath.

“I have you, you’re safe, Jason, I swear,” Bruce murmured, a litany of desperate pleas, Jason gasping in his arms and taking him back five years to harsh, rattling breaths and a too-small broken body and dimming blue eyes and—

“Dad,” Jason choked out desperately, and Bruce felt his heart shatter.

“I’m here,” Bruce croaked, tears spilling over, “Jay-lad, I’m right here.”  Everyone was arrayed around them in concern, and Bruce let out a slow breath when Jason’s eyes finally began to flicker, tracking his surroundings.

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly as his son began choking again, “Jason.  You need to breathe.”  Harsh, desperate breaths, too shallow to be of any real use, and Jason was thrashing now, struggling in Bruce’s grasp.  “Jason.”

Jason slammed a hand against Bruce’s gauntlet, and then clung to it, eyes wide, ignoring the sharp edges pressing into his fingers.  He stopped writhing, and instead pressed closer, burrowing into Bruce’s armor as he gasped wetly, shuddering all over.  Bruce tightened his grip, encompassing his son completely in his grasp.

Steph brought a blanket to drape over Jason’s shivering form, and Bruce took the moment to shift one hand up to Jason’s hair, stroking it gently as his son trembled.  Dick pressed closer on the other side, rubbing soft circles on Jason’s back with wide, wet eyes.

“Jason,” Bruce kept murmuring, “Jay-lad.  You’re in the Cave, Jay, keep breathing.  You’re safe.”  Jason took a deep breath and shuddered all over.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  You’re safe here.  Just keep breathing.”

Gasping breaths turned to wet sobs, inhales cracking and exhales hoarse.

“I brought water.”

“Thank you, Tim,” Bruce said quietly, watching as Tim put the glass down and retreated.  Cass had taken another blanket and was attempting to plaster it to the glass of the uniform case.

“Cass, what are you doing?” Tim asked.

“Cover,” his daughter replied, flicking a glance to the trembling form in Bruce’s lap, “To not see.”

Bruce went ice cold.  Dick’s expression turning poisonous.  “Right,” he said softly, “I can’t believe you didn’t—”

“Dick,” Tim cut him off, “Not now.”

Not now, but later.  Because Bruce had forgotten.  He had moved the memorial from its earlier position when he’d found out that the Red Hood was Jason, had pushed it back into the line of uniforms, but he had never considered what Jason would’ve thought upon seeing the suit he’d died in.

Never considered that it would send his son into a flashback-induced panic attack.

“Bruce,” Jason’s voice cracked, shivering fingers trying to latch onto his uniform.

“I’m right here,” Bruce murmured into his hair, “Jay, I’m right here.”

Jason took a shuddering breath.  And another.  “Don’t leave,” he choked out, no longer the fearsome crime lord but the child who’d died too young, who Bruce had failed—a lost, terrified child begging for his father to save him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bruce said quietly, and Jason exhaled.

Bruce slowly stroked his hair as Jason got his breathing under control, gasps dying to hitched breaths and quiet coughs.  He relaxed in inches, and Bruce held him tighter, shifting to make sure his head was cushioned on the softer plates of his armor.

A hitched inhale dissolved into a gasp, and Bruce gently brushed the side of Jason’s face, tugging the bangs out of his eyes.  “You’re safe,” he said softly, “You’re in the Cave.  I’m right here.”

Jason went completely limp. 

“Jay?” Bruce asked, quiet.

Jason twisted his face to press it against the armor, trembling again.  “Please,” he exhaled, and Bruce didn’t know what he was pleading for, but he knew that he would tear the world apart to get it.

“You’re safe, son,” Bruce said quietly, “I’m here.”

Jason was still crying, but his breaths slowly eased to normal, and then slower, and Bruce stayed where he was, his son—his miracle child—in his lap, softly stroking his hair as Jason dropped into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter Text

Jason crept forward on silent feet, matching the kid step for step as he walked down the hall.  The hall of dead heroes, each one a testament to why they shouldn’t have let fucking kids take up the mantle.

All dead heroes, except him.  His face curved into a mirthless smile.  Not hero enough for the Titans, apparently.

But that was okay.  He wasn’t dead, and he was going to prove it, and the first to know it would be the kid that stole his costume before it was cold.

The poor little orphan.  Jason had almost laughed at the news.  Dead parents—good, he was almost a real Robin now.

The Replacement headed for the alcoves at the back of the hall and Jason kept following him.  He wondered how long it would take the kid to realize he was being stalked.  Someone should really work on his spatial awareness.

The kid almost disappeared inside a small alcove and Jason crept close, wary of a trap.  The Replacement was kneeling on the ground, in front of what looked like a small shrine or an altar.  Jason eased closer, confused, but couldn’t make out anything in the shadows.

He could hear the scrape of a matchstick and listened to the kid choke back tears as he tried to light one.  He was trembling, and Jason had the urge to step back—the kid should really learn to watch his surroundings but if this was some sort of vigil for his dead parents, Jason had no place here.  He wasn’t going to—that was an extra level of shittiness, and sure, Jason was pissed at the Replacement, but something crawled unpleasantly down his spine at the idea of disturbing the his grief.

The matchstick flared to life with a hiss, and Jason couldn’t entirely hide the sharp inhale.

It was a shrine.  A memorial to a boy that had died too young.

Four photos in beautiful iron frames, stunning captures of Jason as Robin in Gotham.  Smiling, fighting, flying.  A taped group photo with the Titans—and Jason had sneered at them, but there he was, curled up in an armchair, mid-laugh.  Jason and—and Dick, and the sight of his big brother smiling and ruffling his hair made something catch in his throat.  Jason, in the middle of baking cookies, scowling suspiciously and defending his batter.

The kid finished lighting the three candles and the alcove danced with the light of the flames.  Jason had to claw off his helmet, had to see it with his own two eyes.  Had to—he’d been forgotten, that was—that was what he thought, that was what everyone said, that was what had to have happened—

But the kid he’d been replaced by was kneeling in front of a memorial dedicated to the boy that had gone unavenged, and Jason was finding it difficult to breathe.

There were other little knick-knacks—a domino mask.  Some of his old Wonder Woman merch.  His book.  A stunning sketch of a robin mid-flight, and Jason could feel his eyes prickling.

They hadn’t forgotten him.

He’d been missed.

They had a memorial to him, a memorial of all the parts of him they’d collected, a remembrance of the Robin he’d been—they hadn’t swept him under the rug and ignored him.

They didn’t have a statue of him but this—this was worth more, and it felt like the world was shifting under Jason’s feet.

“Could you—could you watch over them for me?” the kid asked quietly.  Asked him quietly, the kid was asking Jason to watch—watch over his parents, most likely.  “Please?”

The plaintive tone was cracking his heart in two, and Jason hated it.  “No can do,” he growled out, because he was angry, he was upset, he was—

The Replacement gasped, almost falling against the flames as he twisted—he looked up at Jason, eyes widening, his breaths getting shorter and—and his face went slack as he slumped to the floor.

“Fuck,” Jason snapped, quickly crouching to catch him before he banged his head against the ground.  The kid was out like a light—still breathing, Jason checked—and completely limp.

Well, now Jason really did feel like the asshole.

“Shit,” he said eloquently—at the unconscious kid in his arms, at the merrily dancing candle flames, at the vivid reminder of the Robin that Jason had thought he’d left behind.

He couldn’t attack the kid now.

Chapter Text

Dick had his forehead pressed to the table, breaths low and raspy.  “S’meone—s’meone turn it off.”  He waved a vague hand in the direction of the window.

“The sun?” Jason asked caustically.  Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he was curled up in a Gotham Knights sweatshirt, knees drawn up in his chair.  “Sorry, Dickiebird, no can do.”

“Ugh,” Dick made a low, protesting sound, “I feel like death.”

Jason laughed again—Dick made a dull whine, like Jason had kicked his chair.  “No you don’t, Dickhead, trust me.”

Dick dragged his head up—his skin was gray, his cheeks hollow, and his collarbones jutted out sharply against the thin, loose shirt he was wearing.  “I will puke on you next time,” Dick threatened hoarsely.  His expression spasmed and he dropped his head back to the table with a low groan.

Jason made a sympathetic noise and patted his outstretched arm—Dick had definitely gotten the worst end of the stick among all of them, he’d spent the whole of yesterday emptying his stomach and then dry heaving when he didn’t have anything to bring up.

“Just think about all the ways you’re going to get the baby bird back for this,” Jason suggested, “That’s what I’m doing.”

Tim made an indignant sound—this wasn’t his fault, he’d never asked Jason to nursemaid him back to health.  He hadn’t even known that Jason was alive!

“Boys,” Bruce rasped, slowly shuffling into view.  There were crackers and soup on the tray he was holding in trembling hands.  Alfred had taken the day off to sleep—he wasn’t as sick as the rest of them, but better to be safe than sorry.  “Behave.”

“I’m just saying—if the kid hadn’t worked himself sicker, this never would’ve happened,” Jason pointed out.

“And if you hadn’t broken into the Tower to attack me, this never would’ve happened,” Tim rejoined, “So I don’t see how you can blame me.”

Jason glared at him.  “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he threatened, “Or I would’ve totally drowned you in the bathtub.”

Tim scoffed.  Dick made a small chuckle as he nibbled on the edge of the cracker Bruce had nudged against his mouth.

“I’m lucky,” Bruce said quietly, sitting down once he finished serving out the soup and crackers, “To have all my children home.”

Jason made a low scoffing noise, but his cheeks were red.  Tim felt the curl of warmth inside of him before he’d taken a single sip of soup.

Chapter Text

He could hear the Batmobile screech to a halt at the mouth of the alleyway, and groaned out loud.  Nightwing still hadn’t stopped crying, and the kids were hovering over him like he was dying.  He was tempted to shoot someone.

And then he saw the cowl, and was really tempted to shoot someone.

“Red Robin,” Batman said flatly, “Report.”

“There’s nothing to report,” Jason growled, “I took a small tumble, Nightwing is having a meltdown, your brats stole my drive, and anyone so much as mentions going back to the Cave, I will shoot them.”

“Hood admitted to a couple of broken ribs,” Red Robin said, the fucking traitor.  Jason hissed and tried to get up, but Nightwing was still pinning him to the ground, albeit in a hold that involved a lot more crying than he was used to.

The part of him that was still the kid terrified of anything that upset his big brother wanted to stay silent until Dick stopped sobbing.

“I am fine,” Jason gritted out as the cowled shadow drew closer, “Everyone is panicking for no reason.”

“Your line snapped,” came the rough, hoarse voice, and Jason had to actually take a second to place it as Nightwing’s.

“Nightwing,” Bruce’s voice was gentle, not Batman’s growl as he crouched down on Jason’s other side, “I need to check for injury.”  Nightwing lifted his head but made no move to get off of Jason.  “Red Robin?”

Red obediently came forward to gently tug Nightwing away.  The demon brat hovered over his precious big brother, glaring at Jason like Nightwing’s tears were his fault.

He hadn’t known that the grapple line was going to snap.  And he hadn’t particularly enjoyed landing in a dumpster hard enough to knock the breath from his body.

“Any pain?” Batman asked, back to clinical as gloved hands probed along Jason’s neck.

“Broken ribs.  Lower left,” Jason snapped back, “I’m fine.”

“Any tingling or numbness?”

“B.”

“Answer the question, Hood.”

Jason made a low growl.  “No numbness, no tingling, no strange sensations, and look—I can wiggle all my fingers and toes.  We good now?”

He can feel the stare, even if he can’t see it.  “I’d like you to come to the Cave to run some tests—”

“No,” Jason hissed, absolutely fucking not—he braced an elbow against the ground and straightened before Batman could pin him down.  “See?” Jason said—his broken ribs were burning, but his spine wasn’t shifting out of alignment, and he moved to get up fully.  “I’m perfectly—”

He had a lap full of sobbing vigilante again, and Jason raised his head to the night sky as Dick shivered, clutching him tight.

“I’m not going to be able to pry him off, am I,” Jason said flatly.

The demon brat glared at him.  The Replacement gave him a mock sympathetic look.  Batman patted him on the shoulder.

“He’ll calm down after he sees that you’re okay,” Batman lied outright—the last time Dick had gotten like this, he hadn’t let Jason out of his sight for a whole weekend, and Jason hadn’t even been injured.  “Come on, we’ll go to the Cave.”

But Jason couldn’t entirely deny that tiny part of him that was still repeating ‘Dick cares’ in a tone of awed wonder.

Jason bared his teeth at the three vigilantes.  “I’m serious,” he growled, “If you leave me out of that bust, I will track you all down and shoot you.”  He wrapped his arms tentatively around Dick and glared at them all.

Chapter Text

Dick got the all-clear from Tim, but he didn’t stop—Jason called him never, and his little brother had been so worried and Dick needed to check up on him and make sure everything was okay.

The shock trap was easy enough to disable and Dick was soon slipping through the apartment—empty kitchen, living room, couch—and turning into the bedroom.

He stopped dead.

One of the two lumps shifted enough to raise their head, and groaned loudly when they caught sight of him.

“Great,” Jason grumbled, dropping his head back down.  Down to the pillow.  Down, next to Bruce’s hand.  Bruce, who was next to Jason, apparently asleep.

“Pollen?” Dick asked, faintly strangled.  The last time Red Hood had run into Batman, Jason had nearly shot him.  No.  Jason had shot him, it had just gotten deflected by the armor.

“No,” Jason grumbled.  Dick waited, and Jason finally let out a loud sigh.  “He had a bad dream.”

Ah.  That would do it.  Dick was honestly surprised Jason hadn’t been met with the full force of Bruce’s paranoid smothering up until this point.

“Poor B,” Dick hummed, eyeing the bed—there was just enough space for someone else, if they were flexible, and Jason had woken him up too early in the morning to panic about nothing.

Decision made, Dick quickly stripped out of his uniform and clambered onto the bed in the tank top and leggings he wore underneath, grinning at Jason’s scowl.

“I don’t understand,” Jason said slowly, as Dick made himself comfortable, “He wasn’t like this before—”

“Before you died?” Dick finished sadly, “No, Little Wing, he wasn’t.”  Bruce had been protective, yes, but it had never been so smothering.  So desperate.  So panicked.

Jason was scowling again.  “You can’t expect me to believe it affected him that much—”

“Jaybird, you have no idea,” Dick cut him off, because Jason had no clue what things had been like before he’d come back.  “This?  This running around the city because he desperately needs to know you’re safe?  It was even worse back then.  He had to go check up on everyone he cared about, and you can imagine how that went down.”

Jason’s expression twisted up as he stared at Dick.

“Oh god, I remember breaking my phone once,” Dick chuckled softly, “I was out of contact for two hours, and B nearly called in the Justice League to scour Bludhaven to find me.”  He’d come home to a panicking Bruce and Dick had nearly had a heart attack himself wondering if something had happened to Tim.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, Little Wing.  He refused to let me out of his sight for the next day, which was fun trying to explain to the BPD.”

Jason’s expression shifted to something more contemplative.  He looked tired—as probably expected, if Bruce had woken him up in his panic.  “I’m sorry that he scared you,” Dick said softly.

Jason immediately bit back, his face coloring, “He didn’t—I wasn’t—fuck you, Dickhead.”

Eloquent.  Dick chuckled, teasing smile still on his face.  “Oh, Jaybird, you’re going have to try harder than that to convince me.”  His eyes glittered.  “Especially since you still haven’t let go of Bruce’s hand.”

Jason snapped back, “I will shoot you.”  But he didn’t let go of Bruce, and Dick laughed again.

“Alright,” Jason grumbled, sinking back into the pillow, “Shoo.”

“What?”

“Shoo,” Jason glared at him, “I didn’t invite you over, Dickhead.  Go flap your way to the Manor—apparently the demon brat tried to murder the Replacement again, go fix that.”

Tim hadn’t mentioned anything about that, and Dick drew his most woebegone expression—eyes wide and shiny, lip trembling, “You’re—you’re kicking me out?”

“Fuck you, that isn’t going to work on me.  Go.”

“Little Wing?” Dick said softly.

“I hate that nickname, that’s definitely not going to work on me.”

“Jaybird?” Dick let his voice crack.

“You fucking asshole, leave—”

He was close to breaking, and Dick pulled out the big guns—he blinked, eyes wide and watery, and sniffled quietly.

Jason glared at him before emphatically turning his back on him, “You know what, I can’t deal with you morons.  I need sleep.”

Dick grinned in glee and wriggled under the sheets, fitting against Jason’s back as Jason curled closer to Bruce, and lightly carded his fingers through Jason’s hair.

As predicted, Jason melted, and Dick continued the gentle stroking, humming under his breath.  Bruce wasn’t the only one that needed to be sure that the ones they loved were safe and sound.

Chapter Text

Jason was just—tired.  Homesick?  It was a stupid word, but he was—he missed Gotham, missed Bruce, and he knew he was supposed to be training to return in his own right but he wanted to go home.

Talia would’ve definitely given him a ticket if he asked for one, but she had found him so many trainers, and listened to him and supported his plans, and he felt a tiny bit guilty that he was going against what he’d told her.  That she’d listen to him and her face would fall and she’d tell him he was weak for running back to a family that had forgotten him, that had replaced him, that hadn’t avenged him.

Maybe he was weak.  Maybe he was the same pathetic street trash that lived on whatever scraps he got.  Maybe he was a fool, for going back to a home that clearly never wanted him—

But it hurt, and he was so tired and lonely and he just wanted to go back home.

He’d planned to spend a night in his room, sleep in his old bed and take that little joy before he left again, but his steps led him past his door, further down, and Jason couldn’t stop himself from entering the master bedroom.

Couldn’t stop himself from creeping closer to the slumbering figure under moonlight-dappled sheets.

Couldn’t stop himself from slowly edging the blankets back, and bracing a knee on the corner of the bed, and—

Bruce shifted the moment he put his weight on the bed, which was—Jason knew that Bruce was highly trained to wake up to a single disturbance in his surroundings, but he still froze.  Bruce was awake, Bruce was blinking at him, Bruce knew and any moment now, Jason would be kicked out—

“Jason?” Bruce asked.  His voice was soft.  Jason had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

“Dad,” Jason croaked out, because Bruce denied him nothing when he called him that, and he just wanted one night to pretend like he was still a part of this family.

“Jay,” Bruce smiled, and drew the covers back further.  Jason leapt at the unspoken invitation.  “Jay-lad.”

Jason couldn’t quite choke down the sob at the older nickname, and held himself perfectly still as Bruce reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

He stared at Bruce for a stretching moment before the man decided to act—Jason yelped as Bruce pulled him closer, drawing him into a hug, clutching Jason close and burying his face against Jason’s hair.

“Bruce?” Jason asked warily, slowly creeping an arm around his father to return the hug.  It was warm and Jason’s eyes were prickling and this was everything he wanted and it felt like a dream.

“My son,” Bruce hummed, and Jason buried his face into Bruce’s shirt to stop the tears.  “I’m so sorry.”

Everything he wanted.

So very perfect.

He was home and Bruce was here and he was hugging Jason and—

And if this was a dream, Jason never wanted to wake up.

Let me be selfish, Jason begged, please.

Darkness wrapped around him, and lulled him to sleep to the tune of his dad’s heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Bruce came awake to a scream.

“Jason!” someone shouted, and he forced his eyes open in a sudden burst of panic—Cave, he recognized instantly, he was on the floor, his head ached, there was a pinch point of pain in his arm, like he’d been stabbed with a needle—

The toxin.  The antidote.  Jason.  Jason, gasping for breath under him.  Jason, green eyes dimming to resignation.  Jason, lips moving to form I’m sorry even as Bruce crushed his windpipe with his bare hands.

Bruce straightened upright, numb, like he was watching his body move and wasn’t all the way inside.

“No, no, Jaybird, please, please, wake up, you have to wake up,” Dick babbled mindlessly, cradling Jason in a position to keep his airway open.  Damian was already sprinting back with the medkit, and Tim yanked it from him to rifle through the contents and draw out a hollow needle.

Jason’s lips were blue, his skin alarmingly pale.  He was struggling to breathe.

Steph jabbed the needle into his throat, and Jason’s struggles ceased.  His chest rose and fell, albeit slowly.  Tears dripped down Dick’s face as he held his little brother.

“I’m calling Leslie,” Tim informed them, moving to deactivate the Cave’s lockdown.  Damian hovered in place, uncertain, and Steph curled up and buried her head in her knees.

Bruce shifted forward the two steps to crouch at Jason’s side.  He still felt like he was moving through a dream.

That couldn’t be Jason.

That couldn’t be what Bruce had done to him.

That couldn’t be his son, strangled almost to death by Bruce’s hands.

Bruce smoothed Jason’s hair away from his forehead with trembling fingers.  His cheeks were wet.  “I’m so sorry, Jay-lad,” he croaked out.

Sorry.  What was sorry in the face of strangling his son twice?  How could Bruce even begin to apologize for this?

Bruce quietly bent and pressed a kiss to Jason’s forehead, squeezing his eyes shut.  It could be the last time he’d ever get to do it.

Jason would never want to see him again.

How could Bruce still call himself a father after nearly killing his son?

Chapter Text

Okay.  He’d drunk two espressos and chugged three energy drinks.  He was vibrating so hard he was seriously considering calling Bart and asking him if this was what it was like being a speedster.  He could barely stop himself from bouncing in place, and Bruce was giving him strange looks.

“You okay, bud?” Bruce asked finally, getting into bed.

“I’m fine!” Tim smiled brightly.  Oops.  Too wide.  He toned it down, so Bruce stopped staring at him like the Joker had popped up.  “Just fine.  Ready to sleep!”

“Okay,” Bruce said slowly, but waited for Tim to curl under the blankets before he switched off the lights.

Tim twisted under the blankets, hunting for the perfect spot.  This was the last test.  The final experiment.  The last piece of evidence to prove that this bed wasn’t normal.

At first, he thought it was just a nice bed.  Soft.  Comfortable.  He slept deeply, so deeply he didn’t even realize he was rolling off the bed.  Usually he woke up if he moved too much.

Then it began getting…strange.

No more sleepless nights.  No more insomniac wanderings.  No more staring at the ceiling pondering half-solved cases until the sun rose again.  Suspicion turned to concern turned to paranoia—was someone drugging him?  Was the bed made of knockout pills?

But then Bruce wouldn’t wake up, and he definitely got up frequently during the night.  And surely Cass would’ve noticed if she was being drugged.

He double-checked the frame, mattress, and sheets, just in case.  And ended up taking a satisfying nap while he was at it.

Then began the experiments.

He drank a cup of coffee before bed—nothing.

He slipped in after a nightmare that left his heart racing—he was out like a light.

He laid down with a headache screaming insistently at him—he’d fallen asleep before he could even try.

