• Disclaimer. Batman © DC Comics

• Warning. Spoilers from DC #945

• Notes. Title taken from the song A Call To Arms by Laura Jansen.

When the room fell silent, Tim started to feel an odd sense of betrayal creep up on him. He didn't know why he felt that; as far as he could remember, Bruce had never pulled one of these on him before. And yet the knife was there, old and familiar and buried deep enough to stir memories Tim wasn't sure he had.

Idealistic teenager, they called him now. He was also an idealistic child once, who thought he alone could save Batman and Robin because nobody else knew who they were. Because nobody else could see just how many things were laid to rest next to Jason Todd and sometimes Tim thinks he should have felt sorrier than he did back then, but he just couldn't let Batman and Robin be one of those things. Jason was right to be mad at him.

But the child did it, didn't he? He saved Batman, even if there was nothing to be done for Bruce Wayne. The world was not perfect, not with Jason dead and Dick so far out of anyone's reach, but at least there was this: a symbol you could drop all your hopes in. If it worked for a lonely kid, imagine what it could do for the people who had it worst than him.

If this was not about making Gotham better, then what was the point? That idealistic child never asked, because he never thought that question could be made in the first place. And now the idealistic teenager was standing on somebody else's trial, with his childish dreams piled up in worn-out sheets and the truth laid bare for everyone to see.

Bruce didn't believe in him. He just used his utopia for his own reasons— reasons Tim couldn't even begin to argue with. The Knights Program worked and all they got was a new body laying cold on the floor. If Tim were to continue— if he willed himself to believe that his project didn't work simply because he failed to build trust first, could he prevent the Batman of Christmas Future from entering their home?

(And if Tim were to stop, maybe even accept what Batwoman has done, who could assure him that he wouldn't end up making the same choice and take a shot at the boy sitting next to him right now?)

Tim swallowed it down, past the forming lump in his throat. He didn't want to hurt Damian and hated having a timeline where he did more than that.

"Tim," someone called him (not for the first time judging by that tone) and it took him a moment to realise that it was Jason. No nicknames, no witty comments. Arms crossed, Red Hood questioned him with his eyes alone and to be honest, Tim would rather be interrogated at this point. He's never liked being asked if he was alright.

"Nothing," came out of his mouth. It was a stupid answer, Tim knew that, but he'd had a breakdown in front of Bruce a few days ago, before learning that the Belfry was actually the Waynes BuzzFeed Unsolved: Oedipal Dystopia. So really, it's not like he was killing the mood here.

Tim wished Steph was still in Gotham. He didn't mind being stupid when she was around; her confidence was a solid weight behind his back and it could make wonders like that. She must have left some of that behind because next thing they knew, Tim was beating everyone to the punch. "Anything else you'd like Barbara to share with us for you, Bruce?"

Dick stirred in his seat, but said nothing. Unlike him, Damian went awfully still, as if the drop of temperature in the room had activated his stealth mode. Barbara didn't even bat an eyelash and knowing her, she must had foreseen this like ten minutes ago. Jason was the only one who seemed oddly proud at Tim's little outburst and though Bruce was clearly not happy with him, he didn't retort back. He didn't give him any excuse as to why he decided to take advantage of his beliefs like that instead of luring Kate to their side on his own, and Tim— Tim almost wished he did. He always did.

It stung the same way his kneecap did whenever it was about to rain.

On the way back upstairs, Tim stopped for a moment to store the old notebook back into his utility belt. Jason's lazy footsteps were right behind him, his satisfaction so blatantly obvious you could almost hear it. Tim would have rolled his eyes at that if the feeling of gloved fingers running up his nape and ruffling his hair hadn't caught him off guard. Heat pooled at the tip of his ears and behind his eyes. Jason made it so easy sometimes.

The black sheep side of the table was looking merrier by the second when Barbara jumped the last few steps separating them and caught Tim by the wrist. "Hey, Tim. You know I wasn't—"

Something deflated in him at the note of caution in her voice. "I know, Babs," Tim interrupted her, gently pushing her hand away. "I'm not mad. Not really…" he railed off. "Not with you, anyway."

Barbara smiled in sympathy, let him go with that. Tim knew he could count on Damian to give him all the space in the world for an undetermined period of time, but Dick was different. They would talk— which was okay, Tim had missed their talks. He just didn't want to do it now.

Oh, right. The thought came back to him out of the blue. There are brownies in the house.

The room was pleasantly warm when Tim walked in and his eyes went straight to the fireplace. There was still time before the first snow, but Wayne Manor had the curse of every great architecture: it was always chillier on the inside. The fire sparked vividly, the light bouncing off Cassandra's hair. She looked unbearably small these days, like a baby bird that fell out of its nest.

I did this, heart-wrenching as it was to admit. I took care of the program. I should have taken care of the people.

Cass tore her eyes away from the fire and turned to him. She smiled a little smile in that way of hers— not happy, but somewhat content. Words eluded her more often now that Clayface was gone and with Stephanie out of town, it seemed like there weren't many people left she felt like communicating with. It was a small privilege to be counted among the few (—one that Tim didn't feel worthy of.)

