Archive of Our Own ^beta

“This is class reparations,” Steph has taken to saying anytime she steals something from the Bats. She finds a new joke to torture them with every other week - Tim’s pretty glad that she’s over the phase where she would prefix every noun she ever spoke with ‘bat’, because it was threatening their secret identities. “The upper class have taken so much from us already. This is just a drop in the ocean when you consider how much you owe us.”

Jason will invariably reply with something along the lines of “I’m from Crime Alley and you’re from the suburbs, what the hell are you talking about” to which Dick will add a quick reply about growing up in a travelling circus.

Nowadays, the only ones she tries it on with are Tim and Bruce. Steph respects Alfred too much to even be jokingly mean to him, but she has no such compunctions about Bruce or Tim.

Today, she whispers it under her breath as she slowly slides Tim’s jacket off his shoulders. “Class reparations, Timothy. I don’t care how terribly your dad’s business is going, you’ve still got more money than me and I’m cold.”

“Are you saying you’d rather have a jacket like this than a pair of Timberlands for your birthday? Cause you said the same about my boots yesterday,” Tim says absentmindedly, doing nothing to stop her as he swings gently. The old playground a few streets down from Steph’s house has been their meetup spot for quite a while, and nothing calms him so much as chatting to Steph while they hold hands across the swing set.

Steph whacks him with the empty sleeve of his jacket. It’s oversized on him so he normally rolls the cuffs, but she’s a little taller than him - so she’s unrolled them, leaving a little slack for hitting him with. “Obviously I want Timberlands more than a jacket, dude. Educate yourself on female needs, god.”

Tim snorts. “Sorry, I wasn’t aware a good pair of boots was a female need. I’ll have to mention it to Cass.”

“Cass,” Steph sighs, going starry-eyed. “Tim, your big sister is so cool. I want to be her. I think that’s actually my most pressing female need.”

“Sorry,” Tim says shamelessly, “I’d rather you be Steph.”

She hits him again, but when he looks over, this time she’s blushing. “How can you be so stupid and boy and then so thoughtful within the span of less than a minute?”

“It’s my special talent.”

Steph’s hair swishes softly across her skin, near-silent in the moonlight. The pair of them have just come onto patrol after dinner at Wayne Manor - dinner is served at midnight now that all of them are night shift, it’s precisely planned around other mealtimes to ensure that all of them are in tip-top shape - and while Tim would never dare remove his domino anywhere other than the Cave, Steph has very few compunctions about tugging off her cowl and letting herself breathe. She cut her own hair a few weeks ago - Tim suspects that’s something to do with more female needs he ought to educate himself on, but it’s also entirely possible she’s just trying to emulate Cass and Babs. They’ve swiftly become her favourite heroes since Spoiler started working with the Birds of Prey. Tim’s not jealous like she keeps trying to get him to admit - honestly, Oracle is his favourite hero too.

“Dana tried to make me pasta the other day when I came to try and find you,” Steph says, staring off into space. Tim loves to look at her while she doesn’t know he’s watching. She’s always so unabashedly candid, unashamedly herself. “I think she’s going nuts without someone to look after with you gone all the time, Tim.”

Tim feels his shoulders rising apprehensively and forces himself to sit up straight. “I mean, I’m not gone all the time. Dad hates it when I sneak in and out. He says I’m betraying my real family and that the Waynes aren’t related to me, he is, and what am I really doing over there, hm, because it’s not running my programs is it.”

The rhythmic creaking of the old iron stops for a moment. Tim looks over, and Steph has her feet on the ground, face thunderous. He shrinks back, biting his lip. There had been nothing in Steph’s tone before now to indicate that she was actually angry, right? So it must have been something he said. He’s frantically running through any way he might have offended her when Steph sighs, and lets the swing go again. “Sweetie, ever since I’ve known you, your dad’s been more and more… well… I guess the right word is angry.”

“He’s not a supervillain at least,” Tim snarks back, feeling guilty even as the words leave his mouth. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair. I know what you’re saying about Dana - she doesn’t feel as needed any more, I guess. I might ask her if she wants to go grab a Paddy O’Melt with me at O'Shaughnessy's after school tomorrow.”

“You’re sweet,” Steph says, reaching across to squeeze his hand. “Hey, you want to ask Dana if you can sleep over at mine? Dad’s still in jail for the moment, and Mom’s pretty clean right now so she’s picking up shifts like crazy at the hospital. It’ll be just you and me.”

Tim shudders. “I’m terrified to ask for any kind of sleepover after the grounding I got last time Dad caught you in my room. I can’t even ask to stay with the Waynes, or my Dad’ll get apoplectic. Honestly, I’m weirdly happy the summer holidays are over. I’m actually glad for school - I know it’s the one place that I’m allowed to be, where he’ll never visit.”

“And where you can hang out with Jason,” Steph says. If Tim were prone to fanciful thinking, he’d say she sounded wistful. “Gotham Academy is such a bougie school, boy virgin. I still think it’s stupid that you go there when Gotham Heights is such an incredible school.”

Incredible is pushing it, but it is where Steph and Ives both go. Tim would honestly consider switching, if it weren’t for two things.

One: Gotham Academy is where Waynes have gone for generations. Tim knows that’s not a legacy he has any part of, but it’s nice to feel connected to the halls where Jason, Dick, and even Bruce once walked. He can walk into a classroom and remember the time he spent there hanging out with Jason, even if he’s graduated now.

Two: Tim’s presentation to his parents on why he should attend Gotham Academy was one of the last times he can recall them listening to what he had to say, and making a genuine change.

So he’s pretty sure that - though he’d love to spend more time with Steph - he’s sticking with his guns on this one. “Sorry, Stephie. Guess that’s just another thing I owe you class reparations for.”

As glad as Tim is to attend Gotham Academy, sometimes he wishes they weren’t so active on the parent-teacher communication front.

“I just don’t see why I have to attend another parent-teacher meeting,” Jack grumbles, focusing intently on his tie in the mirror. “I mean, you’re what, seventeen now? You don't need your hand held for everything, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sixteen,” Tim mutters. He’s not bitter about Jack forgetting his age - he’s never once known how old Tim is, and quite honestly Tim would be surprised if now were the time Jack chose to remember. “It’s mostly an opportunity for them to show off their facilities, and not so much about telling you about my progress.”

Jack huffs, still fussing with his tie. “Well, I should hope they still make sure they tell us all about how well you’re doing. You are doing well, Timothy?”

“Yes sir,” Tim says, rolling his eyes where he knows his dad won’t see him. “They give all the Wayne scholarship kids personal tutors.” Honestly, he doesn’t need Zoanne’s help, but it looks good on her CV, so he’s not about to make her life difficult over it. Plus, it gives him a little grace for missing lessons on account of night-shift reasons.

“As if a Drake would need a personal tutor,” Jack says stiffly. Tim’s fairly sure he’s not smarting at the insult to Tim’s intelligence, but the reminder that Tim now attends Gotham Academy on a Wayne scholarship. Drake Enterprises has been on a consistent downwards trend since Janet died, and school fees were one of the first things they had to cut.

Bruce’s endless generosity means that Tim gets to stay at Gotham Academy, but Jack doesn’t like it one bit. “Anyway, my teachers shouldn’t take up too much of your time. With any luck, we’ll be back home for dinner.”

“I’m cooking tonight!” Dana calls, voice floating down the hallway. “Remember that before you decide to treat Tim! Bring the ice cream home for later!”

Tim’s ears prick up, and he grins at his dad. “Is that a deal? Ice cream if you decide to treat me?”

Jack shrugs, finally satisfied with his knot. “You can pick the flavour, chum.”

The drive to Gotham Academy is silent - normally, Tim rides with Alfred, and they take turns choosing music. Somehow, Tim doesn’t think his dad would appreciate listening to the Clash, so they drive in silence.

Parent-teacher evenings are a special brand of hell. Tim has to listen to his dad’s passive-aggressive remarks, his teachers’ uncomfortable compliments, and he has to face the consequences of his dad finding out about how many lessons he’s missed.

“Do you not care about your education, son?” Jack hisses as he drags Tim into the corridor. “I just had to sit through your chemistry teacher telling us about how much better you’d do in class if you were sick less! You’re never sick! How many classes have you been skipping? Why? Are you skipping to go spend time with those goddamn Waynes, or- God, tell me it’s not your little girlfriend. What’s her name, Stella? Selina? She’s a bad influence on you, Timothy.”

Tim lets himself be moved, limp under his father’s firm grip. “Dad- Dad, stop, we’re in public.”

Jack drops him, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Not for much longer. We’re leaving. Right now.”

Desperately trying to fix his rumpled collar, Tim hurries after his dad. There’s a relentless buzzing in his pocket, but he knows better than to check his phone right now. The thing his dad hates almost the most is when he thinks Tim isn’t paying attention to him.

“Dad, would you mind if I check my phone? If someone needs me I don’t want to ignore their call,” he tries tentatively as he’s buckling in. “Whoever it is hasn’t stopped phoning me.”

The stony look on his dad’s face has Tim rethinking his question, but as he presses on the gas and the family car roars out of Gotham Academy’s car park, he gives Tim a curt nod.

Tim fumbles with his phone, and nearly drops it when he spots the caller ID. Steph. She knew he was going to be out with his dad tonight - all the bats have access to the night-shift and day-shift calendars, peppered with events ranging from ‘stakeout on 12th and Poplar’ to ‘takeout from Manny’s Chinese’. There’s no way Steph would be calling him unless she thinks something’s really wrong - something she can’t handle herself.

He hits the answer button. “What is it, Steph?”

“Tim,” she replies, sounding out-of-breath. There’s a pained catch in her voice, and all his senses jump to alert. “So - you know how I broke my leg when I was out with Jay the other night?”

All his reflexes are screaming at him to remind her that it’s an unsecure line, but he can’t risk dropping any hints to his dad. “Uh - yeah. Yeah, why? Is there something wrong?”

She takes a sharp, hissing breath. “Yes. There’s- some of Dad’s friends decided to swing by for a visit. They’re knocking Mom around. Believe me, if I were mobile I would show them what Spoiler is made of, but I can’t, so… can Robin come by?”

To Tim’s relief, his dad doesn’t appear to have heard what Steph said - he’s looking furious, knuckles white around the steering wheel, but his body doesn’t suggest that he’s intent on listening. “I don’t know. That sounds really bad, Steph. Do you need me to come over?”

“Yes, I already- oh. Are we faking this conversation? Are you in trouble too?”

“Yes and no,” Tim says, chancing another glance at his dad. “I’ll see what I can do about coming over. If I can’t make it, you could probably call Dick. They’re all still wrapped up at school ‘cause B’s giving a speech but Dick could make an exit for you if you need.”

Steph sighs. “Thanks, batboy, but had you considered… I don’t want Nightwing. I want you.”

The flood of warmth that fills his heart isn’t quite enough to calm Tim down, but it does buoy his mood a little. “Okay. I’ll ask. Hopefully I’ll see you soon. Bye, Stephie.”

“Bye, birdlad.”

Before Tim can even open his mouth, his dad is shaking his head. “You are in enough trouble as it is, son. I am not going to have you running off again and escaping this conversation. Lord, where did your mother and I go wrong with raising you? You’ve never given us trouble before. Is it Dana? Are you acting out because you don’t like that I remarried? Because you’re just going to have to get over it, Tim!”

“It’s not Dana, sir,” Tim says, face reddening. If only his problems were so mundane as disliking a stepmother! “Steph’s really freaked out, her dad’s crook friends have been by. Can’t I go and make sure she’s alright?”

“The daughter of a crook!” Jack slams his hands on the steering wheel, accidentally setting off a loud burst of noise from the horn. Tim startles, reflexes honed after years of training sending adrenaline surging around his body. “Not only is she a terrible influence, you’re walking into danger every time you visit! You are never going to see this girl again, Timothy Jackson Drake, so help me God!”

His phone rings again. Tim avoids his dad’s glare.

“Do not answer that, Timothy. You answer that and you will not like the consequences. All your life, we have been soft on you. My father was wounded twice in World War Two - you’ve never so much as broken an arm! I am doing this for your own good, and I’m not lying down now, son - you disobey me one more time and I will show you the kind of punishment I can give.”

Tim locks eyes with his father, and answers the phone.

“Timmy, thank Christ, I tried calling Dick and he’s not answering. I need you now, okay? This is me being serious. I- oh, God.” A crash in the background makes static squeal in Tim’s ear, and he holds the phone away from him. There are no more words from Steph before the line drops.

His dad is staring at him, rage boiling over like the foam on a pint of beer. Tim’s seen this particular brand of naked fury before, but before now, his mom has been around - she would send Tim to his room without dinner, lock him in there until he’d learned his lesson, but she was the one who handled his father.

Janet isn’t here now. Tim’s seen the wreckage of his electronics before when his father’s fallen into a fury, and he weighs up his options only briefly. He’s in a moving car on a busy road, with a father who’s about to absolutely unload on him, and Steph needs him.

It’s an easy choice. Tim unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the car door - ignoring his father’s yell of alarm - and rolls out onto the road.

Robin has fallen from worse situations, although normally whilst wearing body armour. Despite that, Tim’s been through rigorous training at the hands of every Wayne in the family on how to minimise injury from a fall. It’s Dick’s first requirement for Robins - being able to fall from higher and higher heights without permanent damage.