No matter what he did, he fell asleep quickly, slept deeply, and woke up refreshed.  It was magic.  It had to be magic.

And thus the final test—enough caffeine to push the daily limit.  If the effects of the bed were chemical, it would definitely not react pleasantly to the caffeine in his system.  If the effects were magical, Tim would get the same, great sleep he always did.

He felt like something was itching at him as he twisted again.  God, the hard part would be staying still long enough to sleep.  He wanted to push the blankets off.  He wanted to jump up and down on the bed.  Hmm, had he tried that?  Would he fall asleep doing that as well?  Had Dick ever jumped on the bed?

Tim snorted at the mental image of a hyperactive child Dick bouncing all over the place while a weary Bruce stared into empty space.  How had the bed combined with Dick’s natural tendency to move?  Did it automatically adjust to everyone’s individual preferences?  How did it know?

Tim shifted again, yawning.  He felt…heavy.  Like someone had tied weights around him.  That would be fun.  Unless someone threw him in the water.  Then that would be terrifying.

Tim shuddered, and sank deeper into the bed.

No one would get him here, though.  Bruce was here, and he’d keep Tim safe.  Tim was warm and protected and all curled up on this nice…soft…pleasant…

Darkness slipped over him on his next breath.

Chapter Text

Damian hissed as the black-and-blue-clad vigilante tried to get closer, and tightened his grip on the knife.  The boy backed off, but the arms around him only tightened as something soft nuzzled against his hair.

Damian did not lean into it.  He did not.  There wasn’t something aching and clawing inside of him, desperately begging for one of his mother’s hugs, and the purple-clad vigilante was soft and warm and she smelled like lavender and Damian wanted to tuck himself further into her grasp because he missed Mother already.

He was surrounded by strangers and he wanted to go home.  But he couldn’t—he knew he couldn’t, Mother had sent him away for his own safety, he was supposed to live with his father—a father that had no idea he existed, because Damian’s clipped explanation had turned the man’s face dark—and his father’s other kids, and why had Mother not warned him?

“She’s been stabbed,” the black-and-blue-clad vigilante was hissing to Father, “We can’t just—”

“How do you propose we separate them?” Father asked, his tone cold.  Damian shrank back further into the girl’s grasp—Spoiler, the others had called her.  She hummed and pulled her cape around them both.

“We can just wait for the pollen to wear off,” the younger one said—Robin, that was Robin, his father’s protégé.  The one Damian had been lying in wait for, before Spoiler had spotted him and attacked him.

Damian hadn’t expected an attack, and the knife he lodged into her side hadn’t made her back off, and he’d been twisted into a hold no amount of writhing broke, and there was nothing to do but give up.

The older vigilante threw up his arms, “Guess we’re keeping this one, then.”  He took a step closer to Damian but stayed well out of stabbing reach.  “Congratulations, kid, you’re a part of the family now.  And now I need to go ask Ivy if she’s doing this on purpose.”

Damian was—was part of them?  He didn’t have—this was enough to prove himself?  He had failed to fight off Spoiler, but they were welcoming him anyway?

“Shh,” Spoiler hummed, gloved fingers combing through his hair, and he curled up further into her lap.

Maybe he hadn’t failed after all.

Chapter Text

Bruce drew fuzzily back to awareness, his head pounding.  He slowly straightened, cataloguing his surroundings—he was in a cell, no, he was in the Cave, Cass was right outside, Damian hovering next to her, why was he in a containment cell—

Jason.  Blinding rage.  His hands constricting around his son’s throat as he begged for Bruce to stop.

Bruce wasn’t sick over the floor of the cell, but it was a near thing.

“Bruce?” Cass asked, peering at him.

“Cassandra,” he said quietly, levering up.  She unlocked the door easily, and he stepped outside.

Jason was sitting at the Batcomputer.  Bruce tried to tell himself that was a good sign.  “Code 2-Alpha-4-Echo,” he called out as they made their way to the platform, “Deactivate lockdown.”

Jason stiffened, before swiveling towards them.

Horror.  Overwhelming horror.  The outline of fingers around his neck, the way he was holding one arm tight to his body, the rigid tension as he stared at them.  “Jason,” Bruce stepped forward, desperate to make this right and unsure of how—

Jason flinched away from him, and made a low, pained sound when he jostled the broken arm.  Bruce froze.  “Alright,” Jason croaked out, in a voice like ground gravel, “Blood work’s clean, the Bats are awake, I’ll leave you all to it.”

“Steph, call Leslie to come to the Cove,” Bruce said firmly.  He wanted to get closer, but Jason was already looking hunted.

“I’m not staying,” Jason said, narrowing his eyes.

“You can’t get on your motorcycle with your injuries,” Dick challenged, and Bruce wanted to groan—Jason lived to be contrary.

“Watch me.”

“Fine,” Dick rejoined, “I doubt you can even get out of that chair without help.”

It was obvious that Jason was severely injured.  And yet he persisted in trying to inch out of the chair until something moved wrong and he crumpled back down with a strangled shout.

“That’s what I thought,” Dick said, and Jason growled.  The matter effectively settled, the rest of them drifted to continue their other tasks.

Bruce took a deep breath.  Jason was here.  Jason was alive.  Jason was injured, but it wasn’t life-threatening, Bruce hadn’t killed his son, hadn’t watched the light drain from betrayed green eyes as he squeezed—

“Say it,” Jason snapped suddenly, “Say it, old man, I know you’re dying to.”

Bruce stared at him blankly.  “Say what?”

“Your goddamn lecture,” Jason sneered, “You hadn’t even finished the last one.”  He looked angry.  He looked upset.  “So say it, tell me all the ways that I fucked up again, that I let my anger get the best of me—” he was gasping for breath “—that I put everyone in danger, that I was reckless and—and irresponsible and—”

Bruce started forward as Jason wheezed desperately.  Dick yelled for Damian to get the oxygen mask, and Bruce forced Jason upright as he tried to hunch over.  The oxygen mask was handed to him, and Bruce curled Jason’s fingers around it and guided it to Jason’s face.

Several gasping breaths sounded before Jason finally took a deep enough breath.  “Say it,” Jason muttered, “Get it out of your system.”

Bruce monitored his breathing and tried to remind himself that Leslie worked on the far side of Gotham, and it would take her a while to get here.

“Alright,” Jason said wearily, slumping further in the chair, “I’ll just run through the highlights then.  Your temper is out of control, blah, blah, you have to be more careful, yadda, yadda, stop endangering my family—”

What was he talking about?

“Jason,” Bruce cut off the litany, “You are a part of this family.”

Bruce wasn’t one hundred percent sure that was a laugh, but it grated on his nerves all the same.  “I can’t believe you managed that with a straight face,” Jason said coldly.

“Jason—”

“No,” his son snapped, “No.  I’m not a part of this family and you can’t just unilaterally—”

“Jason,” Bruce tried to interject, “You are my son—”

“No, your son got blown up in a warehouse when you weren’t looking—” That was a jab straight to Bruce’s heart, because he hadn’t been looking, he’d thought that Jason was safe, and he was too late—

“And I am your father—”

“You aren’t jack shit to me!” Jason snarled viciously.  Another knife, and Bruce’s heart was tearing apart.  The toxin, he wanted to say, but no—this anger was real.  “You were a father to the kid that never stopped believing that Batman was going to save him, that died believing that Batman was coming.  I am not that kid!”

“Jason—” Bruce tried again, his voice hoarse.

“I’m not your son!”

Silence reigned—the only sounds that broke it were the echoes of Jason’s shout and his wheezing breaths.  Bruce stared at his child, the child that he’d lost and gotten back, and he never quite knew what to say to Jason but Jason would never stop being his son.

“You called me dad,” Bruce said, voice small.

“I would’ve called you fucking Santa Claus if it got your hands off my neck,” came the cold rejoinder.  Bruce managed to suppress the flinch by sheer force of will—Jason begging, Jason gasping, Jason crying—and hid the shards of his heart behind a wall of numbness.

“I think we should table this discussion for now,” Dick said slowly, bridging the uneasy silence, “We’re all a little—”

“No,” Jason snapped, “You don’t understand.  You all refuse to understand.  Jason Todd died at the hands of a madman.  He’s dead.  You didn’t get your son back,” Jason narrowed his eyes at Bruce, “Stop pretending like you did.”

“Jason,” Dick started, but Bruce raised a hand to stop him.  Anger was curling next to the heartbreak, because Jason loved lashing out with words and Bruce couldn’t stand here and listen to Jason pretend to not care about any of them.

“Okay,” Bruce said simply.  Dick made a protesting noise, and Bruce spoke over him, “Okay.  Jason Todd is dead.”  There—exactly what Jason wanted.

“Bruce,” Dick said, aghast.

Bruce ignored him.  “Then who are you?” he demanded, voice hard.

Jason was staring at him like Bruce had told him that the sun had stopped working.  “What?”

“If Jason Todd is dead, then who are you?” Bruce asked, the pulse of hurt burning higher.

“I—I don’t—”

“Who are you?  Why do you join in on our battles?  Why did you try to get us into holding cells instead of letting us tear each other apart?” Bruce asked, his voice getting louder, “Why don’t you just kill us all?  If you aren’t a part of this family, then why?”

Open your eyes, Bruce begged, please come back to me.

“Fuck you,” Jason snapped automatically, “Fuck you, Bruce.  You don’t get to ask that question.  You don’t—you—”

He didn’t have an answer.  Didn’t have barbed words to spit at them.  He’d have to confront the angry mix of emotions now, have to accept that he considered them family for all that he loved to rage and snarl—

Green eyes flared.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Jason pushed himself out of the chair, shaky and furious, “It never mattered.”

“Jason!” Dick cried out, alarmed, but Jason had eyes only for Bruce.

“No matter what you say, no matter what you do, your son is dead and you have to live with that.”

His voice was getting weaker, but Bruce could feel the hate churning under it as Jason wavered.  As Bruce stared at him, fixed to the spot, by words that felt like lances.

“Your son is dead,” Jason spat out, “Your son is dead, and you didn’t save me.”

It tore his heart in two.  He caught Jason as he crumpled, as invisible wounds wept silently.

Jason was right.

Bruce hadn’t saved him.

Chapter Text

Tim pried open crusty eyelids to meet wavering gray.  He felt like something was tying him down, binding his limbs, swallowing him whole, and he didn’t even have the energy to struggle.  He could only lie there and wait for the crushing pressure to diminish.

It did diminish, replaced by a shooting pain against his stomach, a dull ache in his hand, a throbbing headache, and a mouth that tasted like dust and death.  He tried to move, to at least look up, but there was a heavy weight across his legs and he subsided with a muffled groan.

He did see, however, that he wasn’t alone.  He couldn’t register more than typical League robes—made sense, the League had been following him since Paris, and after the—the desert?  The desert, the Widower, oh god, Z and Owen and Pru—he wouldn’t have been able to stop them.

Still couldn’t stop them, in his lethargy, with someone sitting on his legs to ensure he didn’t get up.

But the weight shifted off his legs.  “Drake?” a voice called out, child-high, and Tim had to brace an elbow against the bed to sit up, because—

“Damian?”

“You’re awake,” Damian made a sharp, irritated clicking sound, narrowing his eyes.  Tim stared at him.  At the scowl.  At the League robes he was wearing.  At the sword he was sharpening while sitting on top of Tim.

Tim blinked.  The scene did not resolve itself into further clarity.

“Damian?” Tim repeated hesitantly.  The kid’s face twisted into a deeper scowl.

“Did you lose your eyes too?” Damian snapped, “Or are you going senile?”

Definitely the demon brat.

“Wait,” Tim croaked out, “Lose my eyes too?”  He looked down at himself, abruptly alarmed, but he seemed to have the right number of limbs and fingers and toes.  “What did I lose?” he rasped, wincing as his voice cracked.

Damian kept glaring as he crawled up the bed and reached for the bedside table.  There was a jug and a glass there, and Damian filled it up before practically shoving it in Tim’s face.  Tim managed to swallow it down—water, presumably—without choking, and half of the second glass too, before he turned his face to the side, sharply, letting the water slosh out against his cheek until Damian withdrew it.

“Damian, wait,” Tim said, clearing his throat, “What did I lose?”

The brat made another clicking noise, but otherwise remained silent, sitting on his knees next to Tim.

“Damian.”  Tim’s heart was pounding now, panic skittering down his limbs as he struggled to keep his breathing steady.

“Calm down,” Damian snapped back, “Your spleen.  A minor organ not necessary for survival.”

Tim blinked at him.  He remembered the Widower’s blade cutting into him, the pain almost an afterthought, and he jerked the blanket aside to see that half his stomach was plastered in gauze.

“We think,” Damian added.

“You think?!”

“None of us are trained medical professionals,” Damian retorted icily, “So yes, we’re forced to rely on the League’s word that you’re missing an organ.”

Normally, Tim could keep up with the demon brat’s stream of snippy comments, but right now, his head was pounding, he ached all over, and he was most likely missing a spleen.

“Worst field trip ever,” he muttered under his breath, but clearly not low enough, because Damian sneered.

“Oh, yes, gallivant around the world, get in bed with assassins, and then complain,” Damian snapped, “Like this isn’t your fault—”

“My fault?” Tim hissed, levering up, “I’m sorry I had to resort to whoever was willing to help me when my family abandoned me—”

“We aren’t the ones that lost their minds from grief and decided to leave—”

“Bruce is alive, you goddamn brat, I did it, I found proof, and the only one willing to listen to me was Ra’s—”

“A manipulative, calculating, near-immortal assassin hellbent on corrupting you, yes, that would be a trustworthy ally—”

“At least he listened—”

“He nearly got you killed!” Damian almost shrieked, fists balled up.  “You almost died, you lost an entire organ, and Grandfather was ready to throw you into the Pit!”  His eyes were glittering, his face red, and Tim was momentarily struck dumb when he realized that Damian was…trembling.

“Damian,” Tim started, softer, but the kid cut him off.

“That’s where your foolish idea would’ve gotten you, bleeding out in the desert, I’m sure you’d be a great help to Father then—”

“Damian—”

“Or better yet, turned into a mindless monster like Todd, because we could use more fratricide in this family—” Damian gesticulated, and Tim gave up on using words and extended his arms.

Damian wavered, his face still an angry red, but the scowl crumpled and Damian tipped over into his arms, pressing closer and burying his face against Tim’s shoulder as Tim slowly wrapped his arms around him.  The kid was shuddering, sobs quiet but not silent, and Tim held him close, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

“You left,” Damian accused in a cracked voice, and Tim squeezed tighter.

“I’m here now,” he said softly.

“No thanks to your abysmal self-preservation skills,” Damian sniffled.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“No thanks to your abysmal self-preservation skills.”

“Come on, Dami,” Tim said, and the brat didn’t even elbow him for the nickname.  “Only down one spleen so far.  I still have plenty of organs to wager.”

“Lose another organ, and I will disembowel you,” Damian growled.  Tim didn’t point out that that would be counterproductive.

Instead, he stayed quiet, holding Damian, letting the kid hide against him as his tears died to hitched, sniffling breaths. 

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Tim said softly.  Damian made a harsh, clicking sound at the idea of being worried, but didn’t dispute it.  Tim hid his smile in Damian’s hair, until something occurred to him.  “Wait.  Did you come here by yourself?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Drake.  Grayson and Cain are yelling at Grandfather, Todd is setting explosives, and Brown is waiting on the plane.  Pennyworth is at the Cave, ready to lecture you at length for your foolishness.”

Chapter Text

Tim managed to hold it together until Cel closed the door behind them.  He’d held it together when he first noticed the shimmering dust back in the Batcave, he’d held it together in the too-hot, quick shower, while slipping into his comfiest clothes, while sneaking out because his skin was clawing and his heart was racing and it pleaded desperately for warmth and Tim maybe could’ve confessed to Dick, but he wasn’t in Gotham and Bruce didn’t want to touch him, no one wanted to touch him, but that was okay because Tim knew where he could get hugs.

Cheap, too.  Mandy had given him a flat stare when he’d first offered eighty bucks, and handed three of the bills back before calling over the youngest prostitute on the corner.  Twenty bucks for a hug was practically a steal, and by taking up the time of the younger girls, Tim almost felt like he was helping them.

Of course, that changed when Hood showed up.  No one allowed under the age of eighteen—Mandy had hesitated when he showed up, a flash of fear twisting across it, but Tim hadn’t had a hug since Hood had taken over Crime Alley and the pollen was skittering under his skin and he needed it and she read his desperation and agreed.

Technically, hugs were a service.  But hugs also weren’t sex, and after waiting thirty minutes, Tim was ready to dive at the first person who looked his way, whether they were friend or foe.

Cel tugged him into her arms with a soft, clicking sigh and pulled him onto the bed.  “It’s okay,” she said softly, gently rubbing his back, and Tim shook because it felt so good.  Cel was—well, not like a big sister, she was getting paid, she didn’t actually like him, he’d learnt his lesson on that one—but like a…friend.  No, a coworker that tolerated him.  Obviously only here for the money, but kinder than she needed to be.

“You’re going to be okay.”

Just when Tim actually started to believe it, Cel gasped and shoved him away.  “This isn’t what it looks like,” she said, panicked, and Tim pushed himself off the bed, fingers shaking as he suppressed the urge to reach for her—who was she talking to—

Red helmet.

Oh fuck.

“I swear, Mr. Hood, it isn’t—we weren’t—” Cel stuttered, “It was just a hug, I swear.  We weren’t doing anything, I promise!”

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

“We’re following your rules, Mr. Hood, I swear we are,” Cel’s voice broke, and Tim couldn’t even open his mouth and corroborate her story, frozen to the spot in terror.

“I know,” Hood said finally, his distorted voice devoid of all emotion, “I believe you.”  He paused.  “I need to borrow your room.”

No.  Tim needed to leave.  Tim needed to get up and—and his skin felt like ants were crawling all over it, he needed touch, he needed warmth, there were two people in the room so why was no one hugging him—

“Whatever you want, Mr. Hood,” Cel said quickly, and fled.

Leaving Tim alone.  With the Red Hood.  With the man that had beaten him half to death a few months ago.

Tim couldn’t move.  Every cell in his body was screaming at him to seek out warmth, and the closest person was wearing body armor and guns and Tim wouldn’t—he couldn’t—he didn’t know how long he’d be able to stop himself from reaching out to Hood in desperation—

Hood made the dilemma worse.  He stalked towards Tim, slow and predatory, and Tim couldn’t even inch back, all he could do was tear his gaze away and cover his eyes like that would muffle his sobs.

“You got hit by pollen,” Hood said.  Was Tim imagining the glimmer of amusement in his tone?

Fuck.

He prayed for Hood to leave.  His body begged Hood to get closer, just a little closer, please—Tim jerked away, no, not Hood, anyone but Hood, he couldn’t, he would break—

Gloved hands closed around his wrist, and his self-control disintegrated.

“Hood, p—please don’t,” Tim begged as he leaned towards him, desperate for more warmth, terrified of what he’d have to do to get it.

Hood ignored him, and hauled him closer and Tim couldn’t resist, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t do anything but grab Hood’s jacket and burrow closer, curling up in the crime lord’s lap.

No.  Please no.  Please.  Please.

Tearing him away to leave him sobbing on the floor was actually the kinder option.  Instead, Hood slowly wrapped him in a hug.

Tim broke.

“I’m sorry,” he inhaled sharply, “I won’t come to Crime Alley again, I swear—” He would get hugs nowhere else, but he no longer had a choice.  “Please let me go—please—I won’t do it again—I’m sorry—”

“Calm down, kid,” Hood said, and—and gloved fingers ran through Tim’s hair.  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Oh god.  Oh god.  No.  Not this.  Not the painful, agonizing memory of what had once been.  Not the cruel reminder of one of the happiest times in Tim’s life.  Not the bright recollection of warm arms and gentle protectiveness tainted forever by betrayal and fury and vengeance.

Not this.

Please, not this.

Tim couldn’t do this again.

Please.

Hood didn’t stop, slowly running his fingers through Tim’s hair as he trembled and wept, unable to let go.  He barely even paused when the door opened, and Tim sucked in a sharp breath.

“Hood,” came Mandy’s steady voice.  Please save me, Tim begged inside his head.  “I wanted to assure you that we don’t serve underage clients.”

“I know.”

A long pause.  “He missed you,” she said softly.

Tim couldn’t entirely strangle the terrified inhale.  Hood’s slow strokes stuttered, before they picked up again.

“The room for the rest of the night, please.”

Tim choked, and let the tears run down Hood’s armor, unable to stop shaking.  Mandy continued an inscrutable conversation with Hood over Tim’s head, but she left, just like Cel had, leaving him alone with a murderer.

Hood shifted, but made no move to let go of Tim.  The rest of the night, he’d said.  That was a lot of time, and Tim couldn’t run.  He remembered how gleeful Hood had been when Tim had stopped running in Titans Tower, how he’d made the beating slow and painful.  Here, in Hood’s own territory, with Tim weaponless and alone, it would be even worse.

And all Tim could do was shiver and wait for it to start.

Apparently, Hood wanted to begin with psychological torture, because he let go of Tim—Tim gasped, pressing closer, as close as he could get without actually fusing to Hood’s armor, his chest tight and painful, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t—please, he couldn’t—

Hood’s arms came back, shushing him, gently stroking his hair again, waiting until Tim calmed back down, melting back into a limp puddle.  Tim shuddered through a particularly wrenching sob, but he couldn’t do anything to stop Hood.  He couldn’t do anything at all.

“Is B back in town?” Hood asked—coming out in his rough voice because he’d apparently taken off his helmet—instead of letting go again, and Tim instantly stiffened.

“What—why—what are you—” What did Hood want—that was the sound of a phone—“Wait, Jason don’t—”

A ransom demand?  Just plain torture?  Tim had left the Manor for the express purpose of not bothering Bruce, and running into Hood had ruined all that hard work.

Time couldn’t hear the other end of the line, and he waited for Hood to get on with whatever torture he’d planned, tears dripping silently down his face.

“You are either astonishingly incompetent for someone called the World’s Greatest Detective, or you’re an abusive father, which one is it?”

What.

What did—Bruce wasn’t—what was Hood doing?

“No, you already dropped the ball on that one, old man,” Hood laughed, his voice bitter, “And you seem determined to repeat the same mistakes again.”

What was Hood talking about?

“Missed that he got hit with Ivy’s pollen, huh?”

No.  Hood couldn’t—why was he—

“You’ll be thrilled to know he’s safe and sound with me, I’m sure.”

Ha.  That was funny.

Hood lowered the phone, the crackling of the line suddenly audible.  “Hey, Timbers, the old man wants proof of life.”

Tim didn’t know what Hood wanted, and he refused to play his games.

“Oi, Replacement.”  It was accompanied by a sharp poke, but Tim pressed his lips together.  He wasn’t going to do anything.

