07:30 PM

Batcave

"I couldn't believe he was there!," Batgirl was pacing around the cave like a caged tiger "I mean, why would you send him to school so soon after everything he's been through!."

"I'm sure Mrs. Westfield knows what she's doing," Batman replied indifferently, not looking up from what he was doing at the computer.

"You didn't see him. He was like... like a little frightened bunny in a den of wolves. Hungry wolves!," She stressed the word hungry "the school bully nearly had him for breakfast."

Batman grunted, but didn't actually answer. Nightwing was across the room, leaning on a display case, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. Batman was steadfastly ignoring him, Batgirl was pretending not to notice the rift between them.

"Dick, you remember your first day of school after...," Batgirl trailed off "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I remember," Nightwing interrupted "I remember being angry, and scared."

"You also survived, as I recall," Batman growled "the Drake boy will adjust, given time."

"That's my point: nobody's giving him time. I overheard one of the teachers giving him a lecture for being late to class. I bet that kid's never been inside a school before. It wasn't called for, it was unfair."

"So is life," Batman told her "what's your point?."

Batgirl's eyes narrowed as she finally realized that Batman was trying to shut down this line of conversation but good. What she didn't know was why. She turned to Nightwing, who just shrugged. Batgirl unleashed a hiss of frustration, but finally dropped it.

She didn't know it, but her outrage had ignited a spark of interest in Nightwing. Perhaps it was due in part to Batman's casual dismissiveness of the issue. Maybe it was because there was something familiar in the story. A ghostly link to the brother Nightwing had so recently lost.

Westfield Manor

Tim lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, his mind processing the day's events, not the least of which was his new awareness of Batgirl's secret identity. His brain had turned over the idea that Commissioner Gordon might be Batman, but dismissed it as highly unlikely.

When he came here, Tim had only carried a small duffel with him. Inside it was everything he needed to become Robin. He'd even retrieved the mask he'd cast aside, unable to part with it as completely as he'd wanted. He toyed with the idea of reinventing himself, becoming the Robin which should exist, rather than the one he had created.

But there was no way he could sneak out of the house after dark. Even now, he could hear Etilka snuffling outside his door, reassuring herself that the prisoner was in his cell. Outside, the dobermans were likely trotting around, supposedly keeping intruders out.

But Tim knew better. They'd been set on him once, and they were eager to catch him, especially the one who'd managed to bite him. They had not forgotten the scent, or their failure. They would have liked to use him as their own personal chew toy. One was doubtless lurking beneath his window, breath frosting in the cold night air, glowing eyes trained upwards, knowing where the prey was and patiently waiting for him to come to it.

Besides, what sort of Robin could he be anyway?. It wasn't like Gotham didn't have enough heroes. Batman and Batgirl, plus Nightwing. Wasn't that plenty enough for one city?.

But there was one thing he could do. He could keep Batgirl's secret, not even letting on to her that he knew. It was all he could do. It wasn't much, considering what he'd done, but it would have to do.

He recalled to mind the pain in Nightwing's voice that night they had fought. He'd cut the dark hero deeply, without even realizing it. He'd done what everyone around him always had, taken what he wanted and twisted it for his own purposes. He'd abused the mask, the name, the essence of what Robin stood for, just as his mother and Marko had abused him. He was fully as guilty as they were.

He wished there was a way he could atone for it, but he couldn't see how.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the heavy pale yellow drapes covering the window. With the light off, they looked almost white, which would have been a better color. Outside his door, Etilka growled softly, chastising him for moving and for locking her out, hiding just beyond her reach.

Tim rolled his eyes at sound of the dog's claws scratching at the door. It was an alarming sound, straight from a horror film, the soft noise of the monster discovering how to open doors. But Tim knew it was just that, nothing more. Just a sound in the night, a threat rendered empty by the lock on the door.

The imagination is a dangerous thing. While it can serve you well, it is all too willing to betray you, to bring your worst fears to life. Tim knew that, and pretended to himself that a soft chill didn't run up his spine at the ominous scratching; the dog's unspoken threat delivered by his imagination in living color.

She would still be there in the morning. He'd better wear gloves. She would still be able to pinch, but the damage would be far less than if he didn't wear gloves. He always wore gloves these days. When asked by Morna about it, he claimed it was because his hands got cold.

Etilka was the queen of the house, Morna would hear no sour words about her beautiful, perfect dog.

Being bitten by a dog was not a great way to start the day, especially when you were trying to shake off the last rotting bits of nightmares born of memory. But Tim had resigned himself to it, realizing in his way that there was still no escape. Not for him. Never for him.

February 20th

Etilka had gotten her shot in, but had almost at once let go, realizing that it was pointless to bite a gloved hand. She'd followed Tim down to the kitchen, her claws clicking on the wood floor, a low grumbling in her throat. Tim ignored her.