Regardless, when Tim gets to his feet, his uniform is scratched and torn, his palms and knees are ripped up and speckled with asphalt, and there’s a twinge in his shoulder that he’ll need to do something about soon. Setting aside his physical state, he’s standing on the lane marking, cars flashing by far too close for comfort. His dad can’t stop - he’s on a highway, there are laws - so the Drake family car is quickly driving out of sight, one door still hanging open.

Tim is in his civ identity in the middle of a highway, and he needs to make it to Widowstone Creek - all the way in Gotham Heights - before someone hurts Steph or her mom. Dick won’t answer his phone, so the Waynes are probably all crossed off his list of options. It looks like it’s down to Tim and Tim alone.

He makes it off the highway - jumping cars is easy for a vigilante, so he just covers his face with his jumper and gets on with it - and hops the barrier, beginning to run back towards school. Despite Bruce’s strict rules on equipment staying in the Batcave or other approved drop zones, Tim has a secret stash of Robin gear in the empty, unused riding stables at Gotham Academy. His overpreparation is finally justified - once he’s able to sneak back onto school grounds, he changes from one uniform to another, comforted by the reassuring weight of his utility belt and the grapple at his hip.

The journey to Gotham Heights is practically second nature, but Tim spends the time out of his mind with worry. One of B’s rules is to never fight when you’re emotional, but Tim doesn’t think he has any choice tonight. There’s no way for him to detach himself from his emotions for Steph and her family, and there’s no way he’s getting out of her house without a fight.

Fear is what drives Tim as he races onwards - fear of his father’s reaction when he gets home, and fear that he’s already too late for Steph’s mom. He wishes for a lot of things in life, and as he pushes through the bitter breezes, he finds himself wishing that he’d stood up to his dad a lot sooner.

Widowstone Creek is a quiet neighbourhood, just a few sleepy streets wrapped around a rusting playground, a tiny grade school, and a singular row of shops. Steph’s road hardly sees anything more interesting than roadworks on a normal night.

Tonight, screams and shouts are breaking the silence. Tim positions himself crouching on the roof of the house across the street, unwilling to throw himself into the action without a brief reconnaissance. Steph’s bedroom window is open, and his normal point of entry - the commotion seems to be limited to downstairs for the moment, so Tim has no qualms about slipping into Steph’s room, footsteps soft and silent.

The background noise of Steph’s call places her in the downstairs bathroom, if Tim’s right, so he steps out of her room, closing her door with a gentle click. Stealth is unlikely to be too difficult of an objective - it seems that the Cluemaster did not place any value on subtlety, given the noise level.

Tim has done all the preparation he can, slipping a batarang into his throwing hand and clutching a smoke bomb in the other. In a fight with minor-league henchmen, confusion and speed are the best tools in his arsenal.

As soon as Robin graces the scene, the goons begin to panic. There’s a man who’s yanking Steph around by the hair who becomes Robin’s first target - the instant ugly welt that a batarang to the wrist provides is enough incentive to get him to turn tail, dropping Steph to the ground and dashing for the door. Robin moves Steph onto the sofa - even beyond his weight training, the adrenaline makes her light as air - and throws himself into combat with the remaining idiots.

It doesn’t take long for him to clear the floor. Before he can turn his attention to injuries, he does a sweep of all the rooms, up and down - if there were any chance of a scrap of intelligence among the Cluemaster’s friends, they would lie in wait until Robin was vulnerable. Instead, they seem to have all fallen victim to fear and cowardice, leaving the street as silent as the grave.

“You came,” Steph sighs, grinning at him. There’s blood in her hairline, like a crimson stain on porcelain, and Tim wipes it away gently. Her blood darkens his glove in a messy smear over the green. He can’t bring himself to care. “It’s mostly just bumps and bruises, but I think my mom’s arm might be broken.”

Tim moves over to Crystal, forcing himself to make noise as he walks so she can appreciate his arrival. She’s cradling her arm, pupils blown wide and body trembling. Tim can see the sweat beading at her brow, and frowns. “I can’t give her pain meds if it’ll interact badly with what she’s on, but I can make a sling.”

Steph sits up, rubbing at a patch on her arm that’s swiftly discolouring into a bruise. “Thank you, Robs. For all this. For helping, for fighting, hell, for coming when I know- oh, God. Someone nailed you, Tim.”

“What?” Tim looks down, frowning as he sees blood running down the green of his tights. “Oh. Alfred’s not going to be happy, he hates mending these.”

His triage is very quickly reassessed, and Steph pulls him down to sit on the sofa while she hobbles to the bathroom medical cabinet to grab supplies. The slash wound in his thigh isn’t awful, but it’ll be noticeable tomorrow. Tim runs through his list of standard excuses in his head, and realises he’ll have to go for something bigger - he still hasn’t cleaned out the deep, stinging grazes on his palms and knees from the asphalt, his shoulder is making itself known, and now he’ll be bandaged and stiff on his right leg.

Worse, he has to get home like this. There’s no way he can detour to pick up his clothes from Gotham Academy - he’ll have to drop into his own bedroom window, change into civ clothes as quickly as possible, and sneak back out to knock on the front door.

There aren’t any good options here. Unless - “Steph, can I borrow your car?”

She hates letting him go alone, but she can’t leave her mother. Tim takes the Brown family car and drives away from Gotham Heights, his leg throbbing the whole way. It would have taken him hours to get home without assistance, with his trembling shoulder and bandaged leg - by car, it doesn’t even take him twenty minutes.

He parks the car in the Wayne family driveway - it’s visible from Tim’s bedroom window, but not his father’s, although it’s not like he’s likely to recognise it or find it suspicious. Tim’s window is the first on the west side, a fact he knows well from his and Jason’s correspondence, and it’s not so far up to be unreachable from the ground.

Tim’s history in urban exploration and parkour has never been more useful - he scales the wall of his own house, grateful for the thick fabric of his gloves as he scrapes his hands past the rough bricks. His window is never locked, so he slides up the sash, and rolls into his bedroom, shaking out his bad shoulder and preparing to change quickly and make the climb again backwards to sneak in through the front door.

When he looks up towards his wardrobe, his father is sitting on Tim’s bed, his school bag and laptop in his hands. Dana is cross-legged on the floor, clutching a small pamphlet in a tight grip. Both of them are mute in shock, staring at Tim in his torn and scuffed uniform.

“Tim,” Dana starts, with a voice like her heart is breaking. “Tim, your dad said you had run away.”

Her words aren’t really registering. Tim’s blood is cold, freezing him in place. Him and his father have locked eyes, and Tim can’t find a way to escape the piercing eye contact. His mind - normally incorrigible with contingencies, connections, and considerations - is silent in pure fear. Robin has stared down the worst Gotham has to offer. He’s organised his family’s assault against the Joker in a power outage without Batman in the country.

He has never felt more fear than he does in this moment.

As Jack begins to open his mouth, Tim’s hand flies up, and he taps at his comm three times frantically. The all-points response signal only gives him two replies - Oracle is running communications in the Clocktower, and Batgirl is on patrol.

“O, you need to lock everything down, I have a code 002,” Tim hisses, flinching away from his father’s glare.

Babs makes an audibly quizzical noise, and Tim can picture her familiar face of confusion - scrunched nose, automatic fidget with her glasses. “Sorry, did you say 002? That’s a compromised identity. Shouldn’t you be at a parent-teacher conference? Why are you in uniform?”

“I’m serious, O, and I need to go now okay bye.” Tim turns his comm off, gently closing the window behind him. “Okay, please don’t freak out, Dad.”

Jack sets Tim’s laptop down onto the bed next to him, and stands up. “I’m going to go and get my gun.”

“Jesus Christ!” Dana yells, as Tim launches himself forwards, throwing himself at his father. The two of them collapse onto Tim’s mattress, and despite Jack’s larger frame, Tim has him pinned in moments. “Tim, Jack, have you gone insane? Tim, get off your father!”

“No!” Tim yells, tears springing to his eyes. “Not if he’s going to shoot someone!”

His father grunts, trying to shake Tim off. He clearly hasn’t realised that Tim has been trained enough to hold down Bane by himself. “Let me go, Tim, I need to go and show Batman what happens when you mess with a Drake!”

Tim recoils, losing his grip on his dad’s shoulders. Jack surges up, knocking Tim onto the floor. “I especially can’t let you shoot Batman!”

“Be serious, Jack,” Dana pleads. “Please can we all sit down and talk about this? Tim, obviously we’re very worried about you and I dare say a little bit upset that you didn’t feel like you could trust us with this, but all of this emotion is coming from a place of love-”

“How long have you been lying to me?” Jack roars, towering over Tim, who’s still curled on the floor. “How long have you been mucking around in tights and throwing yourself around the city?”

Pushing himself up, Tim scowls. “Longer than I’ve been Robin! While you were away in Mauritius or Mexico or- or- or wherever you and Mom went when you left me, I would sneak away from boarding school and do my own investigations! I found out who Batman was when I was nine! I’ve been throwing myself around the city since I taught myself parkour. All Batman has done is given me the equipment and training to protect myself while I do it! If anything, you should be thanking him!”

Jack’s breath is hot and fast on Tim’s face. “Thanking him?” Jack snarls, eyes blazing. “I should put a bullet between his eyes for managing to corrupt my - my - my son!”

“The cowl is actually bulletproof,” Tim blurts out, reason fleeing his brain.

The slap is hard and sharp. Tim didn’t see it coming - didn’t stop it the way he could easily have done - didn’t do anything, except stand still. His whole head is turned with the force, and his cheek stings where his father’s ring has caught him. Dana’s harsh intake of breath cuts through the haze in Tim’s mind.

This is behaviour they do not tolerate. When Cissie’s mom slapped her, the whole of Young Justice mobilised to make sure she had somewhere safe to go, to make sure that she never had to see her mother again until she felt she was ready. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t be the same for Tim, if he told them.

He doesn’t want to tell them.

He grabs his dad’s arm, tugs it lightly. “You can ground me, if you want,” he offers tremulously. “I’ll- I’ll stay here. I can call Batman and tell him I’m grounded. He won’t mind. I can tell Oracle I was mistaken about the compromised identity.”

“Yes,” Jack says, panting, animalistic. “You will. You’ll stay right here until we’re agreed on stopping this Robin nonsense.”

Tim nods frantically. He taps at his comm again, avoiding his dad’s glare. “I was wrong, O, override B-03V. Identity is not compromised. But I am… I’m going to take some time off, if that’s okay. Let B know, alright? Also I might not be in school so tell Agent A not to pick me up and not to worry and everything’s fine.”

He doesn’t give Babs a chance to answer, pulling his comm out of his ear and placing it on his desk. “All sorted, Dad.”

“Jack- Tim. I-” Dana starts, shrinking away from Jack as he wheels around to stare at her. “Can we… can we discuss this in the morning, with clearer heads?”

“Sounds good to me,” Tim says quickly, tapping his fingers against his thighs. His leg is throbbing under his bandages, and he wants nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep until things stop hurting.

Jack nods slowly. He stalks forwards, reaches onto Tim’s desk, and crushes the comm in between his fingers. “I’m locking this window, son. There will be no sneaking out, no nighttime visitors, no Batmen in the middle of the night, you hear me?”

Tim nods his mute acquiescence, and holds himself still while his dad steps around him to lock the window. He takes the key with him, walking out of Tim’s bedroom. His exit lightens the tension only a little, and Tim and Dana stare at each other.

“Do you need me to look at that leg?” Dana asks meekly, moving forwards to put her hands on Tim’s shoulders. “I’m not just good for coma patients, you know. I can… I could help, if you like.”

“Thank you,” Tim whispers. “But Spoiler did a good job. I might take you up on that in the morning.”

Dana bites her lip, squeezing Tim’s shoulder gently. “I think you’ve been very brave, Tim. Braver than me, that’s for sure. Your dad- we just want you to be safe, sweetheart. He loves you a lot. That’s why he… he loves you, is all. We both do, yeah? Just give us… give us some time to process. It’s a lot to take in, that you’ve been doing such good work - such dangerous work - without us knowing. But I’m very… I’m worried but I’m also so very proud of you, Tim.”

Tears spring to Tim’s eyes. All his life, that’s what he’s wanted to hear from his parents. It’s exactly the kind of validation he wanted and never got. “Thank you, Dana. Really. I’m going to… I think I’ll go to bed now, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Dana says breathlessly, running a hand almost absentmindedly over the Robin logo on his uniform. “Yes, of course. I’m just down the hall if you need me. I think I’ll… I think I’ll take the spare room tonight. Sweet dreams, Tim.”

“Sweet dreams,” Tim echoes, watching her leave. Something in him feels detached. He raises his hand, trailing a finger across the stinging cut on his cheek. Somehow, of all the injuries he’s collated tonight, it’s the one that hurts the most.

He undresses mechanically, stripping out of the torn uniform and painfully crawling into his pyjamas and under the covers. Sleep doesn’t take him - though his mind is oddly flat and empty, bereft of his normal buzzing thoughts, Tim doesn’t drift off. He lies still, staring unblinking and unthinking at the ceiling.

His ceiling in Wayne Manor has glow-in-the-dark stars and constellations on it. Here, it’s bare.