“Tim?” Bruce called through the line.  Tim shuddered, but stayed silent—he wasn’t—he wouldn’t—

Hood suddenly grabbed his shoulder and tugged him away and half the nerve endings in his body in his body screamed at the sudden loss of warmth.  Tim tried to get closer, scrabbling against Hood’s grip, apologizing and begging and pleading and he didn’t even know what he was saying, only that he needed to get closer to Hood.

Hood finally let go, and Tim clutched at his armor with shaky fingers, burrowing into it and sobbing because he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t keep playing this game, he couldn’t.  He was exhausted and everything ached and he’d just wanted a hug.

“Thanks for that,” Hood growled, “Now he thinks I’m torturing you.”

Tim rested his cheek against the armor, and listened to the faint heartbeat.

“I’m not torturing you,” Hood said, “In case that wasn’t clear.”

Tim didn’t have the energy to ferret out the lie.  “Why did you call Bruce?” he whispered.

“Who else was I supposed to call?” Hood snapped, “Nightwing’s clearly not in town.”

Tim—Tim didn’t understand.  What did Hood want?  Was—was he actually calling someone to take Tim away?  “You didn’t have to call anyone,” Tim muttered, “You didn’t—you didn’t have to barge in.  I was handling it.”

If Hood had just left him alone.

“Handling it,” Hood repeated, his voice flat, “Prostitutes in Crime Alley is your definition of handling it?”

“It’s not the first—” Tim hastily cut off that sentence, because they both knew when his first time had been, “I’m not an idiot, I know how to be careful—”

“You are an idiot,” Hood snarled, “You’re so hopped up on pollen that you can’t defend yourself if someone decides to take your money and go for more.”

Oh, like he cared?

“I’m not,” Tim snapped, “I’m fine, I can defend myself—”

Hood grabbed his jaw and pulled it up, until Tim was forced to look up at narrowed green eyes.  “Can you?” he asked, voice soft.

Tim swallowed.  It wasn’t a threat, except in all the ways that it was.  Something twisted in Hood’s expression, and he let go of Tim’s jaw.  Tim curled back up.

“You’re an idiot,” Hood repeated flatly, “One, for not telling B you got hit.  Two, for leaving the house after you got hit.  Three, for coming to the most dangerous part of the most dangerous city in this country instead of trusting your own goddamn family.”

Tim had the strange, wild thought that Jason was actually technically family.  He didn’t dare to voice it out loud.

Hood shifted, settling back and extending his legs, pulling Tim closer and going back to running a hand through his hair.  Just like he used to.  The hugs that Tim had treasured like gold, the feeling of safety and security and being wanted.

It had all been a lie.  Jay had just been there for the money.  It was all fake.

But Tim wasn’t paying Jason.  And he was still here.

Chapter Text

“Dick!” Bruce shouted, the yell echoing through the Cave, and Dick paused his perusal of a report and jogged over to the tunnel.  Bruce was supposed to be in an interrogation, why was he calling Dick—why was there a kid on the ground—

“Jason?”

“Get him out of here,” Bruce ordered, voice tight—there was still a prisoner restrained to the cot, and Jason was starting to shake.  Fuck.

Dick knelt in front of Jason, trying to block his view of the scene behind him.  This wasn’t exactly how they’d planned to introduce him to the Cave.

Jason was still shivering, and he squeezed his eyes shut as Dick reached out for him and scooped him up.  “Shh,” Dick soothed, keeping his head nestled down so that he wouldn’t be able to see anything even if he opened his eyes.  “Shh, Jaybird, it’s okay.”  He strode quickly through the Cave, heading for the Manor—he needed to get Jason away as quickly as possible, before something reminded him of the prisoner Bruce was interrogating.

Jason was crying, Dick could feel tears soaking through his shirt, and he took the steps at a run, heart racing, and exhaled when they were on the other side of the clock.

“I’m—I’m s—sorry,” Jason stuttered as Dick carried him into the study, “P—please, I am, I didn’t—didn’t mean to—I s—swear, please—please—”

“Shh, Jason, calm down,” Dick tried to soothe—he’d planned to take Jason to one of the nearby sitting rooms, but the kid was trembling violently and Dick dropped down on the couch in the study to try and soothe him.  “Please calm down, you’re okay, no one is hurting you.”

“Please,” Jason almost wailed, and Dick drew him closer—Jason took the opportunity to bury his face in the front of Dick’s shirt to hide his sobs.  “I’m sorry—I—I didn’t—I wasn’t—please—please don’t—please—please make it quick—”

Oh god.  Did Jason think they were going to torture him?

“No one is hurting you, Jaybird,” Dick said softly, stroking a hand through Jason’s hair as he shuddered.  “Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, please—”

“Jaybird, calm down,” Dick said desperately, wondering if he should call Babs.  He was not equipped for a crying child.

Thankfully, Bruce showed up.  “How is he?” Bruce asked, hovering but not getting closer.

Dick made a face.  “He doesn’t believe you—”

Jason untwisted in his lap and looked up at Bruce.  “I’m sorry!  Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, I—I wasn’t spying, I swear—”

“Jason,” Bruce said slowly, trying to get him to calm down, “I don’t—”

“Please,” Jason begged, “Please, I—I know you’re going to kill me but please just make it quick, please.”

Oh.  Oh no.  Dick tightened his grip, as if that would make everything better, and curled around Jason.  Bruce’s whole face spasmed before he took a seat on the couch and breathed out slowly.

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, “I’m not going to kill you.”

Clear.  Concise.  To the point.  And yet—

“Please,” Jason whimpered, “No games, please—”

“I’m not playing games,” Bruce replied sharply, “I’m not going to hurt you.”  Jason stiffened in Dick’s arms.  “No one in this house is going to hurt you,” Bruce amended, “You are family.”

Jason was nearly tripping over his words, still sobbing, “But—but I was—I didn’t mean to—I was down—down in the cave and—and I saw you—and I didn’t mean to, I swear—”

“Jason,” Bruce leaned forward to lay a hand on his shoulder.  “Please calm down.  I am not going to hurt you for accidentally going somewhere you shouldn’t.  I am not going to hurt you period.”

Listen to him, Dick wanted to scream, wanted to grab the kid’s shoulders and shake, but that would be counterproductive and he was grinding his teeth with the effort to stay silent.

“P—please,” Jason stuttered, and Bruce cut him off.

“Jason,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jason went limp.  Suddenly, abruptly limp, complete dead weight as a shudder wrenched through him.

“Jason?” Bruce said, alarmed.

“Jaybird?” Dick asked frantically, twisting Jason until he was leaning against Dick’s chest and caged by his arms.  “Jason, what happened?”

“P—ple—ease,” Jason hiccupped, tears dripping silently down what was visible of his face.

“Jaybird,” Dick said softly, begging him to believe it, “We’re not going to hurt you, I swear.”

Jason made a choked sob, face still pressed against Dick’s shirt.  “D—don’t need to l—lie,” he choked out, “I k—know that you g—got a street kid because we—we’re not in the system.  B—but you can j—just go get another.”  Jason paused to take a hitched breath, his voice cracking, “J—just please don’t make it s—slow.”

He actually believed it.  He actually, genuinely, sincerely believed that they were going to torture a twelve-year-old.  That they were going to torture him.  That Bruce would ever, ever be even capable of raising a hand to a child.  That Dick would ever try to hurt his new little brother.  That they were just playing a cruel trick on him.

“Bruce,” Dick murmured, because he knew about the new paperwork Babs had printed out for Bruce, and he knew that Bruce had wanted to wait to ask, to make it special, but right now, Jason needed the surety.

Right now, there was a twelve-year-old sobbing in his lap, too terrified to even move, and they needed something to get through to him.

Bruce came back with the papers.  “Jason,” he called softly, “Please look at me.”

Jason slowly dragged his face up.

“I didn’t decide to give you a place to stay because you were a street kid,” Bruce said slowly, “And you are in the system.”  He handed the papers to Jason, who took them warily, like they were a bomb.

“What—what is this?” Jason asked shakily.

“I wasn’t planning on telling you like this, Jay,” Bruce said softly.  “But I’d like to make you a part of this family on paper as well.”  The papers were completely filled, bar Jason’s signature, and Dick watched his little brother hesitantly trace over the filled-in words, “The decision is, of course, yours to make.”

“I—I don’t understand,” the kid said, slow but clearly panicking again, “I—I’m not—I’m not special, I don’t know—I’m not—I can’t—I know—I’m not even the fastest at taking off tires, Mr. Wayne, I don’t know—I don’t know what you want from me, but I—I don’t think I can give it to you.”

He tried to give the papers back to Bruce, but Bruce didn’t let him, his tone soft and gentle, “Jason, you are special.”

Dick remembered an awful, awful night, years and years ago, and Bruce using the same gentle voice, drying his tears, giving him a hug, making him feel safe and warm and protected.  Remembered wondering why Bruce Wayne would ever choose a circus brat, and Bruce reassuring him, time and time again, that he did want Dick, that they were family, and nothing and no one could change that.

“I’m not adopting you because I want something from you.  All I want is for you to grow up safe and happy.  I want to give you a home, kiddo, and it has nothing to do with how fast you can take off tires.”

Jason stared down at the papers, sniffling.  “Why me?” Jason whispered, echoing the same words that Dick had used all those years ago.

Bruce gently and carefully wiped the tears off of Jason’s face.  “Why not?” he said softly.

Jason’s breathing cracked on another sob and he practically flung himself out of Dick’s grasp—Bruce caught him, bewildered, but drew him closer, letting the kid sob into his shirt in desperate, agonized relief.

“You are ours, Jaybird,” Dick said fiercely, leaning forward and wrapping a hug around them both, “You’re family.  And we won’t hurt you.”

Chapter Text

Dick hid the smile as Jason double-checked his uniform for the tenth time, running his gloved hands over the utility belt, tugging at the hoodie, adjusting the full-face red mask he wanted in addition to a simple domino underneath.

“Ready, little bird?” he teased as he waited on the rooftop ledge.  Jason’s new costume and new name lead to a variety of new nicknames for Dick to use, and Jason had given up on threatening to shoot him to stop it.

Guns vs no guns in costume had definitely been a contentious argument, but Dick had clung firmly to his stance, sweetening the deal by gifting Jason a set of the custom-made escrima he used.

“I was ready weeks ago,” Jason grumbled, but finally stopped fussing with his uniform.

“You needed to familiarize yourself with the city and get used to—”

“Get used to training, blah blah, non-lethal, blah blah, you’re a worrywart, blah blah, I got all of it,” Jason said, and Dick could sense him rolling his eyes, “Can we get going now?”

Dick launched his grapple line and saw Jason follow suit, keeping an eye on him as they soared through the city.  They had a simple patrol planned for today, no patience-testing stakeout or big case.  Easing Jason into the role of a vigilante again.

Jason hadn’t told him about the entirety of his time away, but Dick had enough of the pieces to put together a picture.  But he had his little brother back, and he’d be damned if he ever drove Jason away again.

Dick landed on a rooftop and saw a man with a knife advancing on another person.  Mugging, most likely.  “After you, Flamebird,” he murmured, and watched Jason leap into the fray.

Chapter Text

Slade had resigned himself to another dull night when he heard the squeak of wooden beams above him.  One of the Bats.  Perfect.  Just who he wanted to see when he was muzzled in a cage.

Red metal glinted.  “N?” the Red Hood whispered, probably to a comm, “On a scale from ‘roaming Gotham freely’ to ‘locked up in a cage’, how much do we hate Deathstroke?”  Slade glared as Hood jumped down to the ground floor.

“I’m getting him out of there,” Hood said, still talking to his comm, and warily stepped closer to the cage.  Slade straightened to his feet, watching the vigilante examine the cage.  Bleeding heart heroes.  But in this case, it worked out very well for him.

Slade was going to get free, and murder every single person in this organization.  He hadn’t wanted to come to this godforsaken city on a contract anyway, and instead of paying him, they’d locked him up to experiment on him.  Slade was going to take great pleasure in tearing their throats out, and if the Bats wanted to let him go free, the better for him.

Hood sucked in a sharp breath, “They have him in a muzzle.”  There was a curious thread to his voice, white-hot anger and upset and the tiniest trace of fear.  Huh.  “Fuck calming down,” Hood snapped into his comm, “I’m going to burn this place to the ground, and then I’m going to go after every sadistic piece of shit associated with this operation.”

That sounded…personal.  Slade didn’t particularly want to contemplate who could’ve muzzled the Red Hood.  Or muzzled Robin.  Or—or before that, he’d been a child.  Slade had seen the worst of humanity, waded through it, accepted their money, but some things still settled uneasy in his gut, and muzzling a pup was one of them.

“I’m going to get that off of you,” Hood said directly to him, “So if you could come a little closer to the bars and not claw my arm to ribbons, that’d be great.”

Slade almost laughed.  That was a lot of trust Hood was putting into his word, but Slade obediently came closer to the bars.  He would play nice.  For now.

“Okay, if you maim me I’m leaving,” Hood warned, extending a hand through the bars.  Slade had clawed at the muzzle for days, but with his superhuman strength weakened, it hadn’t done much damage.

Hood tugged the latch free so easily it was almost insulting.

“Okay, now the other side—” footsteps, getting closer, and Slade jerked back and growled, but Hood was too slow, and the thug that appeared into view slammed a needle into his skin before he could recover.

Hood’s yell was cut off into a yelp as he shifted, a big, black wolf with a white spot on his head, and snarled harder when he was shoved into Slade’s cell.  Slade rolled his eye.  Some rescuer.

“Looks like we’re going to get a cage fight after all,” one of the thugs laughed—like Slade was ever going to fight for their entertainment.  He imagined tearing them limb from limb, and felt a little better.

Hood tried to rush the bars, like he could beat anything that could keep Slade locked up.  Sometimes the incompetence of so-called heroes truly astounded him.

The men laughed again.  “Don’t worry, Hood,” one of them called back, “The boss’ll be here to see you in the morning.  If you’re still alive.”

Hood’s growl changed to something higher, a hint of fear as he turned, pressed away from Slade.  He snapped, a typical posturing pup, and Slade growled low and deep.  Not happening, kid.  Slade wasn’t going to entertain a challenge from anyone, and especially not from a Bat brat.  He was already not in a good mood, and having an aggressive pup snarling in his face wasn’t going to improve it.

Hood managed to stop growling, and instead relaxed slightly, before pawing at his face and pointing to Slade.  The muzzle.  Personally, Slade would definitely not have removed a handicap from a potential hostile in close quarters, but perhaps the kid was that stupid.

Hood slunk forward and placed a paw on the muzzle.  Fuck, he was actually that stupid.

Slade was not happy at having a random wolf’s claws and teeth so close to his face—on his blind side, too—but he tolerated it, holding rigidly still as Hood gnawed at the muzzle.  Something slipped free, but there was tubing running from the muzzle to inside his skin, pumping chemicals inside of him, keeping him trapped, forcing him to suffer the indignity of this goddamn cage—

Hood yanked the whole thing off.

There was a tingling rush of pain, but Slade ignored it, cracking his jaw as he opened it wide, reveling in the freedom of baring his teeth again.  He was definitely going to enjoy sinking them into skin and tearing, and he was almost free.  All that remained was getting out of this cage, and ensuring Hood didn’t try to challenge him.

Hood snarled as Slade pressed him back, and Slade didn’t have any time to play at posturing.  Hood might’ve technically been an adult, but he was still a wolf pup, and Slade was not in the mood for games.

The snarl changed to a growl as Slade attacked, but Hood wasn’t used to fighting as a wolf, that much was obvious, and Slade’s strength was slowly coming back.  He ignored the people gathering to gawk outside the cage—he’d get to them soon enough—and pinned the wolf pup down.

He bit down on the back of the pup’s neck, an admonishment.  Stay down.  Hood wasn’t in charge here.

Hood went limp with a whimper, trembling visibly.

That…wasn’t good.

“How does it feel, Hood?” someone called out from outside the cage, “To be someone’s bitch?”

Hood still wasn’t moving, breathing too fast and too shallow, and eyes were open but not tracking.  The annoying laughter was still ringing in Slade’s ears, so he stepped up to the bars and growled, low and deep.

Hood whimpered.  The henchmen fled.

Now back to the pup, who was behaving very strangely.  Slade hadn’t seen a wolf surrender so completely to a bite in a long, long time.  Slade nosed at the black fur—was Hood injured?  Slade didn’t think he hit that hard—but Hood just made a strangled whine, still not moving.

Unfortunately, they had bigger problems.  Slade needed more space to get out of the cage, so he gently bit down on Hood’s scruff again, pulling him to the back of the cage.  The pup curled up the moment Slade let go, and Slade waited a half-second before turning around.  Break out first. 

He’d crashed against the bars several times before to no avail, but he could feel power thrumming inside of him again, and he pressed back against the ground as he crouched.  Ready—go.

The bars groaned, and snapped.  He was finally, finally out.

He could smell the blood already.

But first—Slade ducked back into the cage, heading for the shivering ball of black fur at the back.  He pressed against the pup’s flank—Slade wasn’t in the habit of playing rescuer, but the kid got the muzzle off, Slade could repay the favor.  God knows how long he’d have been stuck here if Hood hadn’t stopped by.

The pup straightened, still trembling, and Slade narrowed his eye—they’d move faster if Slade just—

Hood snapped his teeth and snarled, less of a challenge, and more of a warning to back off.  So his spirit hadn’t entirely vanished.  Slade retreated, amused—he was free now, he didn’t particularly care how much the pup postured, and Hood was not a non-lethal vigilante, so he certainly wasn’t going to stop Slade from murdering everyone in the building.

Slade stalked out, teeth bared and intent on vengeance, and checked to make sure the pup was following.

Chapter Text

Tim could feel the fresh burn of acid green twist inside of him as he stared at Ra’s—furious, so, so furious, and unable to do a single thing about it, because Ra’s would just slit his throat and throw him back into the Pit.

“You said that if I chose to be your right hand, his fate was mine,” Tim forced out through gritted teeth, “You can’t—”

“Can’t?  Can’t?  I can do anything I so choose, Timothy, and I think you forget your place,” Ra’s said, eyes narrowing, “I’ve changed my mind.  It’s so much more satisfying to watch you break this way.”

No.  No, Tim wouldn’t—not his little brother, not Jason, Tim wouldn’t hurt him—

“I won’t do it,” Tim snapped.

Ra’s laughed.  “You will, little detective, but your defiance is amusing,” he chuckled, his expression cold and intrigued, “I wonder how long before you beg leave to drown him in the Pit.”

Tim almost lost his lunch.  “Never.”  Jason would not go through that.  Tim refused to let it happen.

“Never is a long time, Timothy,” Ra’s said, low and sibilant, “And longer still when you don’t stay dead.”  Tim had never so dearly wished to shove a knife through the bastard’s eye.  Ra’s leaned back, “Stalling for time is pointless, little detective.  Who do you imagine will come for you?  Batman?”

For Tim?  No one.  But for Jason—

But Ra’s caught the flicker in his eyes, and laughed.  “For the gutter rat?  He’s already picked up the circus brat to replace him.  Face the facts, Timothy, no one will come for either of you.”

Tim didn’t have enough time to think up a rejoinder, because a cold, familiar voice cut through their conversation.

“Do you never tire of the sound of your own voice, Grandfather?”

Tim spun around and gaped.  Damian.  Damian, here.  Damian, actually here, stalking towards him, and Tim half-believed it was a hallucination.

“What are you doing here?” Ra’s snapped, “I told you that if you left, you could never come back.”

“And I told you that my family is off-limits,” Damian retorted, “I guess disappointment runs in the al Ghul line.”

Damian was actually here.

“I can’t believe your mother raised such a stupid child,” Ra’s snarled, “Did you really think you could fight your way out of this compound by yourself?”

Damian raised an eyebrow, calm and composed.  “Who said I needed to fight?”  He kept staring at Ra’s, but he flashed a hand signal Tim hadn’t seen in years.

Robin, retreat.

Tim stared.  This had to be a particularly vivid fever dream.  Maybe he was drowning in the Pit again.

Damian made the hand signal again, emphasizing it, his eyes narrowing, and between Damian’s irritation and his grandfather’s fury, Tim knew which one he’d pick.

“Jason?” he murmured as he slipped behind Damian.

“On the plane,” Damian muttered back.  Some part of Tim untwisted.

“Timothy,” Ra’s stepped forward, green eyes flashing with cold promise, “Do you really think you’ll be able to get away from me?”

“I think you’re shortly going to have greater problems than stalking my brother,” Damian said, pushing Tim back as he retreated, “You really shouldn’t have pissed off Mother.”

No one moved to attack them, and Damian shoved Tim out the door before slamming it behind them.  He didn’t ask any questions, and Tim didn’t volunteer any information, following behind Damian as they made their way to the roof.  Talia al Ghul was waiting for them, Jason in the doorway of the plane, and if this was a trick, it was an especially cruel one.

But no—Jason flinched back from the doorway as he approached, and when Tim stepped inside the plane, he saw that his little brother had retreated several steps behind.  Tim swallowed painfully, and pressed back.

Jason kept watching him, blue eyes cold and hard, and Tim could see relief skitter across his face when Damian entered.  He practically collapsed into Damian’s arms, hiding from Tim, and Tim did his best to meld with the plane wall.

He hadn’t wanted to.  God, how he hadn’t wanted to.  But if not Tim, it would’ve been someone else, and if Tim couldn’t take Jason’s pain, he could at least lessen it.

Tim seized the chance to get even further away from Jason, and gladly took over the controls to get them airborne.  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there in relative peace before Damian shouldered inside and dropped down in the co-pilot’s seat, silent.

Tim didn’t like that silence.

He swallowed.  “Where are you dropping me off?” he asked as levelly as he could manage.  The head start would be enough to outwit Ra’s, it had to be—but even if it wasn’t, at least Jason was safe.  Tim could endure, like he’d done before, and without a hostage to his good behavior, he could make Ra’s regret imprisoning him again.

“We’re going to the Cave,” Damian said.

Tim couldn’t hide the flinch.  Of course.  Back to the center of their control.

“Were you expecting something else?”

The flat tone rubbed him the wrong way.  “I wasn’t expecting you to come at all,” Tim said, turning to face Damian.

The acid green was in his eyes, on his tongue, under his skin, and Tim was long-used to controlling it, but that didn’t make it go away.

Especially not when Damian insisted on a fight.

“Did you think I was going to leave you there?” Damian snarled.

“Not Jason, no,” Tim answered, because whatever Ra’s said, Jason was Bruce’s favorite, and he’d never leave Jason behind.

“I came,” Damian said, slow and even, “To rescue both my brothers.”

That…hurt.  Tim hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.  A painful twisting of almost-shattered hope, and Tim couldn’t suppress it before the sharp, broken edges sliced through his heart.