He returned the smile, afraid of what his face might show— the last words he'd said to Bruce catching up to him, digging holes in the pit of his stomach. It was good that Cass didn't take part in their reunion; it might have saddened her even more. "Hi, Cass."

"Tim," she unfolded herself a bit, straighting her back, but kept both knees close to her chest. Tim took off his domino, exposing himself as well. It was only fair. "Guests… over?"

"Yeah," Tim's toes curled inside his boots as he stepped forward, fully aware that Cass would be able to tell if he wasn't being honest with her. "Yeah, it's over."

She stared at his face for a solid minute before lowering her gaze in a somber gesture. "Not good."

It wasn't a question. Tim dropped to a crouch in front of her, wrapping his fingers gently around her ankle. "I'm sorry, Cass," he said to her because it was the only thing worth saying— the one thing Cassandra deserved to hear. "I'm so sorry."

Cass shook her head, eyes filling up. She took Tim's hand in hers and crossed her legs indian style on her seat. Short strands of hair fell over her face, darkening the shadows around her eyes as she stared at his fingers. "He could be good."

"I know."

"Same as… me." Tim's heart skipped a beat at the sudden doubt in her voice. He held her hand tight, desperate to find the right words. (There isn't always time—)

"Of course you are. You— Cass." He gripped her arm with solid fingers. "What happened to Clayface was terrible. He didn't deserve that bullet— nobody does. What you had with him was special, I know that. But just because you came from similar backgrounds, doesn't mean you were the same. Those are different things, Cass."

"You trust me, right?" She nodded curtly, her lower lip trembling like a leaf. "I believe, no, I know you are the best of us."

"I could… not save him." A great sob escaped her, and she covered her face with shaking hands.

"That's on me, Cass." Tim raised to his feet, his own vision blurry as he put her head against his chest. "Not you."

Cass wrapped her arms around his waist and gripped his cape with so much force she could have tore it in two. Her body was shaking so badly it made a couple of tears roll down Tim's cheeks. The Future Batman never spoke of Cassandra (hold on tight, Tim—), didn't mention Orphan once (as tight as you can—)

I am, Tim snapped at him. Goddamn you, I am.

Cassandra wept 'til her very last ounce of strenght and in all that time, Tim never let go of her. He had failed in everything else. Clayface died on his watch, at the hands of the person he'd once thought fit to run the Belfry for him; he drove Stephanie away, even though she was the one thing he couldn't picture his future without. And right in the middle of this mess, there was this girl fighting to become something more— find somewhere new where she could fit in and let go of the past.

Tim had confessed to wanting the exact same thing to Bruce at the beginning of all this. Why was he only understanding this now, after everything had fallen apart? There was a price to pay for believing and Cassandra was the one who ended up paying it instead of him. Tim would not let go, not when he owed her so much.

At some point, the wrecking sobs quieted down and the arms around him felt like they were clinging more than hugging. She was bone-deep tired; Tim suspected that if he tried to step away now, Cass would fall right down on her face. "Better?"

A pause. "No."

Tim smiled. "Okay. Me neither."

Alfred found them in the kitchen the morning after the trial, sitting side by side at the counter. Cassandra was fast asleep, both arms locked around Tim's and her face— red and swollen— nestled between them. Meanwhile Tim was clearly enjoying himself, engulfing some left-over brownies with his only free hand. Alfred tried to recall the last time he'd seen the boy like this, sated and content with his surroundings. Like those nights so long ago when he'd come back to the Manor after a rather good night of patrol, and the only thing that could trouble him was the chance that Bruce might catch him and scold him for still be wearing his uniform inside the house.

Surrounded by the tricky blue light of the early morning, Alfred could have mistaken him for a ghost. But then Tim turned to him, the child-like conviction the butler had always cherished and feared for equally sharpened into restless features and heavy doubts. Alfred ached for all of them, but Tim... The Wayne Manor always tried to piece back together what was broken by the world; this dear boy tried to do the same for their home and he ended up broken too in return. Should a boy be punished for his dreams— for flying too high when they were the ones delivering wings? Was it really so wrong of him to believe?

Tim smiled the same way his other self did, because even if Alfred knew the answer, he'd never demand anything from the butler. No one did more for Tim than Alfred.

Tim confided in him that morning, let him know that he was taking Cassandra with him to his apartment in the city, the one that he'd shared with Stephanie less than a week ago (apparently, the promise of rice krispies had done the trick). "There's so much I need to fix, Alfred, I don't even know where to start..." A beat. "But it's not here. Not this time."

"My boy," Alfred took his hand, struggling to find the right words. "This is your home. You will always be welcome home. Promise me you won't forget that."

Tim looked unbearably sad for a moment, like he'd just remembered something, and then he smiled again and nodded. "Don't worry, we'll keep in touch."

("Some things don't just change like that. I mean, I got a visit from the Batman of Christmas Future, but nothing's really changed. I still need to leave if I want to come back—")

A couple of days later, Alfred saw them off. Cassandra turned around to wave him goodbye, but Tim kept walking, like the butler knew he would. But for a moment, the three of them let themselves pretend. Maybe Clayface was still alive somewhere; maybe the family could be reunited again. So they smiled and said nothing about the rests of a notebook piled up with the ashes in the corner of a fireplace.

("—I can only leave if I grow up.")