Only when the world is quiet and even the sounds of the city have drifted away, Tim hears a tapping at his window. He can’t quite manage to summon his proper reaction, instead pushing himself to sitting so he can squint at the window frame.

A small, pale hand slides a piece of paper up so it’s being pressed against the glass of the window. In the familiar shaky hand that Tim has seen on hundreds of handwriting sheets scattered around Wayne Manor, Cass has written “OKAY?”

It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. Tim stifles a sob, pressing a hand to his mouth to try and quieten himself in the mausoleum silence of his house. Cassandra has become incredibly close with Babs and Steph, but never in a million years would Tim have guessed that she would go to all this trouble for him. That she’s also absorbed the window code is clear.

She was active on comms, and must have heard what was going on. Recovering a sudden burst of energy, Tim rolls out of bed and taps gently at the window.

Cass tugs the paper down, and sticks her head up: she looks like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar, eyes wide. Tim tries his best to smile for her, and scrabbles around for his own piece of paper.

He doodles a little picture, rather than write anything that Cass might struggle with. Admittedly, his drawing skills aren’t the best, but he feels like his sketch of Robin and Batgirl holding hands is not the worst thing she’ll have ever seen. True to form, she beams at him when he holds the paper to the window - Steph has clearly been teaching her popular culture, because she lets go of her grip with both hands to make a heart with her hands. Tim has no idea how she’s still attached to the edge of the building - he didn’t know it was possible to get a good enough foothold on the Drake drainpipes, but then again Cass has always defied the impossible - but he’s glad for her presence. He makes a heart back to her, feeling a little stupid and a lot loved.

Fumbling in her pocket, Cass brings out a crumpled piece of paper, and smooths it over the window pane. This one has the careful printing of B’s hand, and Tim finds himself crying again, at the care the whole family has given him.

Tim. Cassandra and Barbara have told me of some worrying events that went on tonight. Do you need evacuation? Is there anything we can do? Jason and Dick have ensured that Cassandra knows the signals, should you be lacking a means of verbal communication. I hope everything is alright and that we can see you soon.

As Cass pulls the paper away from the window, Tim scrubs at his eyes. The hand signal for “evac” is easy - the right index finger swipes away from the body, between the left index and middle fingers. Cass nods firmly, flashing him the OK signal.

His family want him. His family care about him. There’s hardly a decision at all - Tim knows exactly where he really wants to be.

Jack might have been ready to go and shoot Batman, but he’s not willing to take on Bruce Wayne in the public eye - especially given how far Drake Enterprises has already fallen. With Clark Kent and Lois Lane running the gauntlet on all press going through Gotham (at B’s behest), Jack can do nothing but sit and fume as Tim drives past Drake Manor every day going to and from school.

Despite his liberation, Tim is still on the fence about jumping into being Robin. It’s not only his semi-compromised identity, but also the heavy contrast between Dana’s pride and his father’s fury that keeps him away from donning the R again.

After the small plaster comes off his cheek, Tim still finds himself tracing over the thin, raised line of the cut. It’s unlikely to properly scar, but it’ll be present for a month at the least - a visible reminder of anger and violence.

Anger and violence from Tim’s own father, rather than Gotham’s typical two-bit thug. No - the most visible mark on his body, and it’s not from the Joker or aliens or whatever the flavour of the week is; it’s from his own flesh and blood.

There’s a disconnect in his head. Robin is - tainted. Tim can’t stand the thought of going out again, R proudly blazing on his chest, and his father seeing past Robin to the scared boy inside.

Tim wants his sense of control back. He wants to feel the protection that being Robin used to give him. He never wants the same feeling of helplessness that came from being hurt and perceived and known while wearing the uniform that was supposed to be an escape.

Unfortunately, Tim doesn’t have the liberty to prioritise his feelings. Gotham relies on Robin, and as much as Tim wishes that meant that people rely on him, he knows as well as Dick and Jason that the R is a gift that can be passed down.

He never thought he would be the one to hand it down. Tim has always - somewhat naively, maybe - thought that he would be Robin forever. He had never once considered that he might grow out of the role, just like the Robins before him. He had been… self-centred. Believing that he could be more Robin than his brothers.

Everyone has been quick to reassure him that it’s his choice, that Batman can live without Robin for a little while, but Tim knows Gotham - knows the psychology of the rogues. Whenever there’s an extended period of time without Robin, they get meaner. Poison Ivy starts tackling Batman with some more adult creations, Two-Face starts going nuts without a duo to attack, and the Joker ups the antics, which needs no explanation.

The only problem is, Tim doesn’t have a solid candidate for Robin. There aren’t any neighbour’s kids he’s formed a weird affinity with, the boy from the Narrows he’s been looking out for still has a pair of loving and watchful parents, and if B has another secret son-adjacent child hiding away somewhere, he hasn’t told them about it.

He’s moping around, trying to decide what to do, when a sharp knock comes on his door. One of the privileges he gets at Wayne Manor is a door that locks from the inside, so he’s the one who controls who can come in and out - but it’s not really a privilege he’s wanted to use. “It’s open!”

To his surprise, Alfred is at the door, bringing with him a surprise.

“I brought cookies,” Steph grins, rubbing bashfully at her neck. “Thought I should probably come over to apologise for getting you in trouble with your dad. Mom’s fine - uh, she has to wear a cast for a few weeks, but she’s still working. My dad’s friends haven’t come back. Gotta say, it’s… it’s weird to be Spoiler without Robin. I mean, god knows I love your sister, but she’s not… she’s not Robin, you know? I think Gotham Heights is missing me, but… yeah. Spoiler just doesn’t feel right without you there too. I feel like I’ve actually spoiled something important.”

Those are, quite possibly, the words that Tim’s soul was looking for. It’s like a light starts shining brilliantly - his very own lightbulb moment.

“Stephanie Brown,” Tim says, sitting up straight. For once, he’s not thinking about his own misery or his dad or his guilt. All he’s thinking about is Steph.

She smiles back at him. “Yes, my dearest darling dove?”

Tim steels himself for maybe the most difficult question he’s ever had to ask. Somehow, despite his earlier misgivings, it just feels right to be sitting here with Steph, just the two of them.

“Will you be Robin?”

“Sibyl, babe, you gotta let me know when there’s a sale on at Selfridges,” Steph whines, hardly sounding out of breath even as she swings freely above Gotham.

Tim snickers. Sibyl is just the placeholder name he’s chosen to use while he figures out what he really wants to do, but it somehow sounds meaningful in Steph’s familiar cadence. “Sorry, Robin, I wasn’t aware that shopping outside of your price range was an integral part of crime fighting.”

The eye-roll, somehow, is audible. “Well it’s not outside of my price range if there’s a sale on, is there? Also I stole your dad’s credit card after his last lesson on stealth. Shoot, don’t tell him. B, B, you’re not on this line are you?”

“Chatter,” B says stoically, prompting a dramatic outburst from Robin. From Tim’s position, listening intently to the comms with no other noise to distract him, he can hear Batman’s fond, stifled laugh.

“Aw, Sibyl, warn a girl next time,” Steph sighs. “Hey, someone else wants a selfie. Are you sure this is okay, boss?”

Part of Tim winces at the thought of Steph neatly destroying his well-cultivated reputation as nothing more than an urban myth, but B sounds downright affectionate when he replies. “Of course it’s okay. Sibyl, can you retrieve that selfie when they take it? I want to add it to my photo album. Every Robin deserves a place there.”

He doesn’t feel jealous, Tim firmly tells himself, as a bolt of jealousy rushes through him. “No one ever took any photos of me.”

Steph’s sudden cackle is entirely unexpected, and Tim pulls off his headphones, flinching from the sound turned suddenly staticky. “Oh, Sib, you have no idea. That was, like, my test for stake-out skills. He wouldn’t let me go off and stalk people until I had taken ten photos of you. It took me months, dude. You are way harder to stalk than literally anything else in the world, doing tail duty is nothing now. But my photos were better than Sparrowhawk and Nightwing’s so like… beat that.”

“I’m in the photo album?” Tim asks, frustrated at how amazed he sounds. “Wait, don’t tell me, I’m going to find it and look for myself. Robin, I see smoke on the intersection of Poplar and Harrow Street, it might be nothing but you know…”

“Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” Steph finishes, suddenly serious. The purple dot of her tracker starts moving quickly, and the purr of her motorbike becomes background noise on the comms.

Tim’s picked up a few tricks from Oracle - while his preference is obviously to wander around with his camera and spend many pleasant hours developing photos, he’s not opposed to digital surveillance. Flicking through their bank of CCTV cameras gives him a pretty comprehensive view of the city; often he can even get multiple angles on the same scene. Steph’s bright hair makes her an easy target to track, and Tim watches her roar through Gotham’s streets, Robin colours flashing over the purple of her bike.

Steph kept the Robin outfit more similar to Dick’s than to Tim’s - in keeping with near-bare legs, she somehow argued her way into thin black tights, although they are topped off with bright yellow knee pads. Her yellow collar is very reminiscent of the original costume, but the green skirt - as much as the shimmering pattern of hues is an homage to Dick’s scaly green - is entirely her own addition. The green sleeves are almost an exact match to Tim’s, though, which makes his heart warm.

“Arson,” Steph says grimly as she approaches the scene. “I can follow the suspect or evac civilians, but I can’t do both.”

The massive digital map of Gotham is one Tim has perfectly cultivated with his precise working style in mind. He knows exactly what’s going on from a single glance at it. It makes logical sense, it’s colour-coordinated, and it’s constantly changing and updating itself.

Everyone else hates it. No one understands Tim’s genius.

From his wonderful eye-strain map, Tim can easily spot that B is the closest to Steph’s location, that Batman is already involved in a short but unavoidable interaction, and that the next person possible is Jason.

“Sparrowhawk,” Tim says, switching over to Jason’s line momentarily. “Get to Robin’s location as soon as you can, she could use a little backup.” He fusses with his buttons again, jumping onto Steph’s comm. “Robin, go for civ evac. Sparrowhawk is dispatched to assist you.” One more shift, and he’s onto B’s private channel. “My advice would be to let Robin handle this one, but be ready to step in if it looks like anyone’s going to get hurt. She’s doing alright, isn’t she?”

B grunts, the sound of leather hitting flesh punctuating his response. “You made a good choice, Sibyl.”

Tim grins to himself, doing one last spin in B’s chair. He’s restarted sticking post-its with his signature onto the back of the chair - Sibyl doesn’t have a logo, and he doesn’t really plan to keep the identity long enough to warrant one - and it’s become habit between him and B to trade the passive-aggressive notes.

Being Sibyl has advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to be in the business forever - he’s mostly torn between chemistry and detective work, but knowing him he’d manage to find a way to combine the two - and being an eye-in-the-sky is easier to do part time, stepping in and out as needed. On the other, Tim is still young, and he aches to be out on Gotham’s streets, doing his part with his family. There’s a strong feeling of being left out, even with Alfred’s warm physical company and Babs’ omniscient digital presence.

A greater part of Tim is frustrated that without a proper new hero identity, he’s strictly limited on how he can spend time with his Young Justice friends. They know him to be Tim Drake, but that doesn’t mean it’s normal for the Drake heir to be hanging around with a farmer’s grandson - or, even more out of the ordinary, Superboy.

To take his mind off it, Tim goes hunting for Bruce’s photo album. As much as he’s always been into computers, he’s learned a lot under Oracle’s guiding hand - no digital files are safe from him now.

Under about three layers of encryption, hidden and disguised, Tim finds a group of six folders, each labelled with a single initial.

He accesses ‘F’ first, to satisfy his curiosity, and finds hundreds and hundreds of family photos - the earliest ones contain the original Waynes, and Tim quickly skips forwards, finding Dick and Alfred, Dick and Bruce, and then seemingly endless photos of Dick and Jason. He watches the boys grow up - although the photos are mostly of the boys in their civ identities, there are a fair few of Nightwing and Robin floating around. Tim resolves to scan his own photos and upload them for B.

He doesn’t expect to see himself until much later, but quite early on, Tim finds a press photo of some fancy gala. Clearly having been taken from a distance, and without much care, it’s just a quick snap of the array of food on offer - but as he looks closer, Tim spots that the tablecloth is slightly lifted. If he zooms in, he can see two small boys laughing together underneath the table; he’s shocked to discover that he recognises himself, giggling with Jason.

His mother would have had his head if she’d seen. In reality, Tim can barely remember it - galas flashed past him like pockets of hell, and he’s done his best to excise most of the memories - but B’s simple sentimentality has shone a new light on it.

There are photos of Tim and Jason at school, photos of Tim and Jason halfway to falling into the engines of B’s cars while Alfred looks on and laughs, photos of Tim skateboarding while B tries to hold himself back from intervening, worry clear on his face. There are photos of all three boys, roughhousing or playing games or training together. Soon enough Steph begins to feature - the first photo with a flash of purple is an artsy shot of their patrol, one Tim suspects was probably taken by a tourist, and it shows Spoiler, Robin and Sparrowhawk, feet dangling over a roof’s edge as they pass around a bag of food. Luckily, Steph’s cowl is only pulled up to her nose rather than all the way off as she likes to do, and it shows off the silvery quirk of her mouth.