He took refuge in the green.  “Damian, you’ve made it clear for six years that I’m not, and have never been your brother.  You used every opportunity to belittle me before I died, and you’ve treated me like a ticking time bomb ever since I came back to Gotham.”  The Lazarus Pit could twist much, but it couldn’t twist a relationship that didn’t exist.

“I’m sorry,” Damian said quietly.  “I was wrong.”

What.

What the everloving fuck.  There was no way Tim had just heard that.  There was no goddamn way in hell that he just heard an apology from Damian Wayne.

“What,” Tim breathed out.

“I was wrong,” Damian repeated easily, “I was being selfish.”

“Selfish,” Tim echoed.  He’d stepped into a mirror dimension.  Damian had rescued him and was apologizing, this couldn’t possibly be real.

Damian slumped into his chair.  He looked…tired.  “Selfish,” he said softly, “Because if you weren’t my brother, if you were lost to Pit madness, then it meant I hadn’t failed you twice over.  It meant that I hadn’t left you with Ra’s al Ghul.  Because if you were losing control, if you lashed out at Jason or Richard…if you hurt them…then it was okay that I hurt you.”

That couldn’t mean what Tim thought it meant.

“Because then I could blame how I treated you on the Pit.  Because then it wouldn’t be my fault,” Damian said, “So yes.  I was selfish.”

“The Pit,” Tim said, staring at Damian’s face.  At Damian’s eyes, so vibrant and green.  “I thought your eyes were green because of Talia.”

“My eyes were blue,” Damian corrected, “And then I returned to the League and spent a year there before realizing I wanted out.  Ra’s al Ghul does not relinquish his soldiers easily, and there were…complications.”

So much was beginning to make sense.  “And you returned, fresh from the Pit,” Tim whispered, “To see that your father had replaced you with another child.”  God, that must’ve killed him.  Damian’s hot flashes of anger, his inexplicable murderous rage, and Tim had never understood why Robin kept attacking him.

“I was wrong,” Damian repeated, meeting Tim’s gaze, “You’ve had significantly more exposure to the Pit than I have, and you’ve never tried to kill any member of the family.  I was unfair to you, because I was expecting you to act like I had, because I wanted you to act like I had, as though that would excuse what I’d done.”

That was—that was a pretty decent explanation.  An apology.  A reason for his behavior, and why it was wrong.

And none of it mattered, because Damian was wrong.

“I guess you got what you wanted in the end,” Tim said quietly, his heart twisting, “I did hurt Jason.”

He hadn’t wanted to, it had nearly killed him to, to hear his little brother start sobbing as Tim kept up the cool, dispassionate count, as he kept hurting him.

But Damian didn’t agree.  Didn’t lash back out, didn’t snarl, didn’t attack.

“Six years ago,” Damian said levelly, “I told my grandfather I was going to leave.  I didn’t want to be his heir.  I was going back to Gotham.  My grandfather ordered my mother to teach me respect.”  Tim lifted his head enough to look at him.  “She refused.”

Damian took a deep breath.  “My grandfather had apparently cloned me.  And in front of his inner circle, in front of my mother, in front of everyone, I died as someone wearing my face twisted my own sword into my heart.”

Tim stared at him.

“If you’d refused,” Damian said quietly, “Someone else would.  Someone who didn’t care how badly they’d hurt him.”

“It’s my fault he was even there,” Tim said hollowly, because if Jason had just run, run and left him behind, even though Tim knew Robin would never leave someone behind—“Ra’s wants me—I dragged him into this, I should’ve never come back to Gotham, never—”

“If you insist on applying blame through faulty reasoning, then the fault is mine,” Damian snapped.  Tim jerked his head up, disconcerted.  “Ra’s al Ghul only set his sights on you because of me.  He never would’ve searched for a new heir if I hadn’t deserted him.  You wouldn’t even have been on his radar if I hadn’t gone back to Father.”

“You are both idiots,” Jason grumbled from behind them, and Tim didn’t have the time to twist before Jason shoved him.  He went with the movement, more bewildered than anything else, because Jason certainly had the right to retaliate—but he fell into Damian’s lap, and the man wrapped his arms around Tim, holding him close.  Like a hug?

Jason clambered on top of him, and Tim—Tim didn’t understand.  “The only person at fault is the insane, paranoid megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur,” Jason said seriously, and he was holding Tim too, like he’d forgiven him, like it didn’t matter that Tim had hurt him.

Tim’s next breath cracked.

“You’re my brother,” Damian whispered into Tim’s hair, “And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”  He was being held, tight between the two of them, and they weren’t pushing him away, they weren’t ignoring him, they weren’t—

“Family sticks together,” Jason murmured, and Tim broke.

No one could see if he cried against his older brother’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

Tim likes sleeping.  He doesn’t do a whole lot of it, true, but he still likes it, and when he does sleep, he appreciated the common fucking courtesy of not waking him back up.

“What,” Tim snarls into the phone, uncaring of who’s calling or why.

“Ouch,” Jason drawls, “What crawled up your ass, Replacement?”  There’s a bite to his tone, and Tim knows that tonight was a bad night, but he’s not in the right frame of mind to carefully navigate Jason’s Lazarus emotions.

“What the fuck do you want,” Tim snaps back, “And was it worth waking me up a fucking hour after I managed to go to sleep?”

A long silence.  Presumably Jason tamping down the urge to murder him.  Tim contemplates if throwing his phone against the wall will let him sleep.

“Baby bat’s been hit with pollen,” Jason says finally, slow and controlled, and that’s what pulls Tim all the way awake.  It’s easy to slip into the Red Robin mindset, to ignore exhaustion and crankiness and focus on the mission.

Damian was hit by pollen.

Damian didn’t report being hit by pollen.

Jason somehow knows that Damian was hit by pollen, despite not being on patrol.

“He came to me,” Jason says quietly, “And he said he had someone else to ask, but—but I imagine crossing Gotham in the middle of the night was pretty low on his list.  Do you know who he’s with?”

Tim scans his bed, as if there’s a lump of sleeping baby assassin under the sheets.

“No,” Tim says, mouth dry, “I’ll look for him.”

Damian is always coldly calculating when it comes to his injuries, and if he didn’t report it, that means he didn’t want to make a fuss.  Ordinarily, Damian would just go to Dick, but Dick’s injured, and Damian wouldn’t have gone all the way into Gotham.

He checks Damian’s room, and finds the bed empty.

The quiet thrill inside of him isn’t panic, but Tim flings the door to Steph’s room open a little harder than necessary.  No sign of a black-haired brat.  “Damian,” he says in response to her muffled protest, “He got tagged with pollen.  Don’t know where he is.”

Dick’s room he peeks into more carefully, but no one’s there but one sleeping big brother.  Cass isn’t asleep, and hasn’t seen Damian either.  Bruce was just getting ready for bed, and is alarmed that Damian isn’t in his room.

The noise in the hallway grows as they split off to search other parts of the Manor.

Wait a minute—his room.

Tim bursts back into Damian’s room, but ignores the empty bed to check any other likely hiding places.  He hits jackpot on the closet—there’s a baby bat curled up in a blanket, wedged into the corner of the closet.

“Oh, you stubborn little idiot,” Tim snarls, half in relief as he crouches down to tug Damian into a hug.

Damian makes a quiet, broken sob, and Tim feels his heart crack down the middle.

“Steph,” he calls out hoarsely, because she’s the closest, “Steph, I found him!”

Steph sprints through the doorway and nearly collapses in relief, lunging to wrap Damian in another hug.  “You little brat, you nearly gave us all heart attacks!”

Tim feels almost lightheaded, like he can breathe again.  Steph shifts, preparing to pick Damian up—and Damian makes a choked sound and holds Tim’s shirt, refusing to let go.

Tim distantly wonders how many pieces his heart can break into.  “It’s okay,” he says quietly, “Steph’s just going to pick you up.  No one is leaving.  We’re right here.”

Damian allows Tim to pull his shirt free, and Tim makes sure he’s still holding Damian’s shoulder as Steph heaves him up.

“Found him,” Steph calls out as they enter the hallway, and heads poke out from various rooms, united in relief.

“Where was he?” Bruce asks, stalking closer, worry plain on his face.  Damian makes another soft sound, and Tim keeps an arm pressed against him.

“His closet,” Tim says quietly.  Everyone looks outraged.

Cass comes closer enough to press a kiss to Damian’s forehead, a move not usually tolerated.  “Little brother,” she says softly, and Damian just hides against Steph’s shirt.

Unfortunately, it seems like the noise woke Dick up.  “What’s going on?” he asks, leaning against his doorway.  Bruce groans.  “What’s wrong with Dami?” Dick asks, his eyes sharpening as he straightens.

“Pollen,” Tim responds succinctly, rubbing circles against Damian’s shoulder as the kid melts further into Steph’s arms.

“Oh no, Dami,” Dick says softly—and winces as he tries to take a step forward.

“Dick, bed,” Bruce says firmly.  Dick’s instinctive stubbornness comes back, and Dick barely has time to get a protest out before Bruce is scooping him up.  Tim muffles a chuckle as he rests his head against Damian’s back.

“Bruce, let me down!” Dick hisses.

“Nope.”

“Bruce, I’m not a child!”

“You are,” Bruce says fondly, and it makes something squirm in Tim’s stomach, “Big baby.”

Given that Dick is pouting, the name feels apt.

Bruce steps closer to them, adjusting Dick enough to place a hand against Damian’s face.  “Little baby,” he whispers, and holy shit does Tim wish he has video evidence of this.

That reminds him.

Cass takes his place as Tim withdraws enough to pull out his phone, one hand still on Damian’s back.  He needs to update Jason, and he follows Bruce as the man nudges them all inside his room, the one bed big enough for all of them to sleep on.

He doesn’t like being woken up.

But being woken up for this isn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

He woke up in a cell.  In a cell.  With a—a locked door, and the only reason he wasn’t giving into the panic attack hovering at his senses was because the cell door was clear glass.

His breath still caught in his throat.

Jason moved to sit down on the cot, curling his shaking fingers into fists.  First question—where was he?

The last thing he remembered was—Titans Tower, the pathetic little replacement bird trying to flap away on broken wings, crying as he tried to get away from Jason, how completely spineless—

And then…him.  Another Red Hood.  Another Hood attacking him, and Jason was good, but the other man seemed to have honed rage into something fluid instead of the aggression it was with Jason.

And then—

Dark, cold, wood under his fingers, the door was locked, it didn’t matter how loudly he screamed, no one could hear him, no one would come, the timer ticked down and down and—

Jason came back to himself with bleeding knuckles and red smudges on the wall.  He hadn’t even registered standing up.  He hadn’t consciously processed the punch.  He’d lashed out in blind aggression and—a child cowering under the kitchen table, hands over their ears—and that was…frightening.

Jason slowly lowered his fist.

“You were hurting a kid.  He did nothing to you, and you were about to slit his throat.”

No.  No, he hadn’t.  He hadn’t been about to.  He—the Replacement needed to know his fucking place, he stole Jason’s suit, how was that doing nothing, he had the right to teach him a goddamn lesson.

He imagined that pale, scrawny neck in his grasp, imagined the glint of the knife, that sweet, sweet terror as he pressed the edge to skin, as the Replacement gasped, then gurgled, as Jason sliced easily, red bubbling out and out and out and out.

I would’ve killed him, Jason thought distantly.

“You deserved this.”

And that—that wasn’t a lie.

Jason collapsed back against the cot and buried his face in his hands, beginning to shake.  He’d attacked a kid.  A fucking snot-nosed brat who had the audacity to steal from Jason, but Jason—Jason wouldn’t have snapped the wrist of a kid that tried to pickpocket him, and he was trying to find some reason, any reason that would’ve justified hunting a teenager down like wounded prey.

He could hear the crowbar whistling, and feel the weight of it swinging through the air, and hear the laugh from his own throat.

No.

That wasn’t—that wasn’t him, that couldn’t be him, please no.

There was a sound outside his cell and Jason snapped his head up.  Dark suit, cape, cowl removed to show blue-gray eyes.

And Jason had been planning this confrontation for months, of forcing Batman to face his greatest failure, of holding a gun to the Joker’s head and making the sanctimonious bastard pick a choice after all—

But right now, he saw only Bruce, staring at him with growing concern and wonder.

“Dad,” Jason said, swallowing painfully, “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Chapter Text

Jason grinned behind his mask as Spoiler made her way out on patrol, not even registering that anything was wrong.  He grinned wider as she was waylaid by the first cat—she cooed at it before taking a fire escape to the ground.

He was really glad he was wearing a helmet, because his face was splitting with the smile.

Jason casually made his way down the fire escape as he watched Spoiler slowly be covered under a mess of wriggling kittens, her posture changing from confusion to shock to fear.  He didn’t let her stew in it—a deliberately loud step snapped her attention up.

Click.  He took a picture of her adorably stupefied face.

“What the hell did you do?” she growled, remarkably quick on the uptake.

Jason kept smirking as he raised the now-empty bag of catnip.  The meowing only got louder.

“You asshole,” Spoiler hissed—and if she wasn’t covered in cats, Jason might’ve been worried at the venom in her tone.

“Don’t worry,” Jason called back, turning away and heading back up the fire escape, “Catwoman will stop by soon enough.”

“Hood, you can’t leave me here!  Hood!  Hood!”

Revenge was sweet indeed.  Jason slipped over the edge of the roof and settled in to wait for Selina, recording Spoiler’s increasingly vehement curses as the cats kept meowing.

Chapter Text

“Where is he,” Dick said flatly, pulling on his costume.  His little brother—his little brother had—Dick hadn’t felt this furious in a long time, and he needed to break something before he screamed.

“At home,” Oracle said, her tone clipped.  More self-control than he had, but that was Babs—she honed her anger into a sharper rage than his blunt instrument.  “Sending you the address now.”

Dick was glad Bruce was staying with Jason.  He didn’t need to hear a lecture on excessive force right now.  His force wasn’t going to be excessive.  His force was going to be exactly what the man who raped his little brother deserved.

Dick had never known.  Never seen the wounds Jason had curled up to hide.  Never even noticed any stray comments or looks at Jason during a gala.  What the fuck kind of big brother—

“Nightwing,” Oracle said sharply, and Dick stopped himself an inch from punching the locker.

The fury was almost a tangible thing.  Dick breathed in and out, and let it settle inside his heart, inside the starburst of blue on his chest.  Let it spread along the wings, hissing and spitting and seething, up to his shoulders, down his arms, slipping through his fingertips.

Imagined it sizzling through his escrima sticks, the electric hum easy to draw up.

“I’m going to break his face,” Dick said levelly.

The night wouldn’t end without blood on his knuckles and screams in his ears.

Chapter Text

Jason cursed out loud when there was a knock on the door.  Everyone fucking wanted to visit when he could barely get off the couch—if this was someone after Hood, Jason would shoot first and not ask any questions because he was emphatically not in the mood—

Oh shit.

“How the fuck,” Jason hissed, staring at graying black hair and blue eyes and that infuriatingly settled expression, and opened the door.

Bruce blinked at him.  “What happened?” he asked immediately, instead of a ‘hello’ like a normal person.

“Nothing,” Jason retorted.  Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Jason—”

“Are you a vampire?” Jason accused, leaning against the doorframe because this wasn’t fair, Bruce kept doing this, and now he was going to get a whole lecture.  “How the hell do you always show up when—”

“Jason, you’re hurt.”

Oh gee, thanks, he hadn’t noticed.

Jason was not standing for the rest of this conversation.  He hobbled back inside and sank down on his couch, squeezing his eyes shut to ride out the wave of pain before cracking them to glare at Bruce.

The man didn’t disappoint.  “The agreement was for you to get medical treatment at the Cave.”

“I’m fine,” Jason snarled.  He wasn’t going to go the Cave every time he got a paper cut, and the deal was for Bruce to leave him alone.

“Your skin is gray.”

“Oh, wow, way to kick a guy when he’s down,” Jason snarked.

“Jason,” Bruce said in that disappointed tone of his, and Jason groaned.

“It was a minor scratch,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“Did this minor scratch need stitches?” Bruce asked levelly, the absolute fucking bastard.

Maybe it had, but Jason was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and Bruce had been running annoyed all month.  Jason hadn’t wanted to get in the middle of whatever was irritating the man.

“I’m fine,” Jason said as steadily as he could manage.

“How much blood did you lose?” Bruce pressed.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t come to the Cave, but it was a scratch, I dealt with it, I’m fine,” Jason protested.  Bruce stared at him, unimpressed.

“You’re too pale,” he said, “You need fluids.”  Oh god, Jason did not want to deal with an overprotective Batman.  “Jay,” Bruce said softly, and damn that man for bringing out that tone—“Please come back to the Cave.”

Fuck, how was Jason supposed to say no now?

“No drugs,” Jason growled, desperate to hang onto something if he was making the concession.

“No drugs,” Bruce promised easily.

Jason rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, but he let Bruce pull him off the couch and maneuver him to the car.  The world was getting a bit dizzy and it was possible that Jason might actually need more medical attention.  Just a little.

But how had Bruce known?

Jason tapped idly against the window as they slowed to a crawl in the Gotham afternoon traffic.  He flicked a glance at Bruce—the man was thoroughly distracted, which meant this would be the most honest answer he’d get.

“Do you have bugs planted in my safehouses?” Jason asked bluntly.

Bruce jerked and turned a wide-eyed look on him.  “What?  No.”

That was certainly vehement.

“Then how—you always show up whenever—do you have some freaky Bat-sense for when someone’s hiding something from you?” Jason narrowed his eyes.  He wouldn’t put it past Bruce.

“No,” Bruce said, marginally more composed.

“Then I don’t get it.  How did you know I got hit?”

“I didn’t.”

Jason retorted, “Oh, sure, you showing up at my front door was a coincidence—”

“It was,” Bruce sighed.

“Really,” Jason crossed his arms, lifting a derisive eyebrow, “Then why did you stop by?”

“To check on you.”  Jason barely managed to keep himself from snorting.

“Uh-huh,” Jason said, “You want to give that another try, old man?”

Bruce looked like he’d swallowed a sour lemon.  Jason tensed slightly in his seat—he didn’t particularly want to get into a screaming match with Bruce here, stuck in the man’s car, but Bruce had a vaguely guilty air around him and—

“I wanted to ask you if you were using my laptop.”

What.

“Using your laptop,” Jason repeated, confused, “Why would I use your laptop?  I have a laptop of my own and I don’t need your spyware watching what I do.”  It was the most ridiculous thing Jason had heard all week—he didn’t even venture into the Manor, let alone go hunt down Bruce’s electronics.  “Are you that protective of your laptop?”

“The password’s been changed,” Bruce said levelly.

Jason squinted at him, still confused.  “And you think I did it?”  It was an odd thing to get accused of.

“No,” Bruce said, slightly too quickly, “I’m just trying to find out who was using it last.”  And he decided to come all the way to ask Jason?  Something was definitely fishy here.

“I didn’t touch your laptop,” Jason said, easing back to watch Bruce with narrowed eyes.

“Okay.”

“So you really don’t have some Bat-sense honed in on me?” Jason checked.

“No, Jason.”

“Huh.  Good,” Jason said, the very picture of angelic innocence—and there, the barest hint of a smile on Bruce’s lips.  He still had it.

His mood soured when they got back to Cave—Bruce insisted on hovering, and Jason had to pointedly stick his nose in the first book he’d found to avoid the man’s fussing.

“Call if you need anything,” Bruce said finally, drooping like he didn’t know what to do next.

“Peace and quiet,” Jason rejoined, “I don’t want a horde of Bats down here.”  There was a reason he kept his Cave visits to a minimum, and that reason was that his stupid goddamn family was insane.

He got about five minutes of peace—just starting to get engrossed into the book—when there was a growing murmur of noise.  Jason looked up as the noise cut out, and saw an angry, scowling Bruce trailed by the entire flock.

Goddammit.

“I said no Bats, how difficult was it to—”

“Jason,” Bruce cut him off—oh shit, he was actually angry.  “Did you splatter paint in the den and break two video game consoles?”

It took Jason a couple of seconds to parse that sentence, bewildered.  “Bruce, I got here five minutes ago and I haven’t left the Cave,” he said slowly, wondering what exactly he was missing.

“You’re right,” Bruce nodded, and turned back to the others.

They all, from Dick down to the demon brat, shuddered and quailed back.

“Let me ask you all one more time,” Bruce said in Batman’s low growl, “What happened.”

Holy fuck.  Jason set the book down, straightening up as he watched them.  Bruce was pissed, and those were five definitely very guilty expressions.

Dick was glaring in I-know-I’m-wrong-but-I’m-not-going-to-admit-it, Tim looked particularly terrified and kept darting nervous glances at Jason, Damian was staring at the ground, Steph was doing her best to hide behind Tim, and even Cass had hunched slightly.

Not a single one of them spoke.

“Fine,” Bruce said sharply, “It doesn’t matter.  Damian and Steph, you will clean the den.  Tim, fix my laptop.”

The laptop that Bruce had asked about earlier?

“But I didn’t—” Tim started to protest, and immediately snapped his mouth shut.

“I don’t care,” Bruce hissed, “It doesn’t matter who did it, you’re going to fix it.”  Definitely pissed.  Pissed and disappointed, Jason’s least favorite combo, though strangely it seemed directed at everyone but him.  “Cass, you will help Alfred clean up the glass.  Dick, reorganize the weapons cupboard.  And I never want to see something like this happen again.  Understood?”

The low, snarled word rang through the air.  The five of them nodded silently.  Jason watched, fascinated.

Bruce left, his jaw still tight, and Jason turned his attention back to his siblings with a low whistle.  “What the hell did you guys do?”

Still silence.  No one was meeting his gaze either.

Jason slowly narrowed his eyes.  Very curious.

Chapter Text

It took them another hour to vent the toxin enough to get underground and find the small room where Nightwing’s and Hood’s trackers blinked.  Bruce stayed alert as he unlocked the door, prepared for an attack.  They didn’t know how far the toxin had permeated, and whether the rebreathers had lasted.

Thankfully the room was quiet—Nightwing was sitting cross-legged on the floor, Hood resting against him, and Bruce stuttered in surprise at the same time that Batman caught sight of the dark bruise that stretched over half of Jason’s face.

“What happened?” Batman’s low growl demanded, already crouched in front of Nightwing, as Bruce laid a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder.  His helmet was gone and his mask was off, and Nightwing was running a hand slowly through Jason’s hair.  Jason looked like he was sleeping, curled up on top of Nightwing’s lap.

Nightwing’s expression spasmed.  “Broken cheekbone,” he said quietly, “Dislocated shoulder—I popped it back—cracked rib, broken carpals.”

Batman catalogued each injury, but it was Bruce who asked, “Who did this?”

Nightwing’s exhale was measured and even.  “Me,” he said.