He wasn't sure he'd slept at all last night, but was glad it was early. Morna might like her butler, but he didn't. Rather than decline a proffered meal and make his own, he preferred to say "I've already eaten" when asked if he would like something to eat. It was better that way, the butler didn't have to do any work and no food went to waste.

The fridge was full of things which had to be fixed, to be cooked. Tim was accustomed to things which came out of cheap plastic wrap. The closest he could find here was sliced deli meat, and that made a poor breakfast. Rummaging in the cupboard, Tim found a loaf of bread. A slice of toast would have to do. He wondered what kind of weird person kept bread in a cupboard instead of on the counter or in the pantry. Best to keep questions like that to himself.

The Saluki watched him with open suspicion, and he knew he'd have to go back to his room when the toast was ready. One thing you did not do in Etilka's presence was eat.

Tim decided to walk to school. He'd get there early, sit on a picnic table until the bell rang. He didn't care that it was cold. Anything to get out of the house and away from the damned dogs. The dobermans raised a ruckus when he exited the house, but they'd already been locked up for the day.

Etilka hung back, then lunged as Tim opened the door. He had to scurry out and slam the door. Etilka wasn't allowed out without her leash, but she routinely tried to escape. Tim was careful to shut the door all the way, but he forgot to lock it. Where he'd come from, there was no point in locking the door.

The streets were quiet and empty. There had been snow the night before, the roads hadn't yet been shoveled. The sky was still dark, the air was crisp. The only sound was Tim's breathing and his boots crunching into the snow, along with the rustle of his backpack and jacket as he moved.

He'd been walking about ten minutes when he sensed it. The feeling of eyes on him, that prickle at the back of his neck, telling him someone was following. His mind flashed back to those nights as Robin when he'd almost been caught. First by the dobermans, then by Batman and Batgirl, finally by Nightwing. Actually, Nightwing had caught him. And let him go. A fact which still puzzled him.

There was a menace behind the presence, of animalistic intensity. Tim forced himself not to walk faster, or look over his shoulder, or indicate in any way that he knew he was being followed.

He reached the school and crossed to where a number of tables, bolted to the concrete, stood like unattractive statues. He tossed his backpack onto a bench and swung up to sit on a table top. He didn't see anyone in the direction from which he'd come, but he knew they were there. Somehow, he knew.

Darren and his friends were among the first to arrive, strangely enough. They started to come towards him, perhaps to pick up where they'd left off the day before. Tim was so busy watching them that he didn't notice the other boy until he sat down next to him. Darren took one look at the newcomer and drifted off, pretending he'd been planning to do that all along.

Tim turned to the stranger, who was eating a pop-tart with an absurdly smug expression on his face.

"Who are you?," Tim asked, silently wondering, and why are they afraid of you?.

"Dick Grayson," came the reply "I used to go to school here."

Somehow, the second part of the answer seemed to be a response to the unasked question.

"Used to?," Tim queried "You don't anymore?."

"Nah. I'm what you'd call a high school dropout," his tone had grown dark, but now it brightened again "Of sorts. I'm taking online courses now. I'll have myself a diploma by summer. And without all the hassle of interacting with assholes like Darren."

"And yet you come to school to eat breakfast," Tim commented, eying the pop-tart.

"I do as I please," Dick corrected him.

"I can see that. So why sit here?. There are plenty of empty tables, it being freezing and all."

"You're sitting here too, and it's not like you have to be doing that," Dick countered.

Tim couldn't help but smile. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide his amusement. Dick was right, Tim didn't have to be sitting here. He could have arrived with all the other students, gotten here by bus. Perhaps even have avoided any potential trouble with Darren.

"I don't like being at home," Tim admitted, his smile disappearing.

Dick's eyes narrowed as he latched onto that bit of information. Tim wasn't looking at him at the time and, when he turned back, Dick had carefully schooled his look to appear as though nothing had happened. This boy was just someone he'd met by chance, or at least Tim was to believe that.

"You have something against space heaters?," Dick feigned a guess.

"No. It's Lady Westfield's dog. It hates me," Tim unconsciously looked at the teeth marks in the glove on his left hand.

Straight from one room of Hell into another, eh, Tim?, Dick thought.

"Grayson... Grayson... you're-"

"The ward of Bruce Wayne, yeah."

"Oh. Actually, I was thinking you were a trapeze artist in the circus, but okay, that too," Tim said.

"That was, like...," a lifetime ago "nine years ago. What were you, two?."

"I was little," Tim admitted, but there was fire in his eyes as he spoke "it was one of the times my mother tried to be an actual parent. Took me to the circus. Like a trapeze act and some cotton candy could make everything...," why am I telling him this?. He's a complete stranger.