Cass’ debut is heralded by a photo of Tim, sleeping awkwardly on the sofa in the cinema room, and Cass perched on the back of the sofa, face exuding smug satisfaction. Again, Tim has no recollection of the event - or even any awareness of that particular habit of Cass’.

There’s a blurry photo, clearly taken on someone’s phone - likely Dick’s - of Tim and Cass with their heads pressed together, deep in discussion, while the others at the D&D table look on in abject curiosity. From his DM’s seat, Alfred is smiling proudly, but Bruce mostly looks mildly puzzled, like he’s trying to understand what the two of them are talking about, and Jason and Steph have linked arms, both gesticulating wildly with their other hands.

Tim - bursting with fondness - downloads the photo to his own phone, and resolves to set it as his background picture. He closes the family folder, and inspects the rest of his options.

D, J, T, S, C. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what the initials stand for. Stalling having a look at any of them, Tim busies himself with retrieving the selfie of Steph and the tourist, and uploads it into the folder labelled S. He makes a mental note to send more of his own photos of Steph to Bruce - her folder is markedly smaller than the others, an unfortunate side effect of her actually living in her own house - and opens his own folder.

There are photos going back since before he met Jason. Bruce has clearly trawled through news sites and high-society gossip magazines to find photos of little Timothy Drake, and he’s succeeded awfully well - Tim has never seen baby photos of himself like this before.

Despite his photography hobby, the one subject Tim has never been able to capture in film has been himself. He has boxes filled with photos of Batman, Nightwing, Jason and Dick’s Robins, and more recently Sparrowhawk, Spoiler, and Batgirl… but there are none of himself. Bruce’s gigantic folder of photos that he’s worked hard to find and keep safe is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for Tim.

He finds Steph’s sequence of training photos - the first few are blurry, and Tim’s skill at evading the camera without knowing he’s even doing it is clear. But it’s very definitely Tim - the right costume, the right colours, even the right messy black hair.

Her tenth training photo is clear, and clearly captured with love. Tim’s back is to the camera, and he’s sitting on the swings in the Widowstone playground, staring up at the full moon. The swing next to him is a blur of movement, contrasting Tim’s precise stillness and the way he’s perfectly in focus.

“Your surveillance skills are pretty good,” Tim says over Steph’s private channel. “I’ve just found B’s photo album.”

Steph huffs out a laugh. Tim can see her on his CCTV network - there’s an unconscious civilian slung over her shoulders, the last one to be evacuated from the building. Sparrowhawk, on a shot adjacent to hers, is sitting on the arson suspect. “He’s such a sap, oh my God. He really put my terrible photos onto his album?”

Tim grins. “Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? They are, like I said, pretty good.”

“I never feel pretty good,” Steph grouses. “I feel like freakin’ Faramir. I know you get that reference, nerd.”

“That’s a little unfair,” Tim says, spinning around. “B’s not that bad about comparing you to… wait, who’s Boromir in this scenario?”

The silence over the line is painfully sarcastic. “You, dumbass. Every time I train with B, it’s all ‘Oh, Tim is better at executing the triple-handed nerve strike’, or ‘Tim understood how to use the mass-spectrometer without needing to be told’, or ‘why did you take three tries to apprehend the suspect, Tim would have done it in one’. I mean, I already feel the comparison without him mentioning it every time I do something questionable.”

Rather than commiserate, Tim just laughs at her. “Yeah, welcome to being a Robin. Just know, whatever you do, I did it better. Whatever I did, Jason did better. And whatever Jason did, Dick did better. None of us have a chance when it comes to being the best - you just have to accept that you’ll never live up to Dick, and enjoy the thrill of knowing that whoever comes after you will have an even more impossible legacy to live up to.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steph says wonderingly. There’s a quiet clunk, and Tim zooms in on the CCTV panel to watch her put her grapple down on the pavement next to her. She’s sitting down, stretching her legs out into the street, the vibrant yellow of her knee-pads and elbow-pads turned to bright white in the colourless image. “The next Robin is going to need so much therapy.”

Dana and Tim get coffee every weekend. Saturday mornings are step-mom time, and it’s a fairly even split on whether they go out to one of the endless coffee shops and stalls dotted around Gotham, or whether Dana comes over to Wayne Manor, and Tim treats her with the French press.

They mostly dance around the topic of Tim’s dad. From what glimpses of the situation Tim gets, he’s fairly sure that Dana is only sticking around because she genuinely believes that Jack can do better. From the emails about deliveries of obscure editions of Wagner’s The Ring that still come to Tim’s inbox, he’s not sure how well it’s working out so far.

Given that she’s in the know, Dana is received pretty cordially by the Waynes - her and Alfred have become fast friends, bonding over a frankly ridiculous number of shared interests, and her and Dick are pretty close, since they’re fairly close in age.

It’s on a step-mom Saturday, perched on the kitchen counter and cradling a steaming cup of coffee, that Tim hears about Dana’s new job.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love PT work,” she assures him, “and I loved working with patients like your dad. But I see your family on the news every day, and when I stop and think about how brave you are… I know being a physical therapist means I can make a real difference to a lot of people, but you all have inspired me. The pay’s a lot worse, but Jack’s started building himself up again… a little… so it’s a step forward I’m really proud to be making.”

Tim sets his coffee down, fingers fiddling anxiously in his lap. “It’s dangerous, Dana. I don’t want our lifestyle to influence you to make a decision that’s going to hurt you.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Only you, Tim! I know it’s dangerous. I’ve already done a sort of taster day, to make sure it’s right for me. There was an attempted mugging right in front of me, and I ended up treating both parties for knife wounds. But my mind’s made up, sweetheart. I want to be able to help people. Besides, it’s a bit late to back out now!”

After a long sip of coffee, Tim nods his head in acknowledgement. “Well, Leslie’s clinic will be lucky to have you, Dana. We’ll probably end up seeing more of you, actually… we’ll be lucky to have you.”

“I have to say, I was a little intimidated when Leslie said that she might end up sending me to your, uh, downstairs, but I guess it makes sense. She’s needed a lot more than me at the clinic. I, um… I hate to ask it, Tim, and I don’t want to push if it’s a sensitive topic. But you’ve always been good at staying out of the spotlight, so I can’t quite tell… is there any chance I’ll be helping you, if I do get called out here?”

Tim knows exactly what she’s asking. Dana follows the news about vigilantes, she follows r/Gotham’sBats, and she follows #BatsAndCo - and all of that means she’s seen quite clearly that there’s a new Robin in town. But she’s right, that even if Tim had graduated to a new identity, it most likely wouldn’t get reported on, because Tim is incredibly skilled in not being noticed.

“You’ll see me,” he says awkwardly, “but I’ve been running the digital side of things recently. Oracle - that’s Barbara Gordon who used to be Batgirl, she’s been doing communications and stuff for years - Oracle’s pretty busy with the Birds of Prey right now, so there was a niche open for the Gotham-based stuff. I like knowing that I can take a load off her plate, and it’s nice for O as well, cause she gets to spend more time with her girls.”

Dana nods, smiles. Tim’s pretty sure she looks grateful, but he’s not the body language expert in the family. “Good. That’s good, Tim, I’m really glad. I’m proud of you. Never forget that, okay?”

“Okay,” Tim says with a shy smile. “Hey, did Alfred tell you about how Jason and Cass nearly destroyed the Monet upstairs on Wednesday?”

She cackles, and leans forwards. “He did not; tell me more.”

Adjusting to Dana’s presence at the night-shift isn’t as difficult as Tim had worried it might be. She handles even the weirdest first-aid situations like a professional, chats to Tim and Alfred while she works, and she even leaves out tiny piles of water bottles and energy bars on the roof of the clinic when she knows one of them is due for a long patrol. Their roster is ever-expanding, and with every new wing of support, Tim feels more and more lucky that somehow, he’s ended up in this weird, wonderful family.

The only problem with the new situation is that when Dana’s pulling long shifts at the clinic, Jack is alone in the house. Tim still hasn’t heard anything from his dad - neither of them are reaching out for contact, and Dana still tiptoes around the subject - so he has no idea what Jack thinks about his wife’s new career, whether he suffers from sleepless nights worrying about his family, or what the brief obsession with The Ring was all about.

Afterwards, Tim finds himself somewhat grateful for the fact that they had cut contact. It makes the lack easier to forget.

At 23:42 precisely, Drake Manor’s security system registered an intruder. Jack Drake was alone in the house - his wife Dana Drake was working at the clinic on Park Row, and his son Tim was staying over at Wayne Manor, next-door.

Jack Drake - who, as all witnesses would agree, was a man prone to violence - shot the intruder. Unfortunately, having been paid to kill Jack, Captain Boomerang had been quicker. Jack Drake, CEO of Drake Enterprises, father of one, received a projectile to the chest and died of his wounds. The police, emergency services, and vigilante contingent all arrived too late.

At 23:57, Jack Drake and Captain Boomerang - George Harkness - were proclaimed dead at the scene.

Tim, against all advice, was the one to break the news to Dana. He was terrified that she would shut down completely - leave him, while still being alive - but she took the news with frightening aplomb, keeping up a stony facade and promising that it wouldn’t stop her from fighting the good fight.

After that, Tim went and crawled into the cupboard space underneath the kitchen sink, desperate for a hiding spot where he won’t be found, where no one will see his tears.

It’s Jason who finds him, wedged in tightly behind the cabinet door. Jason likes to claim that he has “middle child intuition”. Tim likes to call it “actual detective skills”, but to each their own. However he does it, Jason comes looking for Tim, and manages to locate his hiding spot.

“You know, when my dad died, I didn’t cry,” Jason says conversationally. From the sounds of it, he’s sat or kneeled on the floor outside the cupboard. Tim doesn’t make a sound, hugging his knees. “I wasn’t going to miss him. I’d never really liked him. We didn’t really get on.”

Tim’s crying now, but Jason’s right. It’s not because he misses his dad, or because he liked him, or because the two of them got on. He’s crying because his stupid dead dad is still stopping him from being like Dana, from fighting the good fight.

“We need you, Timbird,” Jason says, voice clear enough for Tim to hear him, but not so loud that anyone else will catch the words shared between the two of them. “I know you don’t see that, cause you can’t see yourself from the outside in. But I promise, okay, we need you. You’re the glue that’s holding the family together at this point, Timmy. We depend on you. You think I like it, running patrols without you by my side? Sibyl was a pretty good compromise, I like knowing you’re out of danger, but you were my Robin, baby bird. There’s no one I’d prefer to have my back out there. So if this is guilt about your dad, all I’m saying is that if B and Dick don’t understand, me an’ Steph do. So please, yeah, even if we get two Robins running around, even if it’s Sibyl again, even if it’s Sparrowhawk number two - we need you.”

If there’s anything that the Waynes have taught him, it’s that real family is made. Tim’s dad might have loved him - everything he’d done almost definitely came from some sort of love - but it suddenly seems silly that Tim is letting him control his life.

Bruce doesn’t control his life. Nor does Jason, nor does Dana, nor does Dick or Steph or Cass. The only person with the ultimate power over Tim’s life is Tim himself, and he’s doing a pretty bad job of it right now.

What does he actually want, more than anything? If there were no fathers or siblings, no Steph or Young Justice, if Tim existed in a bubble, what would he want to do?

Chemistry, and computer science, and cars, and creating a better world. He’d still want to run around the city at night, to fly through the air and appreciate the artistry in every moment. He’d still want to do whatever he could to help people - in whatever capacity where his skills would be most useful. If he could never wear a cape again, he’d want to work in pharmacology, or teach, or be a racecar driver, or develop computer systems.

But why would Tim ever want to be just one of those things, when with Bruce he can be all of them?

“I don’t think I can be Robin again,” he whispers, head pressed up against the hard wood of the cabinet door. He’s quite sure that Jason can hear him. “Besides, it wouldn’t be right to take it from Steph.”

“I think she’d forgive you, if it was what you really wanted,” Jason answers quietly, “but I know what you mean.”

Tim cracks open the door of the cupboard, wiggling out just his hand. He’s getting cramped from being tucked underneath the piping of the sink, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to emerge just yet. “Jay, I don’t want to be an orphan.”

The snort Jason lets out is clearly a surprise to both of them. “Sorry, sorry. I mean… on the one hand, I don’t think you have much choice in the matter. No one ever really does. I don’t think it’s ever anything anyone wants, either.”

That’s not quite true. When Tim was quite little - about nine or ten, soon after he’d learned the truth about Batman and Robin - he would sometimes lie awake at night, alone in a cold and empty house, and wish for some nameless, faceless monster to kill his parents, so Batman would adopt him, too.

He would fall asleep feeling worse than he’d started, but part of him wonders if little Tim would be pleased if he saw where Tim was now.

“And anyway, Tim… you might be an orphan now, but don’t ever think that that means you’re alone. You have a massive family and we love you so goddamn much, okay? You’re never going to be alone again, with all of us kicking around. So don’t you dare try and think of yourself as the neighbour, or a schoolmate, or whatever rationalisations I know you’ve come up with before. You’re a Drake and a Wayne and best of all, you’re my little brother.”

With a strength that surprises even Tim, he slams open the door and hurls himself into Jason, wrapping his arms around him. He’s received so many hugs from his family over the years. He has so much to make up for.