One beat later, a hoarse voice rasped, “Fear toxin.”

“Still me,” Nightwing said sadly.  Jason hadn’t opened his eyes, but his expression flickered, like he’d tried to frown and then thought better of it.

Bruce placed a hand on his eldest son’s cheek.  “It wasn’t you,” Bruce said, even as Batman reanalyzed the injuries, keeping in mind the force of an escrima stick.  “You know that.  It was the toxin.”

Nightwing looked a cross between upset and stubborn.  Bruce resisted the urge to sigh.

“It wasn’t you,” Jason exhaled roughly, finally fluttering his eyes open.  One of them was shot through with red, and Bruce hid the wince, instead gently supporting Jason to ease up off of Nightwing’s lap.  He was almost panting by the time he was upright, clutching Bruce’s armor with a weak grip.

“I should’ve—” Nightwing started, expression still mournful, but Jason cut him off.

“You really—going to make me—argue with you—like this—Dickhead?”

Even that sentence exhausted him, and Jason slumped further against Bruce, taking low, rasping breaths.  Nightwing’s expression spasmed again, before he inched closer, fitting against Jason and letting his younger brother lean slightly against him.

“Okay,” Nightwing said quietly, “No arguing.  It wasn’t me.”  Jason relaxed fully against him, and Bruce held them both in his arms.

Chapter Text

Jason perked up the moment Dick set him by the edge of the pool, and Dick grinned at his smile.  “We need to make sure your wounds are healing properly,” Dick explained, tugging Bruce’s coat off of Jason.

The moment it was off, Jason transformed—the shimmering red pants replaced with a deeply vibrant red tail—except it was only red, the green and gold design was gone.  “Your tail,” Dick frowned slowly, “It changed colors—”

Jason slipped into the water before he could finish.  Dick shed his coat and slipped in after him—he needed hands for this, not flippers—except Jason snapped at him, twisting away like a cornered animal.

“Jason, Jason, calm down,” Dick said, alarmed, treading water as Jason’s lashing tail caused the pool to roil.  “We need to check your injuries, just to make sure everything is healing properly.”  He held up the jar of salve, as if that would help.  Jason stilled slightly.

Dick swam forward, encouraged, “We’re just going to recheck your wounds, and then get all the wounds on your tail that may have not transferred to your legs—”

Jason hissed, and Dick couldn’t help the instinctive flare in response to the challenge—Jason darted away from him, and Dick twisted to follow, confused—Jason hadn’t been this aggressive at any point this far.

“Jason,” Bruce called out, “Jason, we’re trying to help.  Your wounds need to heal properly, or they’ll get infected.  Do you understand?”

“No,” Jason was shaking his head, twisting away from Bruce, sounding panicked, “No—I don’t want—”

“Little Flip,” Dick said slowly, like Jason was a spooked animal, “You’re hurt.  Let us help, please.”

Green eyes flitted between him and Bruce, wide and afraid, and Dick didn’t understand why.  They had been treating Jason’s wounds all these days, why was this different, why did Jason look so upset?

“Please,” Jason said, swallowing, “Please don’t.”

“Jason, you’re injured,” Bruce said steadily, “We need to treat your wounds.”

Something cracked in Jason’s expression.  Dick swam forward to catch Bruce’s shoulder—if Jason felt this strongly about it, then they could maybe hold off—and stopped when Jason sank underneath the surface of the water.

It took only one beat of that powerful tail to send Jason to the other side of the pool.  To Tim.  Who had been watching carefully, still cautious near Jason, and now Jason was grabbing him, and Tim’s eyes were as round as saucers, and neither Dick or Bruce had their coats right now, by the time they managed to swim over there, Jason could do serious damage.

“Jason—what are you doing—” they were too far, still too far, Jason was holding tightly onto Tim and—

Tim released his death grip on the pool edge, one hand settling above Jason’s shoulder.  “It’s okay,” he called out hoarsely, and Dick felt something unspool inside of him.  Jason wasn’t dragging Tim down, or clawing at him, he was just—clutching Tim’s legs, his head buried against Tim’s lap.  “It’s okay, he’s not hurting me.”

“Little Flip, what’s wrong?” Dick asked plaintively, utterly confused as to Jason’s sudden, uncharacteristic behavior.

“He’s scared,” Tim said softly.

“Scared?” Dick repeated, even more confused, “Scared of what—”

“Dick,” Bruce cut him off, “He’s bleeding.  Give me the salve.”  Dick handed the salve pot over, swimming closer to Jason and observing the sleek red tail for possible injuries.  Scales didn’t quite translate to skin, there had to be injuries that the human medicine didn’t fix, but Dick couldn’t figure out what was causing this reaction.  Jason’s scales were smooth and hard and so very beautiful, even without the green and gold—

Dick’s fingers met rough, raised skin, a patch of red angrier than the red scales.  A jagged patch.  Where green and gold used to be.

“What happened to your tail?” Dick asked, almost numb with horror.  Jason made a low, broken sob—mer scales were prized treasures, Dick knew that, but to see a stripped mer tail…  “Jason—Little Flip—who—”

Who would dare—

When Dick got their hands on them—

“Dick,” Bruce said, quiet but commanding, and Dick raised his head.  Bruce motioned towards Jason, who was shaking with silent sobs, still clutching Tim.  Tim was wearing a panicked expression, gingerly stroking Jason’s hair, and Dick had to bite down on the mournful sound as he pressed closer to Jason.

“Little Flip,” Dick whispered softly, “Jason.  Please look at me.”

Jason hesitated for a long moment before lifting his head—he was crying, his skin blotchy, and Dick immediately drew him into a hug, his heart aching like it had all those years ago, when he’d swum home and been greeted with an empty pier and a grieving father.

“I’m sorry, Little Flip,” Dick murmured, pressing kisses to his forehead, “I’m sorry for not being there, I’m sorry we didn’t find you, I’m so so sorry—” his voice was breaking as Jason clutched back, “Little Flip, little brother, pack, I am so sorry we couldn’t protect you, and I will never ever let that happen again.”

“‘S ruined,” Jason said hoarsely, “My tail, it’s ruined—”

“No,” Dick said fiercely, clasping Jason’s face because he wasn’t going to let that stand.  “No, Jason, you are not ruined.  You are alive, and that is a miracle that I thank Poseidon for.  You are here, and you are home, and you are my precious little brother, and the color of your tail does not change any of that.”

Jason blinked at him, raw and so very vulnerable, and Dick pressed him into another tight hug, letting clawed hands clutch his back as his little brother cried against his chest.

Dick would spend every day of the rest of his life telling Jason that his tail was beautiful, if that was what it took.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was wrong.  Damian gave him a look as they crossed to the study, and Dick could tell he felt it too.

Nothing was out of place.  Dick couldn’t pinpoint what the problem was.  The Manor was empty, the Cave was empty, the whole place felt like a mausoleum.

Damian went off to retrieve the equipment that they’d come for, and Dick sat down at the Batcomputer to make sure they didn’t have any new alerts.

Nothing came up in the feed, and Dick went through the motions of a basic check—everyone was scattered, and Tim was probably the only one who’d operated in Gotham last night.  Sure enough, when Dick pulled up the trackers, Red Robin’s comm line was open.

It was seven in the morning, the kid must’ve forgotten to turn it off.  “Red Robin,” Dick called lightly, in case Tim had fallen asleep in his suit, “Red Robin, this is Nightwing, your comm’s still on.”

Nothing but static.  The kid must’ve forgotten to turn it off when he finished up patrol.  Dick could remotely turn it off, but on the off chance that Tim had left it on for intel gathering and hadn’t gotten around to attaching an update, Dick wound back through the footage.

Nothing but static for hours—Damian returned with the equipment and waited impatiently, tapping his foot as Dick wound back and back and—there, a spot of audio.

“I’m sorry,” Red Robin’s voice cracked through the line, “I’m so, so sorry.  I—I tried.  I couldn’t.  I’m sorry.”

What?  What was this?  Dick tried to pull up Red Robin’s tracker as the line kept crackling.

“I—I’ll miss you,” Red’s voice broke, “Batman, I—I never meant to do this to you.  The—the years I was Robin were the best of my life.  Thank you for g—giving me the opportunity.”

“What is this?” Damian snapped.  Red Robin’s tracker wasn’t registering on the screen.

“Nightwing—thank you for b—being my big brother.  Thank you for everything.”

“No,” Dick inhaled sharply, “No no no no no—”

“Black Bat,” Red Robin dissolved into a choking sob, his voice getting weaker, “Batgirl.  Beat up some bad guys for me.”

“Where is he?” Damian said, stepping up and staring at the computer like it would give him answers.

“Robin—remember your job.  Batman always needs a Robin.”

“Richard, where is he?!”

“Hood,” Red Robin gasped, silent for a long moment.  “…I forgive you.”

Forgive him for what?

“I love you all,” Tim said, his voice getting fainter and fainter, “Goodbye.”

“No,” Damian said, his voice wavering, “No.  Richard, what—we must find him—Richard!”

Choked gasps.  Dry wheezes.  Faint coughs.

Silence.  Complete, total, absolute silence.

“Richard!” Damian yanked his arm, “Red Robin is in trouble, we must—”

“Four hours ago,” Dick said numbly, staring at the recording, “This was four hours ago.”

Damian had wanted to head to the Cave immediately after their patrol in Bludhaven.  Dick had convinced him to wait till morning.  If they’d gotten here then—if they had—

Dick rewound the recording—where was he, what had happened, Tim, please—and skipped through what seemed like a normal patrol right up until Tim’s voice cut out.

More silence, two hours of it, and then—“This is Red Robin,” Tim said, wavering, “I need assistance.  I’m stuck.  In a coffin.  Underground.  Does anyone copy?”

Oh god.  Oh no.

“Please,” Tim begged, “Please, anyone, is anyone there—I can’t breathe—please—”

Dick’s fingers were trembling, and ice was running through his veins.

“I—I can’t—help—someone—please help—I’m trapped—please—anyone—”

“Christ, you’re giving me a headache,” Hood growled.  Damian inhaled sharply.  “You’re on the public line, Replacement.  Go and bother one of the Bats.”

A loud click.  No.  Dick’s hand covered his mouth, muffling the scream that wanted to escape.

“No, Hood!  Hood, please, I’m trapped!  Hood, I’m stuck, I’m in a coffin, I can’t breathe!  Hood!”

But Hood had already left the line.

“Jason—Jason, please, please, I’m sorry—I’m sorry for everything, please come back, Jason,” Tim took a breath and dissolved into sobs.  Tears slid down Dick’s cheeks.

Tim moved from begging Jason to begging anyone, going down one by one as he pleaded for someone to save him.

“Nightwing—Nightwing please, come find me, save me, please, I can’t, I’m going to die, Nightwing, please don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone—you always come for me, you promised, Nightwing, please.”

Dick couldn’t strangle the wail as he curled up, hands pressed to his face as sobs wracked through him.  Damian had turned to a statue, knuckles white where he gripped the desk.

“Please, anyone—I’m sorry—I’ll do better, I’ll be better, just please, please save me, I can’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just please help, I swear I’ll be better, just don’t leave me here, I’m going to die.”

His heart felt like it was shredding itself to pieces, and taking his ribs with it.

“I’m going to die.  Oh, god, I’m going to die, I don’t want to die, no no no no, please, I don’t want to die.”

Sobbing.  Begging.  Praying.  Muffled thuds and screams and wails and slow, gradual resignation creeping ever closer.

“I’m going to die,” Tim said, hollow, “This is the end.”

“Richard,” Damian said, turning towards him, and Dick couldn’t even brace himself—your fault and you promised you’d save him and what good were you and he’s dead, Richard, your little brother is dead dead dead, buried six feet underground—

“Wake up.”

What?

Damian seized his wrists and Dick blinked and everything was dark and he nearly broke his baby brother’s nose as he fought free of the sheets.  Where—the Manor—Tim wasn’t buried—Tim was buried—

“You always come for me, you promised, Nightwing, please.”

Dick ignored Damian’s exclamation to lunge for the door, banging his shoulder against the doorframe but not caring, running down the hall, three doors down, please, please, Dick would give anything—

Bed rumpled, lump under the sheets, Dick was already diving for it, yanking the sheets off—black hair, but they all had black hair, that meant nothing—and curling around bony shoulders—warm, not cold, not buried, not dead—

“Dick?” came Tim’s sleep-hoarse voice, and Dick crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut.

Alive.  He was alive.  He was alive and here and Dick wasn’t too late and it was just a dream and Dick could hear his little brother’s heartbeat as he pressed his cheek to Tim’s chest and gripped his arms with trembling fingers.

“What the fuck,” groaned a rougher, deeper voice, the bed moving on Tim’s other side—because Jason hadn’t ignored Tim, because Jason had stayed, because Jason had dug his little brother out of a grave, because Tim and Jason had become practically inseparable—and they were alive, both his little brothers were alive.

They’d been buried, but they were alive now, and Dick had failed them both but they’d survived despite it.

Alive, and warm, and whole.

Chapter Text

The text message was simple.  An address, and a time.  Daylight hours, and not in Bludhaven, so Jason had showed up in civilian clothes with only one hidden gun.

Jason looked down at the text, and up at the building at the address.  He was starting to feel slightly underdressed.

“Jason?” Tim called out before Jason could shoot a quick text to Dick asking him what the hell he was doing, and Jason turned to see the kid hovering on the courthouse steps, looking as confused as him.  “Where’s Dick?”

Jason looked at the kid and back at the message.

“I don’t know,” Jason said finally, pocketing the phone and heading for the steps, “But I guess we’re going to find out.”

The courthouse wasn’t full, but there were various groups milling around, including a couple in white dresses laughing with their witnesses.  Dick was in the aisle, flitting from bench to bench in that uniquely graceful frenzy he always fell back into when he was nervous.  He stilled when he caught sight of Jason and Tim, and his face brightened in a blinding grin.

“You guys made it!” Dick beamed, darting forward to pull them both into a hug.  Jason tolerated it for two seconds before he twisted free, leaving the baby bird at Dick’s mercy.  “You’re…early.”

Jason had a sinking feeling in his stomach, a knot of emotion he couldn’t quite name.  He didn’t know if it was dread or anticipation, and he didn’t want to find out.  “Why are we here, Dickhead?” he said instead, scanning the courthouse, “You finally decided to tie the knot with one of those redheads that follow you around?”

Dick ignored the jab entirely.  “We’re here to finalize the adoption paperwork,” Dick said cheerfully.

Jason and Tim stared at him.

“…The what now?” Tim asked weakly.  Dick merely tugged them closer to the front of the courthouse.

“Wait,” Jason said, his throat dry, “Dick.  What?”

“The adoption paperwork,” Dick repeated, still bouncing from foot to foot, “It took me a couple of weeks to sort through the legalities, but it’s finally sorted.  I get two new brothers!”  He thrust out the papers in his hand.

‘Jason Peter Grayson’ one of them said.  ‘Timothy Jackson Drake’ the other stack said.

“You’re joking, right?”

Tim was scanning the hall like he was looking for the camera crew.  Jason, however, was staring at Dick’s too-manic, too-fierce grin with dread pooling in his gut.

“Dick,” Jason said quietly, “What the hell.”

Dick’s smile didn’t waver.

“Dick.”

“We talked about this!” Dick said, his eyes widening—but Jason had clued into that little trick years ago, Dick was never as innocent as he pretended to be, and Jason crossed his arms and glared.  Dick deflated.  “We talked about this,” he said, quieter, “You said I could adopt you both.”

“Neither of us thought you were serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” Dick blinked at them, “Of course I want to adopt my little brothers!”

“Does Bruce know about this?” Tim asked, still suspicious.

Dick blinked at him.  “Well, I hope so,” he said, “Because he got me half the paperwork.”

“Dick,” Tim said flatly, “I have parents.”

Dick winced imperceptibly.

Oh boy.

Tim caught the expression, and grabbed the papers in Dick’s hands.  Tim’s pile was a lot thicker than Jason’s, and Jason watched the kid’s face pale as he flipped through them.

“Dick,” Jason said, his voice low, “What happened?”

Dick made a face before it smoothed over to blank, fingers twitching like they wanted to curl into fists.  “Let’s just say his parents weren’t as unopposed to the idea of transferring guardianship as you might’ve expected.”

“What.”

Dick gave a half-shrug.  “It’s ‘temporary’,” he put air quotes in, “Like they’re ever going to come back and take it.”  He didn’t sound the slightest bit surprised.

Tim had half-collapsed into one of the benches, reading over the paperwork again.

“You knew about this,” Jason said flatly, “You—Bruce knew about this.  That his parents didn’t want him.  And did nothing about it.”

“I’m not Bruce,” Dick said sharply.

Jason gave a half-barking laugh, “And thank god for that.”  Dick offered the second set of papers to Jason.  “You’re really serious?  I’m an adult.”

“It’s an easy way to get you legal documents,” Dick said, leaning against Jason, “And besides, don’t you want to be my brother?”  Dick pouted at him.  Jason shoved him off, pretending like the warmth inside of his chest wasn’t filling him up and drawing a giddy smile onto his face.

“Fine,” Jason snapped, taking the seat next to Tim to rifle through the paperwork and hunt for where he needed to sign.

Tim, who was staring at physical evidence that his parents had shuffled him off to the first person who asked.

“Baby bird,” Jason said softly.  Tim made a small, choked sound, and when Jason put a hand on his shoulder, Tim twisted and practically flung himself at Jason.  Jason held him tight, his heart squeezing at the muffled sobs.  “We want you, Timmers,” Jason said hoarsely, “Screw them.  You’re a part of our family now.”

The kid shuddered, and clutched Jason tighter, more frantic, as though Jason would ever let go.  Dick hopped over the bench to get on the other side of Tim, and fit them both into a hug, squeezing Tim between them.

“My little brothers,” Dick murmured, holding them, “I love you both so much.”

Chapter Text

Damian was putting his sword away—he wasn’t allowed to keep it in the Manor or on his person, his father had the strangest rules—when he heard the loud crash.

Brown—Spoiler, Father had partial custody even though she was not related to him in any way—was standing at the edge of a mess that looked like it had been caused by someone bumping into a table with sets of precariously placed vials.

The vials were empty, but there was a significant amount of shattered glass on the floor, and Brown pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a low sigh.

Damian drifted closer—Brown had been the one showing him around over the last week, possibly because he wasn’t a threat to her position.  She had her own family, and thus was not competing for Father’s attention, and nor was she busy with her own life, like Grayson, who Damian had briefly met on the weekend, or Todd, who was away at college.  Cain was extremely suspicious of him, and Drake—well, Drake was holding a visible grudge over Damian’s introduction.

Honestly.  It was only a minor scrape.  They had the antidote to the poison, and it didn’t even need stitches.  It was a paper cut compared to Damian’s initial plans to meet his Father’s family, plans his mother had scuppered when she warned him that he wouldn’t be considered Father’s only child, even though he was the blood son.

Damian opened his mouth to remark on her poor situational awareness and balance—he knew several exercises to help with that, and some of them didn’t even hurt—but any remarks were forestalled by low, even footsteps.

“What happened here?”

Damian froze.  Brown stilled.  Father’s face was level, cataloguing the scene at a glance, no doubt analyzing it easily.  His voice wasn’t sharp, but it was carefully even, the same tone Mother used when it was clear that Damian was to listen.

The same tone Grandfather used when he meant to be immediately and unquestionably obeyed, the one even Mother didn’t dare argue with.

Brown was studying the broken glass like it was fascinating.  Her entire posture had slumped slightly, her face resigned—exhausted, in an ‘I can’t take this right now’ way.

Damian was intimately familiar with that expression.  The times they tested his endurance were the absolute worst.  The times he’d failed those tests—

Damian was stepping forward before he even registered the movement.  “It was my error,” Damian said, voice blank.  Brown twisted towards him, shocked.

Father looked at him, clearly noting the relative proximities of Damian and Brown to the mess.  Damian cleared his throat, “I was not able to clean up the glass before you arrived.”  Grandfather had been very clear on Damian understanding what the mistake was, Father would be no different.  “I accept both my punishments.”

Father was frowning.  Brown’s stunned expression was transforming to something sorrowful.  “No,” she said, and Damian went cold.  “It’s not Damian’s fault, it’s mine.  He had nothing to do with it.”

Lying.  Punishment number three.  Damian stared at the floor, struggling to keep his breathing even—lying was punished worse than the others, and Brown had sold him out so coldly, he thought that she could perhaps be recruited as an ally but he should’ve been on guard.  Obviously her precarious position meant she would curry favor with the others, and she was close to both Cain and Drake, one of them could’ve easily ordered her to sabotage him, and he’d walked into the trap of his own volition.

This was just another lesson.  He had to keep that in mind.  It was a lesson, and it would hurt, but he would remember it, he would learn, he would tally this betrayal along with all the others, keep them close, and repay it when he had the opportunity—

Arms closed around him.  Damian killed the first instinct to lash out—he could keep still under his own power, but better they underestimate him.  And Damian would do nothing to earn a fourth punishment.

At least he was still standing.  He could imagine what Grandfather would do with a pile of broken glass, and these flimsy training pants would definitely not stand up to those jagged edges.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” Brown said, firm and steady, “Bruce isn’t going to hurt you or me.  You’re safe here.”

Did she actually expect him to believe that?  Damian knew that the lashes, or blows, or whatever was coming would sting worse with surprise, but he wasn’t going to fall for it.  Brown was holding him in place, and judging by her grip, the strikes would likely land…likely…land…

Her arms were wrapped tightly around his back, nearly encompassing him.  Damian—didn’t understand.  It would be very difficult to land a painful but not debilitating blow without touching Brown.  Unless this was Brown’s punishment too?

“Damian,” Father said—his voice was soft, but not sharp-soft, and the voice was coming from behind Brown, and not behind him.  Damian managed to wriggle enough to look at him, still trapped in Brown’s grasp.

Father looked sad.  “I trained with the League of Assassins,” he said quietly, “I know what their punishments are.  And I will never use them on you, or any of your siblings.  This isn’t the League, this is Gotham, and you are safe here.”

Damian—Damian very much didn’t understand.  Father didn’t—couldn’t—if this was part of the punishment—

But Father wouldn’t lie.  Grandfather had never lied.  Mother had never lied, not outright, though she’d led him to believe he was his father’s only child for all these years.

Brown was still holding him, like she was—like she was protecting him, and Damian felt as though he was back in Nanda Parbat, staring at his mother’s back as she shielded him from a punishment, as though he was back at the airport, in his mother’s brief embrace before she sent him to Gotham, as though he was—

As though he was safe.

A childish concept.

But surprisingly, Damian couldn’t seem to let it go.