"I hear that," Dick said, roughly pushing the silence out from between them "people think they can kiss it and make it better. But the wound doesn't heal without some real effort being put into it, some actual care."

"Yeah," Tim agreed quietly.

"Hey... you're that kid from the news. Drake..., right?,"

Tim saw that Dick wasn't guessing, he already knew. He was just being polite, trying to keep Tim from pegging him for a stalker just because he frequented news sites.

"Tim. And yes, I did kill that guy."

"No question about that. I do have one other though: why a fork?. Of all the things you could have grabbed: knife, cleaver, scissors... cookie jar... a fork is what you used."

"I didn't know that detail made it into the news," Tim commented dryly.

"Ah, you don't want to tell me. That's cool, totally fine."

"It's the first thing I could get my hands on," Tim said hotly "if it'd been a spoon, I would've hit him with it. Happy now?."

"Touchy subject. I get it," Dick decided to back off.

"It's okay. I guess I probably touched a nerve earlier. Mentioning the circus and all...,"

Before Dick could answer, the bell rang. Tim sprang up, grabbing his backpack and dashing inside. Dick continued to sit on the table, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He'd been surprised by how natural, how easy, it had been to talk to the kid. Almost like they'd known each other their whole lives.

Dick didn't know it, but he was the first person to really care about Tim. Even Barbara's response to the boy's situation was purely out of disgust at what was being done, not who it was being done to. Dick had connected immediately, and deeply, with who Tim was.

Almost like Tim was his brother.

Perhaps, if Dick had realized what had happened to him, he might have fought it, for the same reason Bruce had. The loss of Jason was too recently, too keenly, felt to allow someone else to enter that space previously occupied. But Dick didn't realize the source of his feelings or thoughts.

He hadn't recognized Robin behind Tim's eyes.

Tim was mildly alarmed when he got home to find that Etilka was galloping around the yard. The sleek, long-limbed creature fairly flew over the partially melted snow, the silken fur of her tail and ears floating along with her, making her seem like a greyhound-esque apparition.

The dark eyes spotted him, the muzzle turned fluidly in his direction and the rest of the body arced to follow. Tim slipped through the gate and shut it behind him before she reached him. The dog swept past, generating her own storm of wind as she shot by mere inches ahead of Tim, her eyes turning in their sockets to glare at him, promising that she wouldn't miss next time.

The thing about sight hounds, and really any dog built especially for speed, they can't change direction easily once they really get going. Etilka was bound to miss because her own momentum forced her to carry on in a mostly straight line, it took supreme effort for her to angle back towards Tim.

By that point, he was near the porch, and hopped onto the bottom step to avoid her. Even so, the white teeth flashed, and there was a terrible ripping sound as they snagged a portion of his backpack. Fury was evident in the dog's eyes. She felt she was being taunted, that Tim was ignoring her warnings, her commands for him to leave her home and territory at once.

Tim stood on the porch, gazing at the front door. He'd left it unlocked, and the handle was such that a dog could open if it wanted to. That was how Etilka had come to be outside. Morna must have noticed the front door was ajar when she left and shut it, unaware that her precious Saluki was outdoors.

Tim opened the door and stood aside as had become his habit, knowing Etilka wouldn't appreciate his going in before her. But Etilka wasn't interested in going inside. She'd swung around for another pass, but she was running out of breath by now, and slowing down.

Seeing that the dog would go for him and not the door, Tim made a risky move. He stepped inside the house, willing the dog to follow him. She did. Sixty pounds of pure muscle slammed into Tim's right hip and he was thrown down on his back. Before he'd hit the floor, he'd kicked out with one foot, shutting the door behind the dog. Victory was his today, and the dog knew it.

The dog whirled to face Tim, who lay flat on his back, head tilted back so he could see her. For an instant, he was well and truly afraid of Etilka. If she had never been given the perfect chance to go for his throat before, she had it now, and she was a beast bred for the hunt and the kill, not designed to be the pampered pet Morna Westfield always thought she should be.

Etilka lowered her head, skin along her narrow muzzle rippling back hideously to show her fangs, tension in every line of her body. She advanced a step. But that was all. Abruptly, she lifted her head and turned as though hearing something over her shoulder. She padded off to investigate the imaginary sound and Tim breathed a sigh of relief.

Recognition of Tim's helplessness was what separated Etilka from the truly vicious animal. She saw him lying defenseless before her and was satisfied. A vicious dog would have taken the opportunity to end it then and there, to get rid of the thing which irked them. By the laws of nature which govern the dog, Etilka had every provocation, and every right to finish the boy off.

That she did not denotes a strength of character seldom present in human beings.