“I have an idea for a callsign,” he whispers wetly, scrubbing at his eyes. “But you absolutely have to tell me if it sounds stupid because my mental mind-map has a few different options, I mean I’m going to have to go and do some research on etymology before anything gets set in stone but I think I have a good one.”

Jason rubs Tim’s back, resting his cheek on the top of Tim’s head. “I don’t think anything you come up with is going to sound stupid, and anyway it can’t be more stupid than naming yourself after a book character, but I’m all ears, Timbit. Fire away.”

Tim taps his fingers on Jason’s arm, soothing himself with the repetitive motion. “I want to be Cardinal.”

“You gotta explain the thought process behind naming yourself after a priest.”

For the first words Steph’s said to him since she found out about his new callsign, they’re not exactly a glowing endorsement - but Tim can see her luminous grin, the way she wears her own uniform with a little more pride, a little more confidence, and he knows that more than anything she’s proud of him.

Still - “You’re horrible,” he informs her, lightly knocking her shoulder with a gloved hand. “What if I were feeling really delicate? You would have put me off patrolling ever again.”

Steph throws her head back and laughs, her hair brushing her chin. “Oh, you do say the funniest things. Have you forgotten that I know you, Timothy Jackson? And I know Jason, and I know Dick, and so I know that you will have already suffered endless ribbing, but that you are pretty damn firm in your name. So go on - I’m being genuine. You have to explain the thought process behind naming yourself after a priest.”

“It’s Jason’s fault,” Tim says shamelessly. “I bet you don’t know where the word ‘cardinal’ comes from, do you?”

“Nope,” Steph admits, kicking her legs back and forth. Her boots are blazing red - Tim’s are black, in contrast to almost all of the rest of his uniform. “Tell me, my love. Impart upon me all your knowledge.”

Once again, Tim is filled with such incredible gratitude that he has Steph in his life. “Well, as an adjective it actually means ‘that on which something depends’, or something of great importance.”

Steph gasps. “Careful, if your head gets any bigger it’ll explode.”

Tim snickers, brushing a rogue strand of hair out of her face. “Like I said. Jason’s fault. I was crying in a cupboard-”

“We’ll come back to that.”

“-and he was very emphatic about all of you needing me. So it’s hardly arrogance if it’s literally what Jay told me. But then you have to think about the other meaning of cardinal.”

Unimpressed, Steph levels him a flat stare. “Tim, you’re frickin’ Jewish.”

Once again, Tim has to laugh. He’s of the firm belief that no one can escape a conversation with Stephanie Brown without finding themself laughing against their will at least once. “Well, the priests come into it indirectly. So there’s the bird, that’s what I actually mean. Part of the family of cardinals is the dickcissel - which I like so much as a nod to the first Robin, obviously - and did you know that cardinals share songs? They teach them to the cardinals around them. And best of all, they wear black masks on their face.”

“No way,” Steph says, giggling. “You found the one bird with the same domino as us!”

“You haven’t heard the best bit,” Tim says eagerly, flapping his hands. “The northern cardinal is also known as the redbird.”

Steph glares at him, barely stifling her laughter. “No. Please, God, no. Tim, tell me you didn’t name yourself-”

“I did,” he says smugly.

The screech Steph releases can probably be heard from space. Tim pictures it bouncing off the Watchtower systems, triggering an alert for B to answer. “You named yourself after your car.”

“I know!” Tim cackles gleefully. “It was the best idea I think I’ve ever had. Honestly everything else is just a perk. It’s cool that I’ll be the state bird of seven whole states but it’s just a bonus after naming myself after my car.”

Glaring at him, Steph shakes her head. “You’re so ridiculous, babe. When I picked Spoiler it was ‘cause I wanted to spoil my dad’s plans. Why couldn’t you have picked something simple, huh? Does it always have to have three layers of symbolism?”

Tim tuts. “It’s like you don’t even know me!”

Steph grins, unflappable. “Aw, you don’t mean that. I know you more than most, sweetie. Anyway, I wouldn’t like you nearly so much if you weren’t so flamboyantly ridiculous sometimes. So is that why you’ve gone for the whole red theme? I don’t actually know what a cardinal looks like.”

His cape is the same - black with gold edging - but the rest of his costume is a little different. Black boots give way to a red suit, marked out with thick black bands and his gold utility belt. Jason talked him out of crossed bandoliers - Tim thought they looked cool, but apparently it was an idiotic choice and he looked stupid - so instead, gold clasps line his chest.

“It’s a red bird,” Tim remarks dryly. “But yes, that’s why I’ve gone for the red theme. That, and… well, they’re family colours. Gold for the bat signal, black for the bat, and red for Robin. Just because I want to be someone new doesn’t mean I want to leave everything else behind, you know?”

“I think me and Nightwing had the right idea,” Steph says, “cause we’re marketable. If something’s red, who knows who it’s supposed to represent? Robin? Sparrowhawk? Cardinal? But blue and purple, you know… we’re unique!”

Tim scrunches up his nose, whacking her in the shoulder. “Okay, Robin. My reasoning was sweet and heart-warming and you just want marketing opportunities. I think we can tell where your priorities are.”

“Absolutely,” Steph says blithely, “crime fighting doesn’t come cheap. Gotta get my royalties somewhere.”

“B pays for all of us,” Tim says, and rolls his eyes. “Come on, Robin, let’s go and do something. I don’t like just sitting here. Where’s your energy gone?”

Steph giggles, and gets to her feet, tugging Tim up with her. “Where’s my energy gone? I thought we were having a heart to heart! You don’t like it when I interrupt heart to hearts to go toss myself off buildings.”

It’s true. Getting Steph to stay in one place long enough to have a long conversation is a hard-won privilege. “Well, I think we’ve done enough meaningful chat for one night. Do you want to go patrolling for crime? We can always hit up my mob hotspots if you want to beat up some Romanians, I know you hate the dog-fighting rings.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Steph says, twirling around. Her green skirt flares, shining with the reflection of the street lamps. “But you work too hard, sweetie. Take a load off once in a while.”

The roof of the police precinct is the whole family’s go-to spot when they’re out and about - it’s a rendez-vous, a first aid station, and Tim and Steph’s playground. So long as Jim isn’t trying to give a serious briefing, they pretty much have the run of the place.

Evidently, Steph’s chosen tonight to turn it into her own personal ballroom. The heavy air pollution turns the city lights into a galaxy of stars, and the cacophonous mix of screaming and car horns become their own personal symphony. Steph takes Tim’s hand, grinning widely, and puts her other hand on his shoulder.

“I know you don’t know how to waltz,” Tim says seriously, “and I know that you know that I know how to waltz.”

“Don’t you always say you like teaching things?” Steph asks sweetly, her smile turning to mischief. “Teach me to dance, sweetie.”

Tim puts his free hand on Steph’s waist, nudges her foot to the side. “The first thing you have to understand about ballroom dancing, is that when it comes to dipping-”

He dips her, suddenly, with a firm hand moving to support the small of her back. She squeals, her grip on his shoulder and his hand tightening, but keeps her footing. Her hair is tossed lightly by the wind, blowing away from her face so Tim can perfectly see the blue of her eyes. He has no idea where she’s left her mask, but he finds he can’t quite bring himself to care.

“-I give no quarter,” he finishes breathlessly, guiding her back to standing.

“I knew you were secretly a romantic,” Steph says, pulling them closer together so that she’s near enough to press a light kiss to his cheek. “Let your brother handle patrol. Tonight, I’m the one depending on you, Cardinal.”

Cardinal’s debut goes by almost utterly unremarked upon - exactly the way Tim prefers it. His friends and family are proud of him, and that’s really all the external validation he needs. Kon and Cassie become insufferable about how they’re all colour matching, and force Tim into spending a weekend with them, but the status quo in Gotham remains tremulously secure.

“I’m going to cast Bless,” Tim says decisively, scrunching up his nose in thought. Alfred hums noncommittally, and after a brief moment, nods.

“To whom are you donating that bonus, Cuculus?” Alfred asks, raising one eyebrow.

Tim considers the combat map, finger hovering above the small painted miniatures. “Me, and Gedrick, and… Kalil.”

A mix of offended and hurt complaints burst forth from Dick and Steph, so intertwined that Tim can’t make out any individual words until Dick slumps down in his seat. “Come on, Timmy, you know Maureen could really use some extra help,” Steph wheedles, gesturing at her barbarian. The figure - wearing a long skirt and a frilly cardigan - has an unchanging look of deep and violent anger. Maureen, Duchess of Fannington, could definitely use some extra help, but they’re in the middle of a storyline revolving around B’s character, and Tim’s not about to let Kalil walk into a trap without as much preparation as possible.

“Thanks,” Bruce growls in Kalil’s gravelly voice. Funnily enough, it sounds very similar to B’s Batman voice. “It’s kind of your goddess to look out for me, too.”

Tim nods. “We’re all wishing you luck, Kalil!” Cuculus Took’s voice is a little higher than Tim’s, a little squeakier, and the only reason he doesn’t feel stupid doing it is because the voice Dick puts on for Elara is the most hilarious falsetto ever.

They fight tooth and nail against a fierce mob of cultists - Bruce most of all - to give the hostage that the cult has been keeping their freedom. When the last enemy falls - Jason’s wizard one failed death save away from following them - Alfred reveals the hostage, setting out a tiny miniature in painstakingly-painted robes, a little staff in hand.

“Kalil, you are the first to see the hostage,” Alfred narrates, wrinkled hands spread open in front of his DM screen. “There’s something in the slope of his brow, the set of his eyes, even the curl of his mouth that you recognise. As he stares at you, his small hand tightens around his staff. Make an Insight check for me, please.”

None of them dare breathe as Bruce rolls. There’s a heart-stopping moment as it teeters between two and twenty, and the room erupts with screams of delight and disbelief as it lands.

“Natural twenty!” Dick hollers, jumping out of his seat to high-five B. “Hell yeah, that’s how you do it!”

Alfred’s little smile betrays his true pleasure with the situation. He’s not always happy when one of them scores well, but this critical success must help his plans. “The boy has an expression which - on a natural twenty - you perceive to be wariness, expectation… a little fear… and largely, his expression shows you a familial affection. Kalil, this is your son.”

Before any of them can react, a high chime rings out from the speaker in the corner of the room. It takes a moment for Tim to place the noise - as unusual as it is to hear, that was the doorbell.

“If you will excuse me, I shall go and answer that, and we may resume shortly,” Alfred says smoothly, getting up from his seat. “I do not know who it can be at this hour, so any of you are welcome to accompany me.”

Without any further prompting, all of them rise up in unison. While Alfred can certainly handle himself, an unknown on their literal doorstep is enough to make the whole family feel threatened.

Despite all of them being in their civ identities, Tim watches Dick slide out a spare pair of escrima sticks from underneath an end table in the hallway, and he himself tightens his grip on the collapsible bo staff he keeps in his pocket. Being a Wayne doesn’t mean that they’ll allow themselves to be undefended.

Alfred reaches the front door first, straightening out his cuffs before he reaches out to open the door. The heavy mahogany panel swings inwards, revealing on the doorstep a pair of rain-soaked figures, and a large suitcase at their feet.

“You’re supposed to be in London,” are the first accusing words out of Talia Al Ghul’s mouth. Her eyes have skipped right over Alfred, fixing on Bruce with a single-minded determination. “I had to foil my own plots. Senseless murder isn’t nearly so fun without you there to tease with it, beloved.”

Bruce is standing pin-straight, sapped of all his softness. His face looks hard as marble, his shoulders carved from stone.

“This is- Damian,” Talia says haltingly, when it becomes clear that no words are coming from Bruce. “Your son. He has come here to learn from his father. Damian, I expect the very best from you.”

As she turns to leave, all eyes are fixed on Damian. Tim doesn’t need a perfect insight roll to see his wariness, expectation and fear. He’s quite certain that they all recognise Bruce in his face. “Um… welcome to the family?”

“Talia, wait,” Bruce calls sharply, stepping past the threshold to extend a trailing hand to her. “Talia, for goodness’ sake, you cannot drop a son on me and leave. What do you expect to happen here?”

She half turns back, face grim even in profile. The rain has soaked her through, and more than a crazy assassin, she looks like a woman with nowhere else to go. “He will not stay with his grandfather,” Talia says, a warning in her voice. “If that means I must lose him to your crusade, so be it. A death in the pursuit of justice, ignominious as it may be, is more noble than what awaits him in my father’s house.”

Tim doesn’t miss the flinch that Damian does his best to suppress. Quite a few of the Waynes look like there’s more they want to say - Bruce more than the rest - but with a step into the driving rain, Talia vanishes.

“Good evening,” Damian says with a clear, high voice, chin held up. “You may show me to my quarters now.”

Fresh purpose gives strength to Alfred’s spine, and he offers a hand to Damian. “Come, child. Have you eaten? I am certain that your brothers can entertain you in the kitchen while I prepare a bedroom.”

“Thank you,” Damian says stiffly, and accepts the offered hand even as he casts a brief glance backwards. “May I… be introduced?”

Before Alfred has a chance to say anything, Steph has stuck out a hand. “I’m Steph!”

Damian stares at the outstretched hand like it’s diseased. Tim frowns. “Um, on this world, we call that a handshake.”