Chapter Text

Tim squinted at the screen, trying to read the report through his blinding headache.  He just had a little more work to complete before he was done—he knew he should’ve been in bed, but if he just finished these last few reports—

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Tim spun around in shock, staring at the intruder.  Wait a minute—Tim squinted—that was…

“Jason?” he asked hoarsely.

“You have a concussion!” the older boy seethed, crossing his arms and glaring.

Tim tried to placate him, “I don’t—”

“You are supposed to be sleeping!”

Well, yes, but—“I just had some work—”

“No,” Jason snapped, “I don’t care how much work you have.  I don’t care how critical it is.  You are getting into bed right now.”

He sounded kind of mad about it too.  More corporeal than Tim expected—he half-stretched out a hand before he realized his mistake.  Jason wasn’t real, and Tim really didn’t need the proof.

“Did the meaning of the word now change since you last heard it, Replacement?” Jason snarled.

Replacement.  Tim couldn’t suppress the flinch as he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the pounding headache.  “Didn’t think I hit my head hard enough for hallucinations,” he muttered as he slowly dragged himself out of the chair.  If his headache was getting this bad, it was probably time to go to bed.

He practically collapsed on top of the bed and let out a low groan.  The Jason-hallucination was still glaring at him, and Tim’s emotional control was all shot—he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.  He didn’t want Jason to be angry at him.

“Jason,” Tim said quietly, his eyes slipping shut as his voice cracked, “I just wanted to make you proud.”

Sleep dragged him down before he could hear his hallucination’s response.

Chapter Text

“You’re the Red Hood, aren’t you,” Bruce said quietly, blue eyes narrowed.  Despite the words, it was very clearly not a question.

Jason’s silence was answer enough.

“Wait,” Dick said from where he was practically smothering Jason, “You were actually following me on patrol?”

“How did you get in my bedroom?” the kid squawked, eyes wide.

“No one removed my codes to the Tower,” Jason said to Tim, and squeezed Dick, “Yes, you colossal, martyring idiot, I was following you on patrol.”  He swallowed before he raised his gaze to meet Bruce’s, “And I am the Red Hood.”

He waited for the condemnation.  Waited for blue eyes to turn steely and cold, for Dick to let go, for Tim’s wide eyes to cool to disdain.  For Alfred’s joy to disappear back to his usual austere look.

“Huh,” Dick hummed, “That was pretty clever, Jaybird.  No wonder we couldn’t find you.”

“Wait, was that you last night in the Cave?” Tim inhaled sharply, “You were actually there?”

“Yeah,” Jason said quietly, “I was actually there.”

Bruce’s face remained a blank mask.

“That’s actually a relief, nothing showed up on our analysis and I was worried,” Dick half-chuckled, drawing Jason closer and resting his head in the crook of his neck.

Jason kept staring at Bruce.  The longer the silence stretched, the more tension eeled up his spine.

“I thought I was going crazy,” Tim grumbled into his coffee, “Especially when Jason was sitting right there and no one was saying anything!”

“That was pretty funny,” Dick laughed, “You certainly know how to be dramatic, Little Wing.”

Bruce still wasn’t saying anything.

“Well?” Jason asked, unable to bear it any longer, “What’s the verdict, old man?”

Bruce blinked at him.  “Excuse me?”

“You know I’m the Red Hood.  What now?” Jason snapped, unable to actually bring himself to ask whether or not Bruce was going to turn him over to the police.  Jason’s rise through the underground had been meteoric, and he hadn’t exactly made friends.

Bruce blinked.  And frowned, but it wasn’t the narrow-eyed look of contempt he expected, it was more…confused.

“Bruce is still trying to process that you’re here, Jaybird,” Dick snickered into his ear, “Give him some time.”

“You’re home,” Bruce agreed, and the smile that stretched across his face was painfully hopeful.  “Everything else can wait.”

Chapter Text

“Wha’ happened?” Tim groaned, squirming Bruce’s grasp.  Bruce loosened his grip, but Tim just snuggled closer, his head dropping against Bruce’s shoulder as he slowly blinked bleary eyes.

A loud crash.  A vehement hiss.  A victorious cackle.

“Get the fuck back here, Dickhead—”

“Aww, do you want another hug, Jaybird—”

“I’m going to fucking make you eat your fingers, you goddamn—”

“That doesn’t sound very appetizing—”

“W’s going on?” Tim mumbled, burrowing further against Bruce’s armor, “W’n did Dick get here?  Why’s Jason mad?”

“Dick got here a couple of minutes ago, and decided that jumping on top of Jason would be a sound strategy,” Bruce said dryly.

Tim made a huffy, displeased sound.  There was another loud crash, but nothing seemed to have broken.  So far.  “Idiots,” Tim muttered, nestling further into Bruce, “Can’t believe they’re supposed to be the big brothers.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, hiding a wince as Jason narrowly missed breaking his brother’s nose, “And what would you do, my clever little bird?”

Tim blinked up at him.  Bruce smiled, and Tim’s face split into an identical grin, wide and full of mischief.

Each one of his children had inherited Alfred’s passion for acting.  Tim wasn’t as attention-grabbing as Dick, or as dramatic as Jason, but his subtlety was harder to pinpoint as false.

Drawing up into a small ball.  Fitting his head against Bruce’s shoulder.  Trembling faintly, every so often wracked with a larger shudder.  The sounds were mostly silent, quiet, hitched breaths, an occasional sob, but nothing that was obviously attention-seeking.

It was a game of patience, and Tim was very, very patient.

Bruce curled around him—his only job was looking concerned, and it wasn’t too difficult, his heart rate still hadn’t settled all the way down.  He kept his gaze on Tim, tracking his other children through the bright giggles and vicious curses.

Finally, one of Tim’s plaintive noises corresponded with a lull in the fighting, and Jason’s attention snapped their way.  Green eyes narrowed, and Jason abandoned his chase to stomp back over to them.

“What happened?” Jason snapped, “What’s wrong with the kid?”

“I’m f—fine,” Tim said, in a half-wavering voice.  Do not smile, Bruce chanted mentally as Jason’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, baby bird,” Dick said sympathetically, hovering out of easy reach of Jason.  “Do you need more hugs?”

“I’m o—okay.”  It was remarkable how easily Tim could sound like he was on the verge of tears.

Dick and Jason exchanged a quick glance—forming a fast, silent truce—and both took seats on either side of Bruce, pressing against Tim and cuddling their little brother.

Bruce could feel Tim’s smile against his collarbone.

Chapter Text

Jason woke up to an elbow jabbing into his side, an arm nearly strangling him, and something crushing his feet.  But there were fingers stroking softly through his hair, and a familiar warm rumble, and Jason squeezed closer to Bruce and hummed happily.

“Ow,” Tim hissed, and the weight on his legs shifted, “Stop kicking me, demon brat!”

“Tim,” Bruce rumbled warningly.

“He’s kicking me!”

“Cass,” Bruce sighed.  The weight on his legs was shoved off with a yelp.  “Cass.”

“Fixed it,” she said angelically, and Bruce made a half-groan, half-sigh.  Jason let his smile curve against Bruce’s shirt.

“I won that spot fair and square!” Tim argued, and there was a tussle near his feet.  Cass laughed, bright and clear, and it felt warm.  He wished he could actually hear her laugh like that.  Hear Tim’s frustrated but not upset growls.  Hear Steph’s bright giggles.  Hear Damian’s satisfied click, and Dick’s breaths against his ear and the steady beat of Bruce’s heart.

The fight escalated loudly, and Jason grumbled.  He wanted the quietness back, and the bed kept shaking.  “Jay?” Bruce asked quietly, still stroking his hair.

“Shush,” Jason said, wriggling closer, “You have to be quiet.”

“Do we?” Steph asked, her tone full of mischief.

“Yes,” he mumbled, “My dream.  My rules.”

There was a beat of silence, rippling discordantly.

“What?”

Jason twisted enough to crack open one glaring eye.  Steph was next to Bruce, propping herself on elbows on top of him, and Cass was on Jason’s legs.  “My dream,” Jason enunciated, “Shush.”

Tim’s head popped up behind Cass, frowning, “This isn’t a dream.”

Jason rolled his eyes and dropped back against Bruce.  Getting into an argument with his own mind would be idiotic, and Jason was feeling pretty content with the dream.  He didn’t want to wake up just yet.

“Jason,” Tim said as Steph snickered again, “This isn’t a dream.”

“Despite the Pretender’s usual idiocy, this time he is right.  You are not dreaming this, Todd.”

“I swear I’m going to strangle you one day, you little brat—”

“Jay,” Bruce said quietly, a thumb gently swiping against his cheek, “They’re right, lad.  You’re awake.  This is real.”

Jason hummed.  “Then why aren’t you separating the Replacement and the demon brat?” Jason asked.

Bruce sighed.  “Because I thought they could stop fighting when they’re here to support their brother.”

“You know that just proves it’s a dream,” Jason snorted.

“Not dreaming, little brother,” Cass said, smiling—

“Ow!”  She kept smiling, even as he rubbed the spot where she pinched him and glared.

“Shh,” Dick mumbled sleepily, “Leave Jaybird alone.”  Jason leaned into his older brother’s grip, still glaring at Cass.  “He’ll never let me cuddle him this long if he knows he’s awake.”

Hey, wait—

“No, that’s a good point,” Tim said, eyes alight, “We just have to do something that Jason would never believe he’d dream up on his own.  Then we can prove he’s awake.”

Jason felt a curl of dread run down his spine.  It only grew stronger when Damian made a thoughtful noise.

“Or we can do this the easy way,” Steph grinned, stretching up and—

“Ow,” Jason hissed, rubbing his arm.

“Girls, stop attacking your brother,” Bruce growled.  Steph and Cass exchanged glances that in no way lessened the dread pooling in his stomach.

“It’s my dream,” Jason said, burying his face into Bruce’s shirt, “They’re being mean.”

“Holy shit, tell me someone’s recording this,” Steph said with undisguised glee.

“Shh,” Dick whispered, “Sleep.  Cuddles.  He’ll figure it out eventually.”

“What about if we—”

“No, Todd could believe that, and besides, I don’t think the Cave’s fire suppression system is designed to work at that capacity.”

“Well, I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas, brat—”

“Fire suppression system,” Bruce said near-soundlessly, in a tone of abject horror.

“Master Jason,” came the short but warm tone, cutting through the growing chaos.

“Alf?” Jason roused enough to spot the butler standing by the edge of the bed.  Alfred smiled at him, a small, fond thing.

“Dream or not, I have no intention of letting you skip breakfast,” Alfred said firmly, “Come on, children, out of bed.  You too, Master Bruce.”

Six groans arose in unison, and Alfred only smiled.

He never dreamed of Alfred’s cooking, because he knew it could never compare to the original.  Jason blinked, and watched his siblings sullenly crawl off the bed, still complaining.  Felt Dick snuggle closer with a muffled sound of protest.  Saw Bruce’s warm smile as he tucked a lock of hair behind Jason’s ear.

Maybe this was real after all.

Chapter Text

She had put the clues together.  They were subtle, but she’d grown up in the Bowery.  She knew how to spot the signs.

The way Robin went stiff and only gradually relaxed when she hugged him.

Batman’s near-smothering possessiveness.

Robin’s reluctance to give her any details about his life.

The way he seemed to light up at every single unemotional, growled ‘good job’ like it was the highest form of praise.

She didn’t think Batman was physically abusive—Robin didn’t have any unexplained physical injuries, and while she initially thought that maybe Batman took the kid out on the streets to cover up any strange bruises, the cowled shadow barely let Robin get into a single fight—but it was obvious that he was neglectful.

There hadn’t been a Robin in years, not after the last one disappeared, and Steph was…worried.  This Robin was as young as her, sweet and determined and Steph wanted to bundle him up in all the hugs he was clearly not getting.

She made an effort, each time she met him, and over the course of the weeks, Batman’s distrust of her lessened—she had no doubt he was lurking somewhere, unwilling to let Robin out of his clutches entirely, but there were times when it was just her and Robin on a roof, chatting and splitting one of those delicious pastries from the bakery on 4^th that they’d saved from a hold-up.

It had taken her a full week to screw up her courage, but she finally said it.

“I can get you away from him, you know,” she said quietly.  She didn’t look at Robin, staring out over the city, idly swinging her legs.  “My mom’s a nurse.  She knows social workers that’ll stay quiet.”

“What?”  Robin sounded confused.

“I know you want to keep your identity safe, but I swear, I’ll never tell anyone,” Steph vowed, turning back to him, “No one has to know you’re Robin, or your dad is Batman.”  She reached out and he automatically met her grasp.  She squeezed his hands.  “I promise,” she said, low and serious, “I just want you to be safe.”

“Spoiler,” Robin said, his expression still bewildered, “What are you talking about?”

Steph took a moment to glance around them and make sure that Batman hadn’t silently crept up on them.  “I can tell, okay,” she said softly, “He’s hurting you.”

Robin ripped his hands away, “What?”

“No, I’m not—Robin don’t—I didn’t—I know what it looks like,” Steph said, blinking furiously as her eyes prickled, “I’m not—please, Robin, I know what it feels like, I know it—it feels terrible when your parent—parents are supposed to protect you, not—” she’d lost the thread of the conversation somewhere.  “Please,” she settled on, “I’m not judging you.  I just want to help.”

Robin hadn’t made a move to run, so Steph took that as a good sign.  Sometimes kids didn’t even recognize they were being abused, didn’t know it wasn’t normal, especially for neglect.

“Batman isn’t hurting me,” he said, sounding slightly hysterical.

Steph took a deep breath and resisted the urge to push.  “Okay,” she said, reaching out for him again.  Robin let her grab his hands and squeeze them lightly.  “I’m here if you ever want to talk.  About anything.”

Robin stared at her, still that strange expression on his face, a cross between confused, disbelieving, and amused.

It probably wouldn’t get through to him today.  And—and confronting Batman would be a bad idea, both for her and for Robin.

She eased back—she couldn’t press too far, or he’d stop talking to her entirely, and Batman already hated her, and she didn’t know his real name—but Robin clutched her hands, drawing her to a halt.

“He isn’t hurting me,” he repeated.

“Robin,” she said quietly, because she wasn’t going to agree but neither was she going to argue, and he cut her off.

“No, you don’t understand—he isn’t—why do you even think he’s hurting me?” Robin asked, his voice rising high.  It wasn’t panic though, it was more…disbelief.

Steph bit her lip.  “You’re very…quiet,” she said finally, “And you want hugs, but you’re surprised every time you get one.  And you—you act like you’ve never gotten praise before.”

Robin’s grip tightened.  His head tilted down, and he took a low, deep breath.  She hoped he didn’t get angry.  Finally, he straightened, and stared directly at her.

“Batman isn’t—he isn’t hurting me,” Robin said slowly, “He didn’t—he only adopted me a couple months ago.”

Steph stared at him.

Robin’s expression twisted, then dropped to a half-wry expression.  “My parents were…not great.  But B is helping.  I’ve never been happier,” Robin said, quiet and joyful, “I have a family that loves me.”

Oh.  That made—sense.  She had seen the way Batman fretted if Robin so much as got a bruise.

Robin let go of her hands and instead flung himself forward for a hug that nearly toppled her back.  He was stiff when she hugged back, and slowly relaxed, inch by inch.

“Thank you,” he murmured, “You’re a good friend.”

Chapter Text

Dick can feel the jitters.  The creeping loss of warmth up his fingers.  The void inside his heart.

It’s not the pollen, it’s been hours since patrol and Ivy never showed up on it.  Dick doesn’t have a reason to be feeling this way.

He—he just wants a hug.

Dick takes a deep breath and screws up his courage.  Jason said—Jason said to ask for one.  Dick can do that.  He can ask.  He—he can submit to the mortifying vulnerability, the fear of rejection, the cold looks in his siblings’ eyes—

He can’t do this.

Dick’s frozen to the spot right outside the den.  Jason and Steph are playing some video game while Cass watches.  Tim is working on something on his tablet, and absently playing chess against Damian—Dick’s not entirely sure he knows what he’s doing, because he’s barely looking at the chessboard.

Dick—Dick just has to walk in and ask for a hug.  Someone will give him one, right?  Or—or he can ask Bruce, or Alfred, or—

“You’re going to stand in the doorway all day, Dickie?”

Dick startles, but Jason isn’t even looking at him.  He’s cursing as he tries to out-maneuver Steph, and Dick sidles into the room.  He clears his throat.

Still no one is looking at him.

Grow a fucking backbone, Grayson.  Dick takes a deep breath.  “Can I get a hug?”  The words feel like he’s forcing sandpaper through his throat.

“Sure,” Jason growls, still focused on the game, and Dick thinks he just didn’t pay attention, but Steph shifts to the side and Jason to the other, and there’s a space between them.

Dick swallows, and walks closer, fingers trembling, and all-but-collapses in the empty seat.  He turns his attention to the TV, preparing to be ignored while the game is still going, and thankful for the warmth leeching into him from both sides—

And yelps when an arm wraps around him, constricting to send him half-sprawling against Jason’s chest as his little brother attempts to hug him and keep two hands on the controller at the same time.

“Shh,” Jason says, “Steph’s a cheater, and we’re wagering on baby photos.”

The position is uncomfortable—Dick is half in Jason’s lap, half out, his knees are pressing against Steph, Cass is resting an arm on his back—but he smiles and watches Steph blue-shell Jason with ten seconds to spare.

“When did I start playing chess against you?” Tim’s voice rises in alarm, and Dick laughs.

Chapter Text

“Shh, Jason, shh, you’re safe,” Dick said, trying to get them back home and fend off an overenthusiastic wolf at the same time.  “Jay.  Jaybird.  Jason, you can’t fit in my lap, there isn’t enough space—”

His breath cut out in a wheeze.

Jason made a pleased sound, like he wasn’t squishing Dick.

“Little Wing.”

Aw, crap, now he was giving Dick the eyes, and no one warned you that puppy-dog eyes from an actual pup were devastating.

“Jason,” Dick groaned, slumping back, “There’s no space for you, kiddo.  Can you please get off before you turn me into paste?”

Jason made a low, mournful whine.  Dick steeled himself to the sound, and pretended like it didn’t make his heart crack to watch Jason slink dejectedly to the adjacent seat.

Dick paused to check that the car was on autopilot, and shifted in his seat, bracing his uninjured hand carefully to stretch out.  Jason watched him, curious at first, then leaping up to give Dick enough space to curl out against both the seats.

A large, pleased, furry weight landed on him again, and Dick huffed as Jason burrowed against Dick like he was a puppy and not an adult wolf.

“I’m right here, Jaybird,” Dick hummed patting Jason’s head with the hand in a cast.  “I’m right here.  I’ll always come for you, Little Wing.”

Jason rumbled, soft and deep, and Dick hugged him closer.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Dami,” Steph spread her hands wide, stretching out across the couch, “Cuddle time!”

Damian came with only a brief, customary sneer, easily climbing onto the couch and lying down on her legs so his head was pillowed on her stomach.  He grumbled as he adjusted position until he was comfortable, and Steph grinned wide at Dick’s glower.

“Jealous?” she asked, pointedly scanning his empty couch.  Jason and Tim were fighting over the movie they were going to cue up, and Jason would come take the armchair, and Tim would take a different chair, because cuddling with Dick was fun right up until you realized that he would not sit still.

“Wasn’t it supposed to be only thirty-seven hugs?” Dick glared.  Steph was surprised he’d kept track.  “Shouldn’t it be over by now?”

Yes.  Yes it should.  Steph had deliberately stopped counting at twenty-eight, when Damian came to her for a hug completely unprompted, but there had been a lot more than ten hugs after that.

She shrugged, elaborately casual, “I lost count.”

Dick narrowed his eyes more fiercely, “I’m sure Damian kept count.”

“I was not aware I had to count at all,” Damian said almost dispassionately, scowling at the TV screen.  Steph made no attempt to hide her smile.  “But you are right, Grayson.  I will have no one impugn my honor to suggest that I have not completed my punishment.  We will start again.”

Oh, her little prickly assassin child.  Steph hugged him close, ignoring Dick’s laser eyes.  “You want me to keep count this time?”

“It will provide you a path to make up for your earlier lapse,” Damian said snootily.

Sure it would.  Dick made a betrayed, wounded noise.  He looked mournful on his empty couch, all puppy dog eyes and a gloomy aura.  Steph almost felt sorry for him.

She gently started stroking Damian’s glossy black hair, and shot a beatific smile at Dick, who was audibly grinding his teeth.

Almost.

Chapter Text

He didn’t even know why he was still here.  He’d tried to think through it—orphaned children went into foster care, and enemies of Batman went to Arkham, and any thoughts after that had hit the giant screaming wall of YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT and Tim had given up.

It was his fault.  If only he’d—if he hadn’t been so stupid—he’d trusted an immortal megalomaniac—he had nearly gotten the Waynes murdered just like he got his parents murdered, and he didn’t know why he was curled up in a window seat in their house.

His lap meowed.  Tim carefully extracted a hand from the blanket tucked around him—Damian was oddly intent on wrapping him in them, and it was a different one each time—and placed a gentle finger on its little head.

He shouldn’t.

He killed and ruined everything he touched, he was going to ruin this little kitten too, he shouldn’t be anywhere near it—

It meowed again, and batted at his finger.  He let it pounce and nibble on it, a tongue like wet sandpaper dragging against his skin.

So small and so vicious.  Just like its master.  Tim cracked the barest hint of a smile, before it faded in a rush.

He’d nearly gotten Damian Wayne abducted.  His brother, Jason, Robin would’ve been killed.  Talia and Bruce Wayne, Shrike and Batman, would’ve been captured or killed.  Dick Grayson was away, but no doubt Ra’s would’ve wanted to make a clean sweep when Nightwing was back on the planet.

And instead of being locked away, or exiled, or sent somewhere where his stupidity couldn’t hurt anyone else, he was half-slumped in the breakfast nook while a tiny kitten played with his wiggling fingers.  Damian was sitting at the table, ostensibly doing his homework, as though Tim couldn’t sense the eyes on him, and—if they kept to the schedule—Jason would appear in another half hour to get himself a snack, and he’d drop a bowl of apple slices in front of Tim and ruffle his hair and smile like he didn’t despise Tim.

A couple hours after that, Bruce would come and nudge him to the table for dinner, and Talia would ask him about his day like she didn’t want to cut his throat open, and Alfred would put down the filling meal he made especially for Tim because Tim couldn’t choke down more than a few bites of whatever it was, and he’d get hugs, and maybe there would be a movie night, or maybe Talia would tuck him into bed and promise him that Ra’s would never get him here, like he was worried about himself.

The kitten was blurry.  The kitten was blurry, and his breath was hitching, and he missed his parents so much it felt like a physical wound, and he could taste salt on his lips, but there was soft fur under his fingers, stroke after stroke.

He didn’t know why he was still here.

But he didn’t want to leave.