Despite Jason’s snicker, Damian bristles, and tension rises up like a surging wave. Dick can clearly sense the ill-will, because he puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder, shepherding them all back inside. Subtly, he tucks his escrima sticks back into their hiding place. “Jay, will you take Damian’s suitcase upstairs and help Alf clear out a room? Tim, Steph, it might be a good idea to start patrol early if the League is in town. Cass-”

He trails off, looking around. Without alerting any of them, Cass has disappeared.

“Cass will do what Cass does,” Dick finishes, and shrugs. “B, shall you and I fix Damian up with some food?”

Slow to move, Bruce eventually turns away from his brooding gaze. “Good idea,” he says lowly, resting a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “What would I do without you, son?”

Dick shrugs, a twitch in his mouth broadcasting his surprised pleasure. “Who knows, B. Right - any dietary requirements, Damian?”

Tim watches them leave, unwilling to drop his grip on his bo staff. Steph leans into him, looping one arm in his. “Are you doing the Bruce-patented thing and repressing?”

“Yes,” Tim says, furrowing his brow. “Or, maybe I’m delaying. I think I’ll wait to experience emotions over this until I figure out what he’s like.”

“Such a normal thing to do,” Steph quips. “Want to forget about it by breaking up a dog-fighting ring? You’ve got enough intel on the Ibanescus to write a hundred biographies, and I think you need some puppy time tonight.”

Steph likes to stretch out dog-fight busts by spending hours petting the dogs. Tim, because he’s reasonable and responsible and mature, does not engage in this behaviour. However, he’s not about to abandon Steph, and if watch duty involves a few puppies, at least no one can say he’s worse than Steph.

Honestly, as a way to escape his maelstrom of feelings, breaking up an Ibanescu endeavour is a pretty tame coping mechanism. “Let’s suit up, then. I had some ideas about slimming down your utility belt, by the way - I know you don’t like how bulky it is right now. I can show you when we get downstairs.”

Dick’s warning about the League of Assassins gets pretty much forgotten once Tim starts explaining his ideas about utility belt design. He’s far less interested in material engineering than Bruce - chemistry has always been his science of choice - but by no means is he a bad inventor. Just because he’s never created a portable device for remote surveillance or enhanced a car beyond all recognition doesn’t mean he doesn’t love putting things together. Him and Steph spend so long bouncing from station to station in the Cave, flitting between 3D design software to Alfred’s tailoring workspace and back to the soldering bench, that they end up missing dinner.

“We can grab something from Batburger when we go out,” Steph says when he realises. “I know nothing compares to Alfred’s cooking - trust me, I love midnight dinner just as much as you - but to be honest, things feel a little fraught up there.”

Tim winces, but it’s the truth. That no one has come down - either to join them or to call them for dinner - doesn’t bode particularly well for Damian’s acclimation.

“Put on your kit and we’ll head out,” Tim says, toeing off his trainers and heading towards the uniform storage in his socks. “And stop stealing my boots!”

Getting changed after patrol is normally a race to see who can get out of their uniform and into pyjamas fastest, but Tim can afford to take a little more time before they leave. He sits on the floor to tug his boots on, comforting himself with the repetitive motions of lacing his boots.

It’s as he’s getting to his feet that Tim stills, ears drawn to a clatter in the main area of the Cave. “Steph?”

His second clue that something is really wrong is the fact that she doesn’t reply. Steph will always call back to him - they both have their own hang-ups over people being absent or unresponsive, and neither of them needs it to be put into words to know that there are some things they have to be sensitive about.

Deciding to forgo the domino mask for the moment, Cardinal steps into the Cave, staff held lightly in one hand and a batarang clutched in the other. Whatever Steph is facing, whether it be an internal threat or an intruder, Cardinal is going to be ready for it.

Immediately, his head is turned by the sounds of fighting. It takes him a moment to place it, but as soon as he’s reminded of where the Bats love to take their fights - up high - he spots where he needs to be.

Steph is fighting Damian on top of the dinosaur.

He breaks out into a sprint, grapple already in hand as he prepares his leap, and as he gets closer he starts hearing the vitriol that Damian is spitting at Steph.

“My father-” his speech is punctuated with savage swings of a sword and Tim has less than no idea where he found that, because the armoury is still fully stocked. “My father clearly thinks of you and your spineless boyfriend as nothing more than cannon fodder, unworthy of a place in the family. I find myself surprised that he has not rejected the pair of you yet. Surely you would suit nothing more than a cell next to your father - and Drake, I’m certain, deserves his own plot next to his parents, far away from his current position, tainting my family.”

Blood in her teeth, Steph swears violently. Tim swings up the dinosaur, clinging onto one of the spines along the neck. “Steph, are you okay?” Tim yells. She’s in half of the Robin costume - her green skirt and knee pads are there, and she’s wearing her own red boots, but she’s still wearing the oversized Wonder Woman t-shirt that Jason bought her for her last birthday. Tim hauls himself up onto the flat of the head and throws his grapple at her, painfully aware that she’s not wearing her utility belt.

Damian seems shocked to see him, and whirls around, sword still outstretched. The flat of the blade catches Tim full-on in the ribs, and uneasy on the ridged surface, Tim loses his footing. Damian’s wide eyes seem genuinely surprised, and his mouth opens as if to say something. It’s too late. The stomach-swooping sensation of flight is as familiar to Tim as breathing, and his hand automatically goes through the motions of grappling away.

He gave his grapple to Steph. Desperately, he twists around, head filling with Dick’s stern lessons on how to land safely, but it’s too high by far.

The sounds of fighting cease, Steph screams something he can’t quite make out, and Tim-

Tim falls.

The first thing Tim does when he wakes up is check over his body. He can feel the floaty, fuzzed fog of painkillers, but when he tries to access his extremities, he still gets shooting pain. His toes and fingers still move, so he rules out any drastic back injuries, but there’s a throbbing pain and tight stiffness in his right leg, the familiar hard feeling of a splint on his left wrist, and pain is radiating from his right bicep.

There’s a dim memory floating in the back of Tim’s mind of himself frantically wrapping torn fabric around his arm. It can’t be real, though; there’s no way he would have bled that much. In the memory, he’s practically swimming in it.

The other flash of recollection pushing at his brain is an image of Bruce - face thunderous - and Steph, hair speckled with blood like red blossoms, gently cradling Tim.

Nothing seems to be making sense. He was… he had been working on Steph’s utility belt, and after that, there’s a blank in his brain.

His stomach falls, the sense-memory of falling hitting him heavily, and Tim retches, trying to claw himself to an upright sitting position. He really, really shouldn’t have - his wrist spikes with pain, and the bandage around his arm very suddenly feels warm and wet.

“No,” he mumbles, opening his eyes a crack and regretting it. He adds ‘head wound’ to his mental list of injuries, his head throbbing.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from next to him. “Tim?”

Whoever it is sounds wrecked - Tim dares to open his eyes again, slowly taking in his surroundings. He’s in the Cave, in one of the medical beds, and there’s a blood-spattered medical jacket on a chair next to him. Following his gaze, a hand reaches out quickly and hides the blood. “Don’t look at that. Sorry. Tim, God, we’ve been so worried.”

“Dana?” Tim asks, head aching as he tries to think why Dana would be here. “I… I fell.”

“Yeah, you did,” Dana says. A hand reaches into Tim’s hair, gently caressing his head, and he falls back into the bed, eyes slipping closed. “Steph called your friend Conner, he helped carry the dinosaur away. They’ve donated it to some kids’ park, I can’t quite remember. Jason and your dad are supervising part of Damian’s punishment right now, if you can hear that?”

Tim strains his ears, trying not to strain anything else in the process, and finds that he can hear the sounds of hammering, metal clanging on metal, and violent swearing in Arabic.

“They’re making him install safety railings on every dangerous surface,” Dana explains, tucking Tim’s hair neatly behind his ears. “Everyone is incandescent, Tim. Damian didn’t mean to knock you off, but he’s explained that he did want to kill Stephanie - apparently, in the League of Assassins, that’s just the done thing. You kill someone if you want their place.”

Dana still sounds dubious when she talks about some things - the incredulity in her voice when she says ‘League of Assassins’ is really funny, and Tim has to stop himself from giggling. Somehow, he doesn’t think it would be very comfortable right now.

“Accident,” Tim croaks, using his splinted hand to gesture at himself. “He’s not lying about that.”

Rather than reply, Dana hums gently. “Do you want me to get someone in here? I can let Alfred know you’re awake, so he can be down pretty soon with something to eat, but there are quite a few of your siblings wandering around if you want some company.”

Tim gives her his best wry smile, aware that the sentiment is incredibly unlikely to come across properly. Social situations are hard enough when he’s not probably concussed. “Can I… a minute alone,” he says, fingers twitching. “Injury sitrep?”

“Of course, sorry,” Dana says, tone creeping towards pity. “Concussion to start with - you could probably guess that one, huh? Your right leg is broken. It, um, it was a compound fracture, so that one’s… pretty bad. You’re lucky it wasn’t the femur, but still, it’s not pretty. Left wrist isn’t broken, your dad got Superman to x-ray it, but it’s sprained pretty badly. You… you landed in some glass,” she says delicately, “and you nicked something pretty important in your right upper arm. It’s fine now - you stopped most of the bleeding yourself using your cape as a tourniquet - but you lost a lot of blood.”

All of that lines up nicely with what Tim had been thinking, so he bobs his head in his best approximation of a nod, and lets himself sink into the bed. “Recovery?”

Recovery is Dana’s time to shine. Having an ex-physical therapist on permanent retainer is hands-down the best thing that’s ever happened to the team - injury recovery times are at an all-time low.

Unfortunately, it seems like Tim’s going to be bringing the average up.

“Pretty long,” Dana says apologetically. “We’re talking months, not weeks. For most people, if they got a broken leg like that, I’d say more than three months. Since you’re you, I’d put it at two and a half, three months? Definitely crutches - I’d prefer a wheelchair, especially with that wrist, but I know how much you need your independence. You could let Babs give you a few tips, if you did decide that a wheelchair was the better option.”

The awe in Dana’s voice when she talks about Babs is still hilarious. Everyone Tim knows is half in love with Barbara Gordon.

“Crutches sound like a better option,” Tim says, shrugging with his left shoulder. “Sorry.”

Dana laughs. “Tim, I don’t want an apology. I’m… every day you impress me. I think I’ll step out now, find some family for you. Steph’s supervising Jason who’s supervising Bruce who’s supervising Damian. I’m not claiming to understand whatever’s going on there, but they’re all just outside. As far as I know, Dick and Cass are helping Alfred in the kitchen, so there’s nothing pressing going on for any of them.”

Tim considers his choices. Steph will probably want to see him immediately - if he’s remembering right, she was pretty shaken up after he fell. Although, if he calls Steph in, that’ll probably also invite the rest of them, which means facing up to Damian.

On the other hand, if he asks for Dick, Cass, and Alfred, he’ll get Dick’s particular brand of care, which is possibly just on the wrong side of overbearing right now.

“Can I have Steph and that lot?” Tim asks, using his left leg to kick off the sheets. He opens his eyes again - the lights in the medical room have been dimmed, so they’re not hurting his head. His right leg is encased up beyond the knee in a bright red cast, which Tim just knows is going to be covered in signatures and doodles before the week is through.

“Sure thing,” Dana says warmly. “Let me just clean up that dressing, and then I’ll call them in.”

As she replaces the blood-soaked bandages around his right arm, they share a small, secret smile. “I’m glad Dad married you,” Tim says softly, patting her clumsily on the shoulder with his splinted hand. “You’re a good step-mom.”

When Dana leaves to retrieve the others, there’s a buoyancy to her step that Tim’s proud to have given her.

Before anyone says anything at all, Tim and Steph share a conversation of meaningful looks. Her first, desperate gaze says ‘I’m so glad you’re not dead’. His answering smile, he thinks, perfectly conveys ‘I’m so glad I gave you my grapple, I’d break a thousand legs if it would keep your bones inside your body’. Steph’s subsequent glare must mean something got lost in translation, because there’s no way she can be mad about that, right?

“You’re not dead,” Damian says. He’s got a flat affect worse than Bruce’s, but Tim’s fairly sure it’s not disappointment that he can trace in his voice.

“Death doesn’t agree with Damian,” B says mildly, one hand still resting on Damian’s shoulder. Whether he sees the weight as fatherly or imprisoning, Tim doesn’t know.

“I find it practical, efficient, and the best way to deal with many problems,” Damian corrects haughtily, “but Father is right. Personally, I find the act of killing… quite distasteful.”

It’s an absolutely terrible apology. There’s no apologising going on at all. Still, Tim finds himself a little charmed. He’s mad that he’ll be out of action as Cardinal for months, but Damian’s sordid past and genuine contrition mean that Tim can’t blame him so much. He’s not quite sure Steph feels the same, but Tim’s not about to look a gift brother in the mouth.

Jason presses a hand to his heart, cooing. “He’s reformed! Who knew that all it took was watching Tim swan dive off a dinosaur.”

“Probably had more to do with the, frankly, disgusting sight of Tim’s freaking bones sticking out of his skin,” Steph says, shuddering. “Damian’s a vegetarian. I think all the blood freaked him out.”

Tim shrugs. “Fair enough. It freaked me out.”

He can’t dodge the swipe Jason takes at him, so he has to settle for pouting and sinking further into his bed as Jason makes a mess of his hair. “Dude. I think it’d be freaky if all your insides suddenly becoming outsides didn’t freak you out. God knows I get twitchy when I lose more than a pint of blood.”

“Besides,” Damian cuts in, face slightly pale. Tim doesn’t blame him for being a little queasy - the kid is genuinely apologetic over the whole thing, and the frequent reminders of his mistake are probably pretty scary. “There are far more creative ways to make someone suffer than simply allowing their life to end. Take Grandfather’s methods, for example.”

“Uh, no, do not take Ra’s as an example,” Jason says quickly, crossing his hands in front of him in an X. “Bad topic.”

Damian shrugs off B’s hand, shaking out his shoulders and standing taller. “Since my arrival here, I have learnt many lessons,” he declares. “For example, killing is bad.”

There’s a brief moment of silence. Steph begins slow-clapping.

“Hush, Brown,” Damian hisses quietly. “Anyway! I have learnt that killing is bad. I have learnt that… family means no-one gets left behind? Grayson had many other useless americanisms that I did not trouble myself with memorising. I have also learnt that of all of my new family, Timothy is the most formidable foe.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. Not only is Damian calling him the biggest challenge, he’s also calling him by his first name. “Um, thanks. Can I ask why?”

“Tt,” Damian says, and rolls his eyes. “You are cardinal to this family, Timothy. In my… error... in wounding you, I have come to realise the loyalty you inspire. Not only has my life been threatened by every member of this family, including the servants Pennyworth and Winters, but a veritable army of vigilantes have come to reprimand and punish me. The one they call Huntress - I believe her to be a Bertinelli - was unsettlingly emphatic in her respect for you. Kryptonians, a Tamaranean, Amazons… your bedside has been laden with well-wishers and fearsome protectors far more skilful in combat than me. I have doubts that any of our siblings could produce such a prodigious army, perhaps with the exception of Gordon.”

Once again, everyone is a little bit in love with Babs. Tim should stop being surprised at this point.

“You know what, Damian?” Tim says, moving his legs to the side - with a flare of pain - so that someone can come and sit on the bed with him. Steph gets there first, taking his splinted hand in an impossibly gentle grip, but Damian approaches anyway, tentative steps showing his unease. “I count myself pretty lucky that all those people turn up, yeah. But I think there’s someone who’d be pretty terrifying to add to the roster.”

Damian turns up his nose. “I can hardly think of someone more adept in combat than those who have already declared their allegiance.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “There’s someone I know, and he was raised by the frickin’ League of Assassins, so you know he’s already gonna be pretty scary. But - get this - his dad is Batman, so in a few years time he’s going to be pretty much unbeatable. And he beat me, even with all my great friends, so I think he’s really the guy you should be scared of.”

“Timothy, are you dim?” Damian snaps, crossing his arms defensively. “I fear you do not understand what you are saying. Father, call Winters so she can fix him.”

B looks like he is trying very hard not to laugh. He makes no move whatsoever to summon Dana back.

“Damian,” Tim says gently, “I’d appreciate it a lot if I could count you along with the others.”

“As someone loyal to you?” Damian asks quietly. “I would be honoured beyond all expectations if you would allow me to be your defender.”

Steph, frowning, takes the opportunity to level Damian with a glare. “That does not mean you get out of your punishment or that you get to be Robin. That’s a title that gets given, not taken. When I go to college, maybe I will consider you. Until then, the R is mine, understand?”

Damian stands up pin-straight. “I understand, Robin,” he says stiffly. “I will do nothing but train until I am honed for nothing more than the purpose of being your successor.”

Jason snorts. “Oh God, please someone tell me we have plans to make him better adjusted than this.”

“As my son,” Bruce says, “your first priority is to be happy. Anything else - whether that be night shift work in any capacity, Robin or otherwise - is secondary.”

“The primary objective… is to be happy?” Damian asks. His quizzical look would be funny if it weren’t so sad. “That’s not at all what Mother said.”

Tim reaches out with his other hand, ignoring the screaming pain in his bicep, and tangles his fingers with Damian’s. “Everyone wants to save the world. But it’s okay if the only world you’re saving is your own. There’s no use in trying to save others if you’re not going to save yourself.”

Damian hums, tilting his head to the side as he considers Tim’s words. He looks a little like a bird, small and delicate. “Yes,” he says firmly. “I shall save my own world.”

“Pennyworth,” Damian demands, tugging at Alfred’s sleeve. “Why is Timothy asleep… again?”

Timothy is not actually asleep again, much as he wishes he were.

“Master Tim does not particularly appreciate having to wake up in the morning,” Alfred says quietly. “We are all quite sure that were it not for state laws regarding truancy, he would have given up on school a long time ago. Especially now that Master Jason is at college, it is a particularly trying environment for Tim. If a few extra minutes of napping at the breakfast table can make his mornings slightly less intolerable, I am happy to allow it.”

There’s probably a visual exchange that goes on between the pair. Tim is touched by Alfred’s thoughtfulness, and chooses to accept it graciously and try to get his few minutes of sleep.

Damian is loud, even when he’s clearly trying to be quiet. Tim despairs for B when the time comes for Damian’s stealth training because he’s really going to have his hands full. Maybe they can sic Cass on him and he’ll have to learn. Sink-or-swim style.

“Pennyworth,” Damian demands again. Tim’s eyes are closed. He can’t see if Damian tugs on Alfred’s sleeve again. By the sharp intake of breath coming from Alfred’s general vicinity, the one bordering on irritation but tempered with love, Tim guesses he probably does. “Why does Brown not live in the Manor with us?”

Completely out of left field, that one. Tim has no idea what could possibly have prompted the question. It seems like Alfred does, though, because he hums pensively before replying.

“Stephanie is not a Wayne. Your father has had no cause to take her into the family legally as she has her own mother, and we are quite sure she would not appreciate any of us attempting to - in her view - replace her original family.”

Something about that doesn’t satisfy Damian, given his grumblings. “Is that why Father waited for many years to legally adopt Grayson? Fear of replacement? It is foolish.”

Tim can vividly picture Alfred’s disapproving glare. He’s been on the receiving end of it far less than his brothers, but it’s still a crushing weight he’s had to face before. By the sound of Damian shifting in his seat, Tim can imagine his discomfort with Alfred’s disappointment.

“Neither your father nor Master Dick wanted the memory of John Grayson to be forgotten. It was only recently that your brother expressed his desire to be adopted. Although - in case you had not noticed - it is very rare that any of your siblings will not call your father by his name.”

Damian tuts. “And… and Timothy? He has no parents. From what understanding I have gleaned, I do not see why he would want to preserve the memory of Jack Drake. Why has Father not yet adopted Timothy?”

There’s an ache in Tim’s heart. Rather than keep up the charade of sleeping, he raises his head, blinking blearily. “B hasn’t adopted me yet ‘cause I get squirrely about being part of the family,” he explains.

Alfred clears his throat. “Perhaps not the way I would have phrased it,” he says delicately, “but yes. Historically, Tim has experienced mixed emotions surrounding the topic of family. We thought it best to wait until everything was a good deal more settled before addressing the matter”

“Tt. As usual, you all require my assistance,” Damian says sternly. “I shall make Timothy feel so at home in the family that Father will have no other option than to adopt him.”

It’s too cute. Tim has to laugh. “Okay, Damian. You do that.”

School in a wheelchair is somehow worse than school normally. Tim attracts double the number of stares, ranging from pitying through curious all the way to outright hostile. The worst is when a teacher pulls him aside after class - taking hold of the back of the wheelchair to wheel him around, which makes Tim stiffen and want to throw up - and tells him that if he’s having ‘problems at home’, there’s always a number he can call.

Tim has a collection of Childhelp hotline cards stacked in a desk drawer in his bedroom at Drake Manor. He used to collect them like Pokemon cards from concerned adults every other month when he was younger. Getting one now just because of a stupid broken leg (and sprained wrist and bandaged arm) frustrates him.

“Thanks, but my foster family actually cares about me,” he snaps, spinning his wheels to get away from the teacher himself. “Might have been useful a year ago.”

It’s… unkind of him. It wouldn’t have been useful a year ago, because it would probably have joined his stack, dusty and sad in a drawer. Tim of a year ago would never have admitted to anyone that things weren’t perfect at home - he barely even let the Waynes say a single bad word about his parents, there’s no way he would have called a helpline to talk about how he was being treated.

Still. The implication that the Waynes are anything like the Drakes smarts. They’re not perfect - no one can be perfect - but Tim is happier being Bruce’s foster child than he has been in a while.

The cynical part of Tim whispers that his implied statement of the Drakes being terrible parents is going to be all over the press in less than an hour’s time. The realistic part of him knows that’s not true, but nevertheless, he still cringes at his small betrayal of his parents.

He’s in a foul mood all day. At lunch time, instead of brave the lunch hall, he tucks himself into a computer bay in the library and messages Jason.

sk8erboi: Give me strength to carry on

Gratifyingly, Jason’s response is almost instant.

stacys-mom: ok jean val jean gimme a minute
stacys-mom: [image]

The photo takes ages to load on the terrible school computer, but when it does, Tim has to smile. Jason’s room in his college accommodation is, to no one’s surprise, the third window on the east side. He’s stuck a piece of paper in the window and walked outside to take a photo, and for a second it’s almost like Tim is eleven again, staring at Jason’s choppy handwriting - which today, spells out “DON’T SKIP SCHOOL”.

Jason has even drawn a tiny little heart in the corner that Tim has to magnify the photo to see.

sk8erboi: Thank you

stacys-mom: no problemo
stacys-mom: go bully dinosaur boy i gotta go
stacys-mom: love you!

“Love you,” Tim whispers to the computer, logging off. He’s about to go find Damian - ‘dinosaur boy’ is a nickname that brings endless joy to all of them and endless torment to Damian himself - but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to go very far.

“Timothy,” Damian says imperiously, silhouetted in the doorway. “Come over here. It is ridiculous that you would allow yourself to miss a meal. A member of the family must be in fighting condition at all times. I have rectified this error of yours by bringing you adequate sustenance that we can, perhaps, consume together.”

Tim wheels himself over to the table that Damian indicates, and fights back a smile as Damian unloads his spread very seriously. He’s picked out all the tolerable bits from the school lunch - Tim can only assume that he’s figured out what foods he likes through careful observation - and after he’s arranged all the items on the table, Damian pulls up a chair and sits across from Tim.

“Thank you,” Tim says gently, reaching across with his better arm to squeeze Damian’s hand. “This means a lot to me, Damian.”

Haughtily - as if he doesn’t want to admit that he’s pleased - Damian tuts, and takes a bread roll for himself. “We are family. As Grayson says, no-one shall be left behind. I am quite certain that includes at meal times, not simply in the field.”

The face Damian makes when he figures out that Dick has been stealing parenting advice from Lilo and Stitch is going to be a work of art. Tim really, really wants to be there so he can take a photo of it. Until then, he has to desperately try not to giggle at Damian’s sincerity. “Thanks, batboy. You’re doing a pretty good job of making me feel like part of the family, you know.”

Damian glows. There’s really no other word for it - he sits up straighter, his cheeks darken, and he spectacularly fails the battle of hiding a smile.

“Excellent. It is always pleasing to hear that the primary objective is being met successfully.”

Sweet as it is, it’s a little alarming to hear that ‘get Tim to join the Waynes properly’ is Damian’s primary objective, but Tim’s not going to bother him about it.

It’s leagues better than ‘kill Steph for the Robin mantle’ or ‘push Tim off a dinosaur’. No one’s going to be cross that Damian’s funnelling his attentions into something constructive - or if they are, they’ll have to face Tim’s disapproval.

Tim is seventeen, and an orphan, and he’s pretty lucky. He has a family that cares about him, a sick job - right now, working as Sibyl, but he doesn’t have too long to wait until he can don Cardinal’s dark cape again - and he has a horde of incredible friends.

In the end, the one who finally convinces Tim to let Bruce adopt him is Kon. Damian’s always pestering B to let him go visit Jon on the farm, but Bruce’s rules mean that he needs supervision - so more often than not, it ends up being an outing for just Tim and Damian, and Tim ends up playing video games with Kon to pass the time while Damian and Jon get up to… whatever two preteen boys get up to.

Conner is a menace at most games, but Tim has had enough practice with high-speed chases that he has the edge on driving games. After losing a third race, Kon slumps down onto his bed, stretching out. A sliver of skin flashes under the hem of his shirt, and Tim suppresses a laugh. If he did the same at home, he would be beset by Dick’s incorrigible tickling.

“You’re lucky you don’t have an older brother,” he informs Kon. “They can be the most annoying people in the world.”

Rather than reply, Kon rolls over so he’s on his stomach, resting his chin on his hand. He stares out of the window, lost in thought.

Tim looks over, following his gaze. Damian and Jon are play-fighting in the field outside. Where they got the wooden swords, Tim doesn’t know; it doesn’t surprise him that Damian is winning. “Brothers are worth it,” Conner says, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.

“Yeah,” Tim says, breathless as he watches his little brother pin Jon to the ground, raising his hands in triumph. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

Out in the field, Jon hovers slightly off the ground. Damian puts his hands on his hips in a gesture he’s clearly learnt from Jason - who originally learnt it from Alfred - and Tim can almost hear his tut.