Chapter Text

Jason had been waiting for nearly an hour before the door finally opened to reveal Dick Grayson.

Jason straightened, waiting for the reaction.  The narrowed eyes, the suspicion, the paranoia.  The fight—god, how he wanted to crush that stupid smiling face into the dirt.

Except…Dick wasn’t smiling.  Well, he was smiling, but the smile was sad.  His eyes skipped over Jason like he wasn’t really there, and Jason watched silently as Dick toed off his shoes and deposited his keys on the counter before flopping down on the couch.

“Hi, Jaybird,” he said casually, looking at Jason over the back of his couch.  What.  The.  Fuck.  Had Talia already told Dick?  Jason was going to murder somebody.  “Trying out a new style?” Dick asked, motioning at his hair.

Jason automatically followed the movement, still stuck in shock, and tugged on his hair.  What—Jason had died and it had been years and Dick was asking about his hair?

“What the fuck,” Jason said flatly.

“Language,” Dick immediately chided, which just made Jason want to swear again.

“Of all the things, you’re concerned about the swearing?” Jason asked, flabbergasted.  Did Dick have a head injury he didn’t know about?

“What should I be concerned about?” Dick blinked at him, turning fully to give him all his attention.

Jason looked around the room, wondering if he was being pranked.  “Me,” Jason snarled, but it lacked the bite he wanted.  This wasn’t the confrontation he’d been expecting.

Dick’s expression crumpled.  “I’m sorry, Little Wing,” he said quietly, “I’m so, so sorry for not saving you.  I—I’m sorry for not picking up your call—” Jason had almost forgotten about that one—“For not being there for you, for not—I’m sorry.”

He slumped down, squeezing his eyes shut, and Jason watched tears leak out from his closed eyelids.  It made something churn unpleasantly in his stomach.  It made the green hiss.

“How cute,” Jason said, cold and vicious, “You’re sorry.  Well, that just makes it all better, doesn’t it?  An apology from the great, golden Dick Grayson?”  He stalked forward a step—if Dick wasn’t going to give him a fight, Jason would just take it.

“I wish it was me,” came the soft confession.  Jason froze.  “It should’ve been me.  I—I was Robin, I should’ve stayed Robin, I—I should’ve killed him earlier.”

He wasn’t—he couldn’t be—he hadn’t actually—

Jason had heard the rumors.  It had been one of the first things he’d asked Talia, after she’d shown him the picture of Batman and his new Robin—where was the clown?  Dead, was the response, and no one knew who did it.

Jason had laughed when she told him that Nightwing was one of the rumored names on the list.  And now—

“So you did kill him,” he said quietly, “I thought that was just someone’s funny attempt at a joke.  You actually murdered the Joker.”

Dick flinched.

“Why?” Jason asked, desperate, surging forward because he needed to know—

“Because he murdered you,” Dick said, slow and soft, “Because I thought he murdered Tim.  Because he taunted me with your death—how you screamed, how you cried, how he broke half your bones like you weren’t a child, like you weren’t my little brother, like you weren’t a shining brightness that never, ever deserved to die.”

Jason could feel the blood draining out of his face with every word.

“Because he deserved it,” Dick said wearily, “And because I was tired of letting him get away.”

Jason tried to remember how to breathe.  “But you don’t kill,” he said softly.

Dick smiled, crooked and sad.  “Who told you that, Jaybird?” he asked, somewhere between resignation and amusement.

“You—I just don’t—how—” Jason couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t— “You would never—not for me, not for the street kid that took your place, you wouldn’t—”

“For my little brother,” Dick snapped, fierce and furious, “I would.  I did.  I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Little Wing.  I’m sorry I was too late.”

Jason had to laugh.  It wasn’t funny, but he had to laugh because relief and joy and hope were choking him.  “I can’t believe you actually did it,” Jason said hoarsely, “You actually killed him.  For me.”  It felt like a dream.  Like all his dreams come to life.  “You—fuck—you cared—” and that had been all Jason wanted, all he’d ever craved—“You actually—you did it—for me—you—” he was crying now, and he couldn’t stop the tears—“You cared.”

“Of course I care about you, Jaybird,” Dick said softly, “You’re my little brother.”

It felt like a warm blanket, wrapped around him.  It felt like safety.  It felt like home.  It felt like love.

Jason couldn’t hold himself back any longer.  He lunged, vaulting the couch and flinging himself at his big brother, at the hug he needed, at the family that had cared about him, missed him, avenged him—

Dick’s grip stuttered, and then he shoved Jason off.

Jason stared at Dick, sprawled on the ground with wide blue eyes, unable to fight the reflexive coil of hurt.  What had happened, was Dick okay—

“What the fuck.”

“Language,” Jason teased, trying to hide his concern, “I never thought I’d see the day Dick Grayson passes up a hug.”

Dick didn’t smile or laugh.  Dick’s eyes narrowed, blue steeling over to fury, and attacked.  Jason frantically scrambled back to meet the strike, unprepared for the fight.

“Dick—Dick, stop—” Jason toppled them to the ground and tried to pin his older brother down, “Dick!”

“Who are you?” Dick snarled, bucking his grip, “What the hell do you want?!”

Oh.  Oh.  Dick’s blasé nonchalance was beginning to make more sense.  Jason tried not to wonder whose face Dick had been imagining, and shoved his face to the floor, trapping his arms behind his back and shoving up, high enough to test even Dick’s near-superhuman flexibility.

“Dick, stop,” Jason snapped, trying to keep Dick down, “It’s me—it’s Jason!”

“Fuck you,” came the furious response as Dick writhed.

“It’s me, Dickhead,” Jason cursed—what could he say to make Dick believe him—“The last time I heard your voice was the voicemail I left you, telling you I wanted to come over.  The first thing you ever taught me was how to do a handstand.  You took me train surfing and made me promise not to tell anyone.  When you gave me the Robin suit, I said I’d make you proud and you—you said that I already had.”

Jason blinked back the tears as his eyes prickled again—Dick had to believe him, he had to, Jason had finally gotten someone back and if Dick didn’t believe it was really him—

“You can check my grave, it’s empty,” he said desperately, “Or—or any test you want, my blood, my DNA, whatever, it’s not a trick.”

Dick had stopped struggling, gasping loudly against the wooden floor.  Jason winced, and loosened his grip slightly to let his older brother breathe.  “It’s me, Dickiebird,” he almost pleaded, “I swear.”

“Jason?” Dick wheezed, and Jason nearly collapsed at the curl of relief, “You didn’t die?”

“No, I did,” Jason said slowly, “I came back.  I don’t—it’s a long story.  I—are you going to try to punch me again if I let you go?”

Dick was silent for a stretching moment.  “No,” he said finally, and Jason decided to take him at his word.

Dick pushed himself up, gaze heavy and unreadable and Jason waited—was Dick going to run a test, was he going to call someone, was he going to attack him again—

Dick opened his arms.  Jason surged forward to accept the hug—warm and encompassing and tight and here and Jason clutched tighter as Dick began to shake.  He could feel the dampness growing on his shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” Jason said softly, his voice cracking, “Dickie, please don’t cry.”  Dick merely shook his head, and held on tighter.  Jason’s eyes prickled, and his tears slid down against Dick’s shoulder.  “Thank you,” Jason whispered hoarsely, “Thank you for killing him.”

Thank you for caring.

Dick shifted his grip enough to bury a hand in Jason’s hair.  “You’re alive,” he murmured, “You’re alive.”

He said it like it was a miracle instead of a cruel twist of fate.

“I thought,” Jason’s voice cracked and broke, “I saw—Batman and Robin—he just—he replaced me—and I thought—thought he didn’t care—but you—”

“I missed you so much, Little Wing.  So, so very much.”

“You thought I wasn’t real,” Jason grumbled to hide his choked voice.

“Forgive me for not immediately jumping to the conclusion that my brother was back from the dead,” Dick hiccupped.

That was fair.  “You thought I was, what?  A hallucination?”

“Seemed like the reasonable answer,” Dick murmured.

The reasonable answer?  “Since when are hallucinations reasonable?”

“Jaybird, I see your face every other day, I didn’t exactly—”

What.  What.  “You hallucinate me every other day?” Jason almost squawked.  At Dick’s uncertain ‘yes’, he separated enough to look his big brother in the eyes.

No wonder Dick had barely noticed him standing in the corner of the room.  What had—Jason traced the dark circles under Dick’s eyes, the pallor to his skin, the slightly hollow cheeks, the dimmed brightness in those blue eyes.

“What happened to you?” he asked softly.

Dick merely wrapped him back into a hug.  “You first.”

Chapter Text

Master always punished, and punishment was hurt.  She was strong enough to endure the hurt, though, and still be able to fight.  She was a weapon.  She had run away, but she had been found, and the dark, underground place they led her to was similar enough to her old training ground.

She had run away, but she had a new master now.

New Master smiled, and didn’t look angry, or prepared to fight, but he was dressed to fight, and she had seen him angry-and-fighting.  He was making noises, and she stared at him—he knew she didn’t understand the noises, but he kept making them.

She got punished for disobeying.  And nothing she could read told her what New Master wanted—she read anxiousness-nervousness, she watched him show different parts of her new training ground, but there was none of the intent that signaled action.

Did he want her to start training?  Did he want her to wait?  Did he want her to move this side or that side, or stop following him, or attack him?

New Master made more noises.  She was almost vibrating.  She had to do something.

She didn’t want to get punished.  New Master was bigger than her old master.  Those fists looked like they would hurt very much.

He led her back to the electronics set-up, and she halted.  There were children here.  A slight boy, younger than her, dressed in a uniform of the same material as New Master.  He looked curious-inquisitive.  There was a girl next to him, same age, dressed in purple, and she looked amused.

They were making noises too.

She froze.

Weapons weren’t allowed to make noises.  That lesson had been carved into her.  Weapons were supposed to be silent.  And these weapons, younger weapons, were making noises and New Master was walking towards them and—

And now she was between them, staring at New Master’s blinking blue eyes, startled surprise rising to upset-scared-angry.  She had never met other weapons before, but they were so small, and she was bigger, and she knew how to endure punishment.  New Master would punish her anyway, and the young ones would be safe.

New Master was making more noises, anger and—and worried-protective, like she had seen sometimes, fathers and mothers with children, but no one got worried-protective over weapons, and when he shifted forward, she moved to match him.

Again.  And again.  And he was becoming angry-frustrated, and she knew that this would hurt, but he would give up on getting past her at some moment, and the angry-frustration would only fall on her.

The younger weapons made more noises.  She didn’t know how to tell them to stop.  Her old master showed her stop with pain, but she didn’t want to hurt anyone.  She came all the way here so she wouldn’t hurt anyone.

New Master stopped being angry-frustrated.  He looked thinking-quiet now, and he wasn’t moving.  He had figured out that he couldn’t get past her.  It was time for the punishment now.

She folded to her knees, hands on her thighs, expectant.  Breathe slow and deep through the pain.  Remember the lesson.

New Master looked confused-surprised-upset-angry.  She watched him again, but he made no move to pass her.  Instead, he stopped in front of her…and sat down.

And made more noises.

She was surrounded by noises.  She just wanted someone to tell her what to do.

New Master shifted, reaching out, and she anticipated the motion, presenting her hands.  Hands would take time to heal, and she wouldn’t be able to train properly, but punishment for making noises was always worse.

New Master was surprised-sad, hesitating a moment before he clasped her hands in his bigger ones.  It was warm.

She waited for him to twist and snap.  He didn’t.  He wasn’t even holding her hands properly, she could twist-snap more easily than he could.

He made more mouth noises, and she tried to ignore it, focusing on what she could read.  He wasn’t the still-fury her old master was before a punishment, or even happy in the way that sent something cold along her skin.  He was relaxed-content, and it wasn’t something she was used to seeing on a master.

Relaxed-content changed to quiet-alert-protective as the young ones stepped into view.  They were looking at her, curious, and they made mouth noises before dropping down on either side of New Master and curling against him.

New Master did not backhand them so their heads hit the floor.

New Master did not pry their hands off and break their fingers, bone by bone, so they understood that touching was forbidden.

New Master didn’t even change from content-protective as he turned the smile onto both of them.  He looked like—like the families she had seen.  Like a father.

The young ones…weren’t weapons?  They showed open-unguarded, attention away from New Master, not tensed for punishment.  Like children.

New Master turned away from the two children, and content-protective was aimed at her.

Was she not a weapon?

Chapter Text

Following the Replacement was easy.  The kid was exhausted, and he couldn’t see underwater—Jason could get closer and closer without the kid even noticing.

And he did get closer, almost inadvertently, because the kid’s pace had slowed to glacial.  He kept stopping to gasp for breath, and Jason was starting to get concerned over whether he’d make it back to shore at all.

It wasn’t far—it was visible, anyway—but the sea was getting rougher as the storm rolled in, and the Replacement kept stopping.

“Bruce,” a thin, hoarse voice croaked out.  Jason barely caught it, and he was fifteen feet away.  “Dick.”

They weren’t anywhere nearby.  Jason half-wished they were.  The kid’s jerky movements were beginning to get alarming.

Pathetic human child, something hissed in the back of his mind, acid-green, but there was no force to it.

The kid was sinking deeper and deeper, but his flailing managed to bring him above the water line long enough to draw a breath.  Jason listened to his gasps, and ignored the way his stomach twisted.

If the Replacement wanted to play with sea creatures, then it was Jason’s duty to show him what that entailed.  Besides, he’d done nothing permanent, and he let the kid go.  It certainly wasn’t his fault that the Replacement was stupid enough to abandon his spit of land in the face of an oncoming storm.

The kid sank below the waves again.

And didn’t resurface.

His legs weren’t moving, and his arms were getting less frantic, and—

Jason settled his hands against fragile human skin, and hauled the Replacement up.

He wasn’t—sure, he hated the kid, but he wasn’t going to—he couldn’t just watch him drown in cold blood, he couldn’t—he hadn’t come here to murder anyone.

The Replacement started at him for a couple startled, shallow breaths, his face pale and sunken, blinks too slow and too long—and burst into tears.

The shallow breaths were replaced by shuddering, hitched and desperate, blue eyes wide as tears blended with wet cheeks, and the terror didn’t taste so sweet this time.

“Stop crying,” Jason snapped.  He was here, helping the kid, and the kid was acting like he was about to be eaten.

But the Replacement just brought his hands up, covering his face, still crying.  He wasn’t even trying to keep himself afloat, limp and pliable, and Jason had to tighten his grip on the kid’s waist to keep his head above water.

“Stop crying,” Jason hissed, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kid made a high, disbelieving sound, breaths too fast to be healthy, still trembling.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason snarled through gritted teeth, because he’d done a lot of things, but he hadn’t lied to the kid so far.

The kid finally managed to discover his voice, stuttering and weak as it was, “T—then l—let go.”

Well, if he insisted.

Jason sank below the waves, watching.  The kid managed one stroke before sinking again, and Jason made a frustrated sound before hauling him up.  This time, he clutched Jason’s shoulders, still trembling, blue eyes almost…fractured.

“If I let go,” Jason said levelly, “You’re going to drown.”

“Y—you almost s—sound like y—you care.”

Jason scowled.  “I don’t want you to die.”  It had only ever been about scaring the kid.  And—maybe Jason had gotten carried away, but—

“Could’ve f—fooled me,” the kid muttered.

Jason growled, baring his sharp teeth.  “I don’t,” he snapped.

The kid’s eyes went wide again, but he stayed limp, shivering, gazing at Jason in what looked like exhausted resignation.

Jason took a deep breath and forced down the acid green.  “I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Jason explained, “I was—I was just trying to scare you.”

“M—mission acc—accomplished.”  Blue eyes slid shut, and even the shuddering eased, replaced by defeat.  Like a soggy tissue.  Jason didn’t like it.

“I—I really was just trying to scare you,” Jason said quietly, staring at the waves to avoid that broken expression.  “I didn’t meant to—” Vivid, angry red lines down either side of the kid’s neck, and Jason swallowed painfully, because he did that.  He’d mauled the kid’s skin.  “I’m sorry,” Jason said finally.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Jason repeated, inwardly wincing at the kid’s exhausted confusion.

“I—I don’t understand.  Why did you attack me?  I don’t—I don’t remember meeting you, and I’m sorry, whatever I did to you, I—”

“It wasn’t you,” Jason cut him off, seething wrapping around him—it was Bruce who replaced him, Bruce that decided to go for a child he could have on land and not just in the sea, Bruce that gave up on him.  “Well.  Not entirely you, anyway.”

“…What?”

“Bruce.  I wanted to—it was just supposed to scare you and remind him that—it—it’s a long story, okay.”

Jason didn’t particularly want to go into reasons right now, not when those reasons were making his stomach twist.  But the kid dropped the topic without a fight, slumping in Jason’s hold.

It started to rain.  Jason looked up at the dark gray clouds above them, and felt uneasiness settle in his gut.

“You should get back to land.”  And soon.  “It’s going to be a bad storm.”

“I can’t swim anymore,” the kid admitted softly—which wasn’t much of a secret, Jason was the only thing holding the kid afloat.

“I can get you closer,” Jason offered, judging the distance to shore—swimming too close to shore in a storm was a bad idea, but he had no idea where Bruce and Dick were, and he couldn’t just hold the kid here forever.

“Please,” the kid said, voice hollow.  He didn’t look enthused by the idea, but Jason took it as permission.

It was awkward, tugging the kid along while keeping his head above water, but Jason managed, striking out to a long-familiar point.  The kid didn’t struggle, quiet and limp, even when the choppy waves started breaking over his head.

Jason stopped, and made a face.  “I can go faster, but I can’t do it like this,” he said, calculating the remaining distance, and then looking back at the exhausted kid.  “How long can you hold your breath?”

The kid’s face made a spasm before dropping back to hollow fatigue.  “A minute?”

Jason could work with that.  He maneuvered the Replacement until he was on Jason’s back, his arms around Jason’s neck.  Jason held him in place.  “If you struggle, you’ll burn up oxygen faster.  You need to trust me.”

He didn’t wait for a rejoinder, because he very much didn’t want to hear one, and sank below the waves.

He kept the mental count in his head as he swam, much faster and further than he had before, and surfaced when they drew close to sixty.  The waves were getting much fiercer, and land was more than a minute’s swim away—Jason eyed the clouds uneasily, itching to leave before it got worse.

Once the kid’s grip relaxed slightly, Jason dove down again.

He stretched it longer this time—there was a tricky rough patch of waves he had to push past, surely three more seconds wouldn’t cause any harm—and the moment he broke the surface, he was greeted by wet, panicked, choking gasps.

“Are you okay?  Kid?  Kid?”  The Replacement was clinging to him like a barnacle and Jason patted his arms as the kid shook, unable to twist his head and see what was wrong.  He made the low, soothing clicks that Bruce had made for him whenever he was scared, and it seemed to work—the kid slumped in a sudden rush, his head dropping onto Jason’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there,” Jason promised, “Just a little bit further.”

The kid didn’t say a word.

They were almost there, it didn’t even take a full minute before Jason surfaced next to the pier.  The kid was still slumped limp against him, and Jason panicked for a full two seconds before realizing that he could still hear the kid’s shivering breaths.

“We’re here,” Jason said, untangling the kid’s arms—by the time he twisted around, the kid was already sinking, and Jason made a startled sound before grabbing him again.  “We’re here,” Jason repeated, staring at half-lidded blue eyes and wondering if he had to shake the kid to bring him back.

But the kid tilted his head and caught sight of the pier.  He extended one wavering arm, but it barely knocked the edge of the pier before it faltered and fell back down.

Jason sighed.  Did he really have to do all the work here?  He shifted his grip to the kid’s waist, and heaved him up and out, practically shoving the kid onto the pier.

There.  Good deed done.  He’d delivered the kid to dry land—well, for a given definition of land and a given definition of dry, but the kid would be fine.  All he had to do was walk up the pier and up the stairs to the house at the top of the hill.

All he had to do, to go home, to go back to Bruce, to go back to the pack that had replaced Jason like it was—

Jason shoved down the acid green.  Not now.  He’d gotten the kid safely to land, now it was time to leave before the storm got worse, to strike back out to open ocean and figure out what the hell he was going to do now.

The kid was a crumpled heap on the wooden slats.  He’d barely made it three steps.  He was still breathing, but he made no attempt to push himself back up.

“Replacement?” Jason called softly, reaching out to tug the kid’s ankle.  He needed to get up and get on actual land, the waves would start hitting the pier and it wasn’t safe out here.

The kid made a small, broken sob, a sound of pure surrender, and it sliced through Jason’s heart.

He remembered crying like that, he remembered agony and desperate tears and begging dying to resignation because they weren’t going to stop, please just let him die, please, please, he wanted his dad so badly—

The path underneath the pier had always been kept clear.  It was one Jason had woven through often, streaking like a blaze of red, almost all the way to the jagged shore, where a—where there used to be a conch shell tied to one of the slats, easily accessible by a mer.

It was still there.

The Replacement was human and Dick was a selkie but the shell was still there.

It was the same one, smooth under Jason’s questing fingers, and his eyes burned, hot trails tracing down his cheeks as he cupped the shell.

It was still here.

After all these years—Bruce had forgotten him, he had to—but the shell was maintained, usable, not cracked or ruined or filled with water.

Jason swallowed down the sob wrenching inside of him, and pressed his lips to the mouth of the shell.

The sound was just as eerily haunting as he remembered.

He could hear the door bang open in the distance.

Jason replaced the conch shell in its little alcove, and swam back the way he came, unable to stop the tears.  “Wait!” a thin, hoarse voice cried, and Jason found himself stopping without even realizing.

He met puzzled blue eyes.  “Jason?” the kid asked tentatively, and Jason had to get away.

He sank beneath the waves, and stayed long enough to watch Dick and Bruce come running onto the pier before he turned away.

That reunion wasn’t intended for him.

Chapter Text

Red helmet.  The Joker was dead.  The Joker had died screaming by Damian’s hand, he had ensured it, he had personally made sure that clown would never draw another breath after he’d murdered his brother—and here he was.  Standing in front of Damian again.

Damian didn’t care.  This time, he’d make it even slower.

“Nightwing,” the clown said, surprisingly agile as he dodged Damian’s sword, “It’s me.  It’s Hood.”

“I know who you are,” Damian said, cold and furious, “Hood.”  This time, the sword connected, and Damian watched in satisfaction as the helmet splintered under the blow.  “You are going to die screaming for what you did to my family,” Damian promised.  Another blow might even decapitate him.  “For what you did to my brother.”

So cold, so still, so very young—if Damian had been there, if Damian had been better, if Damian had protected him, then Tim Drake would never have died, never been impaled on his own staff, blue eyes cloudy and unseeing, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth.

He managed to lock his hands around the monster’s throat.