“I do my best to look out for him,” Conner says. When Tim looks over, he’s raising an eyebrow. “At school and stuff. ‘Cause I know what it’s like. What he’s going through.”

Tim nods. “You’re good with him,” he offers. “You’re a really good big brother. Jon looks up to you a lot.”

Conner laughs. “Right back at you, Rob. C’mon, your brother thinks the world of you. The number of times he’s tried to stab me for impugning your honour or whatever… I think he’d kill someone who looked at you wrong.”

“He doesn’t like killing,” Tim says absentmindedly, tracking the path the two boys carve across the field. “I know he respects me, but it sometimes… it can feel like there’s a distance between us. Like he puts me on a pedestal, but not… not quite.”

“He loves you, but he doesn’t know how to actually connect to you?” Kon suggests, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Interesting is an empty word. Tim whacks Kon on the shoulder, frowning. “You have an idea. If you have an idea, you have to tell me.”

“Sorry, jeez, I didn’t know there were rules.” Kon bats away Tim’s hand, scrunching up his nose. “I’m just thinking, y’know… family’s so important to him, right?”

“Right.”

Kon shrugs helplessly. “And as much as you love him… you’re still refusing to join his family?”

Tim ducks his head, cheeks heating. “It’s not like that!”

It isn’t. Tim’s delay in asking to be adopted has nothing to do with Damian. It’s actually getting a little silly at this point - if he is an inconvenience, then he’s one that everyone has decided to put up with, because he’s been tangentially part of the family for more than five years and they’re not sick of him yet. It wouldn’t really be a true betrayal of his parents, not anymore than Dick choosing to be adopted or Jason double-barrelling his surname was. No one will expect anything more of Tim. It’s a purely symbolic gesture that he just hasn’t been able to get used to yet.

Unfortunately, Kon might have a point. In all the time Damian’s been trying to get Tim to join the family properly, he’s made no outward progress. Tim can easily see how frustrating it must seem to Damian.

Does he feel like Tim hasn’t forgiven him? Might he feel like Tim doesn’t trust him, that he doesn’t want to be part of Damian’s family specifically?

There’s no part of Tim that feels that way. He’s frustrated that he’s still stuck in a cast, hopping around on crutches, but it would be unimaginably cruel to imply that he still holds any ill-will towards Damian. They’re brothers now. Even without the legality, that means something.

“He thinks I don’t want to be adopted… because of him?” Tim asks, doing his best to hide his mounting horror.

Kon - once again - shrugs. “I’m not actually a little-brother whisperer, Robs. That’s what it seems like from the outside, is all I can say.”

Tim adopts a mask of determination, steeling himself. “Okay I know you have super hearing but you’re going to have to turn that off while I make a phone call.”

“That is so not how my super hearing works.”

Frustrated, Tim throws a pillow at him. “Oh for goodness’ sake, put your headphones on and blast the Clash for all I care, just don’t listen in!”

Instead of putting on some decent rock music, Kon begins attempting to smother himself with the pillow. Tim has long since given up on trying to understand his friends.

The contacts in Tim’s phone are organised neatly: largely by alphabet, but split into two sections. His pinned contacts, marked out with a little star denoting their ‘favourite’ status, rest at the top, looking down with superiority on other numbers such as ‘Zoanne from school’, ‘Edward Drake fake uncle’, and ‘Social Worker [DO NOT ANSWER CALLS]’.

Tim barely has to scroll at all to find Dick’s number. When he calls him, the response is alarmingly sudden.

”Tim! How’s everything?” Dick sounds worryingly stressed, and Tim frowns.

“Fine? Damian’s been good, no one’s caused any problems, we’re all fine.”

There’s silence over the line. ”Right! Well. Good for you! Good… good babysitting skills. Um, did you need something?”

“Yes!” Tim sits up straight. “Yes, sorry. Does- does Damian feel like there’s a distance between us because I still haven’t said I want to be adopted even though he’s done all this work?”

Once again, there’s a telling pause before Dick replies. Tim winces. ”I mean, I wouldn’t have put it in as many words… but you’re not wrong.”

There’s nothing Tim wants less than to upset his family, and right now, there’s only one thing he can do to make sure his little brother is happy. “Dick, tell B to get the family lawyers on the line. There’s some paperwork he’s going to need to fill out.”

Even with a family as large as the Waynes, the house can feel pretty empty sometimes. With Dick is Bludhaven and Jason at Gotham U, Tim is down to two siblings to keep him company - and more often than not, they’re out too, whether that be downstairs in the Cave or at one of the million extracurriculars they somehow manage to have time for.

That’s why it takes a good half an hour for someone to find Tim when he comes home after school.

It’s a Thursday - Tim’s Thursday routine never changed, even when Jason moved out - but after a particularly rough day at school, there’s some part of him that doesn’t want a companionable but silent afternoon with Bruce. He loves his dad, they all do, but there are some problems that a shared silence can’t fix.

Tim is curled up small, doing his best to make himself as little as possible, when Cass finds him. One hand is wrapped loosely around a batarang - never let it be said that Tim is ever unprotected - and the other is clutching at a small stuffed bird, evidently left behind in the move.

There’s a small patch of red, sewed neatly onto the front, which tells Tim it was a gift from Dick. It doesn’t surprise him that Jason left it behind - over the years, he’s accrued hundreds of handmade presents, courtesy of Dick’s penchant for crafting - and he’s glad for it, for something to hold in lieu of a brother’s hand.

He must look a sight - curled miserably on Jason’s bed, holding a stuffed toy and slowly soaking a pillow in apathetic tears. Cass is the best sister he could ask for. She’s seen him at his worst; he’s been far worse than this before. Rather than immediately jump in for a hug or get him to explain what’s wrong, she moves silently towards him, sitting down on the bed next to him.

“Jason has good… linens,” she says slowly, borrowing Alfred’s word as she points at his Wonder Woman themed duvet. “Yours too.”

In Tim’s own bedroom, his bed is currently adorned with his Superman duvet. Kon thinks it’s hilarious, so he’s probably never going to throw it away. He’ll be thirty five and still be sleeping under the red S if his friends have any say in it. Cassie and Bart are still pushing for him to get merch in their patterns - if the four of them end up getting a house together next year like they’re planning, Tim doubts that there will be anything plain in their house at all.

“Mine too,” he agrees. If the problem were his bedcovers, he’d just steal Jason’s. They’re siblings - any ideas of personal property goes out of the window.

Cass slides the batarang out of his hand. Tim lets it go willingly - he doesn’t really need protection in his own home, among his family, but that goes double for when he’s around Cassandra. Tentatively, she slips her own hand into his, intertwining their fingers. “Lonely,” she says plainly. “It’s okay, Tim. I am here now.”

Tim laughs, wiping at his eyes. “You are. Thank you, Cass.”

She smiles - looking very self-satisfied and even a little smug - and drops a casual kiss on his forehead in a move she’s clearly stolen from Dick. “You forgot what today is.”

If Tim has missed a birthday he will literally never hear the end of it. He surges up, wincing with pain as he accidentally headbutts Cass, and flails around for something to tell him the date. He presses a hand to his forehead, mentally kicking himself as he realises he’s wearing a watch, and checks the date.

There’s nothing special about the date as far as he can recall. He looks up, frowning, and meets Cass’ eyes.

She’s outright laughing at him, albeit also rubbing at her head. “Picture day, silly.”

“Oh,” Tim breathes, an impossible lightness filling him. Cass is right - today is the day Alfred collects the whole family, forces them into formal clothes, and makes them sit through a photographer taking photo after photo. “Oh!”

Today is picture day. If today is picture day-

Tim practically throws himself off Jason’s bed and out of the door, Cass hot on his heels and laughing the whole way. He races down the stairs, not even caring enough to override his automatic instinct to silence his footsteps, and bursts into B’s office. Long gone are the days where he would be afraid to make any sound while Bruce is working - he slams open the door, brow furrowed as he looks around.

From his position in a piggyback on top of Dick, Jason gives Tim a wide grin. “Hey, little dude! Didja miss me?”

Rather than reply, Tim jumps at Jason to pull him down, and then throws his arms around him. “You’re such an idiot, Jay. Of course I missed you.”

“Come along, lads,” B says, smiling proudly at them. “And Cass. And Damian, wherever he’s run off to. Much as I know you’d love to spend the day in jeans, there are some traditions Alfred won’t let me dispense with.”

Alfred’s not in the room, but all of them glance about anyway, as if the very implication of disagreeing with him will summon the man and his wrath.

“Damian’s going to complain when you try and put him in a suit,” Tim warns. tucking himself under Jason’s arm. If there’s one advantage of being cub scout-sized, it’s that he still fits nicely in the protection of his big brothers.

Bruce shrugs. “There are more of us than there are of him.”

“Oh my God, B, you can’t just say that,” Dick laughs. “But you’re right, I’m sure we can wrangle him if we work together. Are we wearing the Armani you bought us for the gala last month, or the Gucci from the one before, or-”

“There should be some new Dior suits waiting in your wardrobes,” Bruce says smoothly. “Come on, Dickie, you should know better than to wear outdated clothes - people will think we can’t afford better! And we both know that’s not true, champ, haha.”

Jason fake gags, sticking a finger in his mouth. “Ugh, turn Brucie off. I don’t want to hear it any more than I have to. Let’s go get Damian into his monkey suit before he’s figured out a strategy to take us all down.”

The real challenge is the one Bruce undertakes every year - convincing Alfred to join in with the family photos. This year, it doesn’t take too long. It could be that he’s in a particularly familial mood following Tim’s recent adoption, or that he’s just given up with the knowledge after years that he’s not going to get out of it, but whatever the reason, he doesn’t put up too much of a fight in accepting that he’s part of the family too - and deserves to be memorialised as such.

Bruce has to get a proper photographer in for appearances’ sake, so the seven of them - all in matching suits, even Cass, who refuses to be left out of being a matching set - stand stiffly with fixed smiles as the photographer gets to work. The portrait hall in the west wing contains paintings of Waynes going back centuries - while B has had the painters in for himself and for Dick so far, they all prefer to populate their own ‘portrait’ hall - an off-shoot corridor parallel to the family rooms with official and unofficial family photos taking pride of place.

It’s fascinating to trace the progression of the photos - B clearly selects his favourites from his photo albums, because above, below and alongside the professional family photos are snapshots of daily life - Dick, not even a teenager, flipping down from the chandelier while Alfred holds a hand to his heart, or Dick and Jason with heads pressed together, giggling as they draw a moustache on a sleeping Bruce, or Tim on Dick’s shoulders, charging forwards with a plastic lightsaber against Jason, sitting on top of Bruce. There’s even a photo of Damian and Steph curled up on opposite sides of Tim in his bed in the medical wing of the Cave - Tim is the only one awake, flashing a weary but bright smile to the photographer as he lies with his arms around his family.

The professional photographer doesn’t take too long, promising that the edited and raw versions of the photos will be sent along before the end of the week, and the whole family begins to relax. Damian tears his jacket off, shaking out his arms, and Jason does the same, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. Cass doesn’t even bother with removing her jacket, just shoves the jacket and shirt sleeves up over her elbows, and rolls the cuffs of her trousers as she kicks off her shoes. Dick undoes his top few buttons, prompting a swift eye-roll from Damian and a whistle from Jason.

“Wait, wait,” Tim says quickly as Alfred starts shifting away as if to leave. “I want to take a photo myself.”

Bruce frowns. “No, let me do it - if you’re taking the photo you won’t be in it, we can’t have that.”

Tim laughs. “Have you forgotten I’ve been taking photos for years? I know how to work a camera so I’m in the photo too. Huddle up, quickly, Damian looks like he’ll be ready to maim someone if he stays in the suit much longer.”

After grabbing his trusty camera, Tim fusses with the settings, making sure everything’s perfect. His family shuffle closer - unlike their positioning for the official photo, they’re pressed against one another, at ease. Cass has a real smile on her face, which would look to outsiders like a baring of teeth but which the family recognises as her purest expression of joy. Alfred - content to act in a far more familial manner when not being observed by the public, is resting one hand on Damian’s shoulder, the other on Bruce’s.

Tim sets up his camera on a sideboard, checking the field of vision to make sure it’s perfect, and presses the button for a delayed burst. He runs back to his family, slotting in easily between Dick and Jason - and breaking up the burgeoning scuffle as he does so - and beams at his camera lens.

When he looks at the photos later, he’ll find himself incredibly glad he took a long burst - each shot is slightly different, capturing the flurry of movement the Waynes can never seem to escape. In one, Dick has bunny ears over Jason’s head - in the next, the boys are standing neatly but Cass is caught halfway in a twirl - in the latter ones, Jason has seized Damian and is holding him up like Simba, while Cass attempts to do the same with Tim. Bruce is eyeing up Dick with a gleam in his eye, like he’s considering doing the same.

Each photo takes pride of place in a series of snapshots, showing the whole story, which sit in a row above the official family photos, stretching the corridor from Dick’s first gap-toothed smile to Damian’s first day at Gotham Academy.

Just underneath is a photo Dick snapped with his phone, of Tim holding his camera and smiling proudly. There’s a small plaque underneath it, where tiny letters read 'Tim Drake-Wayne, seventeen'.

He couldn’t possibly be prouder.