“I don’t care what face you’re wearing,” Damian seethed, “I will kill you as many times as it takes to stick, and I will make sure each death is so painful you will wish it was the last.”

It wasn’t an empty threat.  Damian had no shortage of ideas, and all the motivation in the world to carry them out.

Unfortunately, the clown was particularly slippery this time around.  His bullets were nothing more than stinging fleas though, and Damian didn’t need his sword to tear the vermin apart.  He snarled as the clown crumpled, head banging against the ground, and straddled him, intent on turning that pale face to pulp—

Wide blue eyes stared up, wearing fear that Damian knew all too well.

“Drake?”  No.  It couldn’t be.  It couldn’t possibly be.  He was dead.  Robin was dead and Damian had failed him and it couldn’t be Tim lowering his hands.  “You’re alive,” Damian breathed out, something curling inside his heart, warm and weightless.

No.  No, he had to be sure, this could be a trick, he could—he could be seeing things, or—Damian pressed two fingers to Tim’s pulse—steady, slightly high—and used a wingding to slice through the dark body armor—not the Robin suit, no, Tim was dead—and placed a hand against a pulsing heartbeat.

“You’re alive,” Damian repeated, and it felt like a miracle.

He couldn’t strangle the broken sob, and crumpled, pressing his ear right above that steady beat, allowing it to reassure him, terror and fear uncoiling, inch by inch.

His little brother was alive.

Chapter Text

“Timothy?”

Oh god not again.

“Yes, Damian?” Tim turned away from his laptop lest the kid jump on the table because ‘his awareness was slipping’.  Sure enough, Damian had a water bottle in his hand, and Tim watched mournfully as Damian took the coffee mug away and shoved the bottle in his hands.

He was beset by babysitters.  Bruce kept a strict eye on continuous screen time and ambient lighting, Jason kept forcing him to eat vegetables, and Dick monitored how long and how hard he trained.  Sure, maybe he hadn’t had more than a mild headache in months, but he was being stifled.  And of course there was the former assassin child, who seemed to devote himself to watching Tim’s well-being like a hawk.

Tim drank the water, and felt the tension ease out of his skull.  The worst goddamn part was that it worked.

Tim gave Damian a sullen look as the brat scanned him, and almost growled when Damian made a faint, clipped sound of satisfaction.  He resented that.  He took care of himself perfectly fine.

Damian took the seat next to him, and peered at the computer screen.  “What are you working on?”

“Just a case,” Tim said, before he remembered the last thing he’d been doodling.  “Oh!  I wanted to get your opinion on something.”

Damian had shown a surprising interest in costume design, which automatically made him the only person Tim was talking to about this, because everyone else in his family were lunatics when it came to costumes.

Jason was way too attached to explosives and guns, the less said about Dick the better, and Bruce was the kind of guy that thought that dressing up like a bat, pointy ears and all, was a good idea.

Tim would never forget how long and hard he had to argue to make alterations to the Robin costume.

But Damian understood the value of practicality, and his dramatic flair was more subtle, so Tim felt comfortable about brainstorming with him about new designs.  He liked the base Robin design, but with Jason back, and Damian here, Tim was aware that his original goal of being a barrier to Batman’s darkness was no longer needed.

Robin may be Batman’s partner, but they weren’t Batman’s equal, not in the same way that Nightwing was, or the Red Hood was, and Tim was keeping his plotting a secret from everyone but Damian.  He’d seen the way the kid eyed his costume, so Damian wouldn’t tell, not until Tim got all his ducks in a row.

Speaking of ducks…

Tim unveiled the new image, and beamed at Damian.  Damian blinked.  “What do you think?” Tim asked.

“It has…feathers.”

“Well, not really, they’re far sharper and I can snap them out into a shield.  I thought they would be fun!”

“They will interfere with your gliding.”

“They’re perfectly aerodynamic, birds have feathers!”

“Timothy,” Damian said flatly, “You are not actually a bird.”  Tim rolled his eyes, that wasn’t what he meant—“Birds also have hollow bones.  Are you planning to incorporate that as well?”

Tim scowled, and closed the design.  He heard a faint, incredulously disdainful ‘feathers’ before Damian spoke up, “Perhaps it’s not entirely unsalvageable.  What did you name this one?”

Damian gave good suggestions on the costume ideas, but he had shot down every potential name that Tim had come up with, for a large variety of reasons, most of them boiling down to ‘idiot’.  Tim didn’t think they were that bad.  “Drake,” Tim answered with a straight face, and watched Damian go still.

“Drake.”

“Yup.”

“Drake.”

“That’s what I said.”

“…How incredibly imbecilic—”

“It means duck!  Or alternatively, a type of dragon.  Either way, it fits the theme!”

“—cannot believe that this is the best of what your formidable intellect can come up with—”

“It’s a cool name!”

“Timothy,” Damian said slowly, “It’s your last name.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t really—”

“Have you never heard of a secret identity in your life?”

“No one will put it together—”

“A family full of idiots,” Damian muttered, staring at the ceiling of the Cave in consternation, “I miss Mother already.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ibn al Xu’ffasch, I’m sure you’re the expert on secret identities,” Tim raised an eyebrow, fighting hard to suppress his smile.

“My existence was concealed from Father for eight years, and only revealed on my terms.”

“…Touché.”

Chapter Text

To say that Jason was surprised by the sound of the zeta would be an understatement.  Jason nearly flailed off the bed, and the only thing that stopped him was the teenager curled up half in his lap, bruised face slack in sleep.

Can’t wake him up, his mind argued, coiling protectively and hissing at rationality, which was trying to point out that only the Justice League and Titans had access to the Cave, and Jason was not on good standing with either group.

But Tim would wake up if he moved, and he’d just fallen asleep, and he was injured, and Jason’s dithering came to an unfortunate halt at the sound of furious boots and softer, but still rushed, footsteps.

Jason abruptly realized that he hadn’t put his helmet back on.

He couldn’t see where Batman was looking, the cowl hid his expressions, but Alfred’s face widened to shock.  “Master Jason?” he inhaled sharply.

Jason managed a weak smile.  “Hi, Alf.”  He tried to inch away—he could take on Batman, and Alfred couldn’t stop him—but the sleeping kid had apparently turned into a koala.  “Um.  This isn’t what it looks like?”

Even through the cowl, Batman’s glare was withering.

“Okay,” Jason deflated, “It’s probably what it looks like.  But this isn’t my fault, and you really need to keep a better eye on the baby bird, because he went to a frightening amount of trouble to drag me back here, and I’m worried he’s done it before.”

Jason still remembered the way his heart had gotten stuck in his throat when he saw the kid standing on a street corner.

“…Jason?” Batman—no, Bruce said quietly, hesitant and uncertain.  He sounded like his world had been pulled out from under him.

“Yes?” Jason answered warily, “I’m sure the kid told you all about me.”

“What.”

There was a bubble of hysterical confusion rising inside of him.  “Tim didn’t tell you,” Jason said flatly, “He didn’t tell you that I—you didn’t know.  You didn’t—did he even tell you he got attacked in Titans Tower?”

“What,” Bruce repeated, still toneless and frozen to the spot.

“You,” Jason said to kid sleeping in his lap, “Are such a little shit, I swear—I’m going to make sure you regret this.”  And Jason had a pile of secrets to start out with, enough to ensure that Bruce wouldn’t let Tim out of the house until he turned thirty.  “I can’t believe you decided to dump the explaining onto me.”

“Jason?”

“Yes,” Jason snarled, “It’s me, I’m the Red Hood, I’m your dead son, go run whatever goddamn test you want to run and then get this kid off of me before I decide to remove him with a scalpel!”

“Master Jason,” Alfred said, voice cracking, and he was right in front of him and—and Jason couldn’t deny himself the cherished, rare hug.  “You’ve come home.”

Jason wasn’t imagining the way the kid’s arms tightened around his waist, he wasn’t even asleep, the little shit.

Chapter Text

This was—this was going to hurt.  He’d seen Dick’s wounds—Jason could’ve ended it with a bullet to the head, but he hadn’t, he’d made it painful, he’d used his rage as a weapon and seemed hellbent on transferring the agony.

His belly was exposed.  Every part of his instincts screamed at him to curl up, to hide into a little ball, to run—but there was no point.  Tim had lost.  The whole purpose of the submission was to allow the victor their spoils.

Jason had won, and Tim couldn’t stop him.

The silence was getting to him, though, and Tim cracked open his eyes.  And instantly inhaled sharply, trembling growing stronger—Jason had been replaced with a near-adult wolf, a big wolf, almost the size of Bruce, far, far larger than the adolescent pup that had curled around Tim when he’d been younger.

Jason growled, low and deep, and Tim couldn’t help the terrified whine.  Jason kept growling, overshadowing any sound Tim could’ve made, and he forced down the whimpers as Jason stalked closer.  He prayed—begged—that Jason would make this quick, tears already soaking his fur as he kept himself limp.

Jason wasn’t heeding his silent plea.  He circled Tim, drawing it out, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut—he didn’t want to see the moment that massive jaws opened and struck.  He’d still feel the pain, but he was prepared for that.  As prepared as he could be.

His brother was going to tear him apart, and there was nothing Tim could do.

Tim could smell the fury radiating off the other wolf.  The scent got closer and closer and—Tim whimpered when a wet nose poked at him, nosing around his fur and—oh god—tracing across his exposed belly.  He cried harder when it skimmed across cracked ribs, but the wolf didn’t lunge or press or attack, merely backed off and continued exploring.

Finding the best place to start?  Plotting out the torture?  Or—

The wolf sat down, curling around him and trapping him in place, a rough tongue swiping over his fur.

—or just prolonging it, extending the war on his nerves until he broke and started begging Jason to end it.

Jason nudged at his side, harder and harder and harder and Tim almost rolled over with the last movement, before realizing that Jason was trying to move him.  Tim couldn’t exactly deny him, and twisted with his next push, sprawling out on his side, back of his neck bared to the larger wolf.  The growl turned to a pleased rumble, and Tim waited for the attack.

And waited.

And waited.

Jason kept licking him, as though he knew exactly what was going through his head, grooming him as aggressively as he used to do when they were kids, when he protected Tim, when Tim felt safe and happy and loved as the baby of the pack, secure in the knowledge that Jason would stand between him and any threat.

Now Jason was the threat.

This was a torture crueler than the others—a taste, a hope of the brother that had died, before Jason started hurting him again.  The pain would be twice as worse with the stark reminder of what he’d lost, what could’ve been.

Teeth closed around his fur, and Tim keened—not yet, not yet, he wanted his big brother back, please—but the teeth only unfurled a knot in his fur.

Tim managed to draw a ragged breath before teeth descended again—his heart skipped a beat, waiting for pain, waiting for blood, waiting—and tugged at another knot.

More licking.  Tim trembled violently, unable to move, unable to tense, unable to do anything but—the sharp edge of a fang scraped against his fur, no, no—take it as Jason teased bites, nipping at knots in his fur before backing off again.

Tim couldn’t take this.  He whimpered—end it, please, Jason, please—and a growl rumbled, deep and dark and aggressive.  He whimpered louder—he didn’t care if Jason got angrier, he just wanted this to end, this mockery of gentleness as Jason pretended to groom him, maybe if Jason got angry enough, he’d tear Tim’s throat out—

Teeth closed around the back of his neck.  Tim howled in sudden surprise, calling desperately for a pack too far away to help, but Jason didn’t care, he picked Tim up easily—Tim was smaller than an adolescent wolf usually was, and Jason was huge, he had no issues carrying Tim like a disobeying pup and silent tears slid into his fur as Jason carried him away.

Tim didn’t know where they were going, what they were planning, and ever more gruesome scenarios coalesced in his mind as Jason carried him through the empty halls of Titans Tower.  He imagined Bruce coming across his corpse, or Dick, and knowing that Jason—their pack—had been the one to put him there.

Jason pushed into a room and Tim opened his eyes to see that they hadn’t left the Tower.  They were—they were in the games room?  Jason laid him down next to the couch, disengaging gently, and circled the room once before padding back to Tim.

And licking him again, almost overbearingly so.  Tim—Tim couldn’t keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He—he knew this was Jason’s plan, knew that the older boy wanted him to lower his guard, lull him into a false sense of complacency before he tore that to shreds, but Tim couldn’t keep his defenses up.

He whined softly, and surrendered to the grooming.  To his older brother untangling his fur like Tim was thirteen again, and curled up with Jason, and soft and safe and loved.  To the hypnotic sensation of being protected and warm and with pack.

Jason perked up, and gave a long, mournful howl.  Tim raised his head and forced out one in response—I’m right here, Jason, please, pack is right here.  Jason looked down at him in surprise, and Tim had to duck his head as Jason went back to licking him.

He still wasn’t attacking him.  He was—it felt nice, and Tim sank deeper into the comfort.  It felt like his brother again.  It—Tim wanted him back, and he wasn’t strong enough to stop himself from surrendering to the pack-safe-protect that surrounded him like a hug.

Chapter Text

Damian was aware that his integration into the family had gone smoothly, even with the minimal field knowledge he had, and he wasn’t keen on doing anything to jeopardize that.  So far, his mistakes had been met with faint frowns, and calm admonishments to not do it again, but his grace period wouldn’t last forever, and there were only so many ways he could figure out what the rules were.

Todd was an invaluable resource.

It was clear that he was the measuring stick by which Mother had made her decisions, given the timing of Todd’s return to the family and Damian’s flight to Gotham, and Damian could see why.  Todd delighted in pushing boundaries, and everyone could reap the benefits of his tests.

For example, Damian was holding Timothy’s hand while the older boy got a neat line of stitches for the slice that had almost bisected him in two, while furious shouts came from near the Batcomputer.  Timothy was drugged and not paying attention, and Pennyworth was focused on his task, but Damian watched as Father continued his low-voiced lecture on excessive force, his face hard.

Todd didn’t stop interrupting.

“None of them are dead, are they?”

“Two required hospitalization with multiple fractures, Jason—”

“So what?  I know you’ve done worse!  Baby bird’s told me a lot about what you did when I was dead,” Todd snarled.

It was a carefully calculated strike, and pain shimmered across Father’s face for a moment before the mask shuttered back in place.  It was a hammer on the open wound Damian knew that Father carried, but he didn’t make any move to step forward, to ensure that Todd didn’t talk that way to him again.

“My loss of control is not a justification for yours,” Father said instead, his voice level.

“They hurt Tim!”  Todd’s voice cracked slightly, and Damian remembered the low, punched-out growl that had echoed through the comms when Robin fell.  His stomach had twisted at Todd’s clearly audible fury, and some part of him hadn’t relaxed until the Batmobile was back in the Cave, and he could see Timothy’s condition with his own two eyes.

“I know, Jason, I was there.  But you nearly strangled someone to death—”

“They hurt him, and you just want me to do nothing?”

“That’s not what I said, Jay—”

“Of course, you’re Batman, you can just not care!”

Silence.  Sudden, heavy silence.  Pennyworth stuttered for a moment before finishing the stitches, and when Damian tried to swallow, his throat was thick.

Todd was still, shoulders hunched and head lowered, like he was waiting for a blow.  He was only an inch shorter than Father, but he looked much smaller, curled defensively in a position that had to be instinct.

Damian’s chest was tight, splinters stabbing in every time he took a breath.  Father looked like he was carved from stone, every part jagged and sharp.  No one moved.  No one spoke.

Todd broke the silence first.  “I’m sorry,” he said, a voice far, far smaller than his usual tone, and Father—stepped forward.

Todd didn’t step back, didn’t flinch, didn’t move as Father reached out, and there was a warning caught behind Damian’s teeth—

Father’s arms encircled Todd.  “It’s okay,” Father said quietly, “You’re upset.  You’re hurting.  I understand that.”

“I’m sorry,” Todd’s voice broke as he returned the hold, slumping against Father, “I—I didn’t mean to—they hurt Tim and everything was green and—”

“It’s okay,” Father soothed, one hand settling in Todd’s hair, “Tim will be fine.  We’ll talk about control exercises tomorrow, okay?”

Todd nodded, still clutching Father like he was afraid to let go, and Damian—

Damian took a deep breath, and realized he’d been clutching Timothy’s hand hard enough to leave an imprint.

He would need to add a new rule to his mental list.

Chapter Text

The Joker was finally back in Arkham.  Dick was still missing, and Oracle hadn’t been able to check any on Tim in the meantime.  Bruce hoped—hoped with everything he had—that all three of his children were safe and together, but his heart was in his throat.

He couldn’t lose another child.  Not after he’d gotten Jason back.  Vicious and rage-filled and so, so angry, but alive.

Bruce didn’t bother to go slow and silent—he disarmed the shock trap and slipped inside the apartment.  The common area was empty, and Bruce made his way to the open doorway of the bedroom.

He was met with a gun pointed straight at his head.

Green eyes almost glowed in the semi-darkness.  Bruce catalogued the gun, calculated the low probability of it actually firing, and scanned the rest of the room.

Jason was sitting in the middle of the bed, a cloth laid out in front of him and covered in gun parts.  Tim looked to be fast asleep on his right, curled in Jason’s direction, his wounds bandaged and splinted.  Dick—he was alive, thank god—was not asleep, breathing low and even but the arm around Jason’s waist was tense.  Bruce saw the bandages and splints and took a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe.

He’d almost lost them all.

“Joker’s in Arkham,” Bruce said quietly.

Green eyes narrowed, and a finger curled around the trigger.  “Shall we take bets on who he comes after next?” Jason asked caustically, “Or how about which one of us will manage to stay dead?”

Bruce winced.  He hadn’t—he wasn’t—no one, he wanted to scream, no one.  Some part of him would fracture if the Joker took another child from him.

There was an easy way to end the threat.  But Bruce—couldn’t.  He saw himself holding the gun, aiming, shooting—and looking around to carnage all around him.

If Bruce started killing to protect the ones he loved, he would never stop.

“How are they?” Bruce croaked out finally.

“Sleeping,” Jason said, clipped.  Bruce shifted—he wanted to check for himself, to brush the hair out of Tim’s face and feel Dick’s heartbeat, to know that they were alive—“Turns out being tortured and nearly blown up is exhausting work.”

There was something wavering in Jason’s tone.  The tiniest flicker of remembered fear in green eyes.  For a moment, just one, Jason looked the nineteen years old he was.

“How are you?” Bruce asked softly.

That barest hint of vulnerability vanished, Jason’s expression twisting back to anger.  “You don’t get to ask that question,” he snarled, low and vicious and—and it hurt.

Bruce stayed in the doorway, and breathed in and out.  Jason’s eyes kept flickering, but he clicked the safety back on the gun and lowered it, turning back to the dissembled gun in front of him.

“When did you know?” Jason asked dispassionately, intent on cleaning.  “When did you figure out they were here?”

“Last night,” Bruce answered easily.  “Oracle picked you and Tim up on a security camera.  I was going to check in when…”

Another warehouse, another explosion, another Robin, his fault shrieking through his head and Tim was safe with Jason, Bruce had watched the footage, but Dick was missing and Bruce was only one man.  One man, with an entire city to scour, and by the time he’d accepted the lack of a blue-and-black body, he’d been so exhausted Alfred had forced him to bed.

“And you just left them here?” Jason sneered.

Bruce was so, so very thankful that they were alive.  That Jason was protecting them.  That despite all his fears, this was still his son—angrier and harder, but still Jason.  “They’re safe here,” Bruce said simply.

Jason immediately growled, like the idea offended him.  Bruce had heard all his vitriol on the Replacement, but here Tim was, curled up against his older brother, and it was a stark reminder that Jason’s words were tailored to hurt, lashing out to cover up pain inside.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said quietly, because he’d treated Jason like a ticking time bomb instead of a child lost and confused and desperate.

“For what?” Jason asked, resigned.

For everything.  For not saving him.  For not bringing him home.  For not trusting him.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce repeated, his throat thick and choked, and left before he could ruin it further.

His children were safe.  His children were alive.  His children hated him, but that was Bruce’s fault, and he could stay outside to stand guard, protecting them as best he could.

Chapter Text

He had followed the sounds of a crying baby bird all—the way—here.

“Replacement,” Jason said, spotting the curled up ball of red-and-black.  The kid was rocking back and forth, making muffled sobs, arms wrapped around himself.

Jason had gotten reports of Scarecrow’s rampage, and approached slowly.  One footfall was too loud, though, and the kid’s head snapped up, a sudden, terrified whimper.

“No, stop,” he said, pleading, “Stop!”  Jason hesitated for a moment, but kept moving forward, unlatching his helmet and setting it on the ground as he approached.

The kid had backed himself into a corner, one hand outstretched and shaking, like he could force Jason back with just that.  “Shh,” Jason said, low and soothing, like he was approaching a spooked horse, “Shh, kid, it’s me, calm down.”

It occurred to him after he said it that it might not be very reassuring, but Jason had worked with the Bats a couple of times, and had saved Red Robin from Killer Croc just last week.

“Stay away,” the kid was crying “Stay away—”

“Kid, look at me,” Jason interrupted, crouching down in front of Tim, “Look at me.  You know who I am.”

The kid warily uncurled, just the slightest fraction.  With the whiteout lenses in place, Jason couldn’t tell where he was looking.

“Robin?” Tim asked hesitantly.

Jason nearly reared back.  That—that hurt, that tore at a part of him that had never healed, and the wound burned with surprise.  But the seventeen-year-old huddled in the corner didn’t know he’d just dropped the equivalent of a nuclear strike, and Jason forced his hackles to lower.

“Yes,” he said, his voice cracking, “Yeah, baby bird, it’s Robin.”

Tim didn’t hesitate a moment longer, he practically flung himself at Jason, and Jason rocked back with the kid bundled up in his arms, holding firm as Tim sobbed against Jason’s shoulder.  “It’s okay, baby bird,” he murmured, quiet and low, “It’s okay, no one can get you here.”  Jason wouldn’t let them.

This wasn’t the most defensible spot, and Jason shifted up, biting down the hiss as it jostled his wounds.  Luckily for him, the Replacement was as heavy as a feather, and Jason slid down against a crate with a grunt, keeping Tim in his lap.

“You’re safe,” he kept up the reassurances, “You’re safe, I’m here, it’s okay.”  He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘Robin’, and he tightened his grip around the kid to compensate.

The kid’s tears had almost faded to soft, hitched breaths by the time a shadow appeared in front of them.

Oh, great.  Jason pondered raising the gun he’d unholstered, but he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

“Hood,” Batman grunted.  Jason glared.  Batman had a needle in his hand, “Antidote.”

Jason took a steady breath, and holstered the gun as he shifted closer to Batman.  Tim shuddered, pressing tightly against him, and Jason hummed quietly.  “Shh, baby bird,” Jason said, pretending like Batman wasn’t listening, “It’s Batman, it’s okay.”

“Hurts,” the kid said plaintively, and Jason tightened his grip, “It hurts, make it stop.”