"Tim—"

"No," said Tim from his corner. "Don't talk to me. I'm mad at you."

"I know." A sigh. "But can you be mad at me a little closer? I'm cold."

Tim didn't want to. He felt betrayed, used, pummeled like one of punching bags Bruce had in the cave. But he could see Steph shivering, so he scooted over.

This...sucked. This wasn't what he signed up for. Then again, Steph had ensured that he didn't know what he had signed up for. He bristled.

She had stopped crying a while back, but she still sniffled every once and a while. He knew he should feel bad, but he just...didn't. It was one thing to get back at her dad, but it was another to put him right in the middle of it. He tried so hard to be out of range, and he always ended up clipped on the ear anyways. Now to be placed in the middle of the ring with nothing to keep him upright, nothing to balance him, by Stephanie of all people—

It hurt.

God, why did it fucking hurt so much?

And he couldn't cry, not like she could. For one thing, she was a girl and he had to stay strong (even though his throat felt tight) because Bruce expected him to. Bruce probably would have expected him to know better in the first place, so he wasn't looking forward to that lecture when it came.

If it ever came.

He sighed. He peered around the horse trailer, reacquainting himself with their squished circumstances. Steph was sucking her lower lip, curled up into a ball. She looked contemplative. Probably was thinking about how she was going to get out of this.

He clenched his jaw. He'd take the blame. It was his job to keep her safe anyways, even if that meant safe from hurt feelings from Bruce. It was a roundabout way of protecting Bruce, because if Steph was sad she would lash out and Bruce would internalize whatever she said and then he would exert more pressure on her and then she would try to escape and—well. Then they'd be stuck in this situation all over again.

Still. He swallowed. Sometimes he wished he could just hop off the Wayne Train. He knew that taking care of Bruce would be hard; he just didn't think it would come with manipulation tactics while he was off-duty.

Stephanie sniffled one last time, wiping at her nose.

"I'll get them."

"Dick, I don't—"

"Bruce. Think about this for a moment, please. I'm closer. I can get there faster."

The call came to you, he didn't say. You can't be Bruce and Batman at the same time.

I don't want you to see them.

And he didn't. He didn't want Bruce to see them, see their bodies, mangled and bloody and broken. Not again. Never again.

They were fine. They were going to be fine. But he didn't want Bruce to see it. So he wasn't going to risk it.

The other line was quiet. But Dick knew that Bruce knew what had to be done.

Silence. Then:

"Alright."

Dick exhaled. "Okay."

He clicked off the phone, setting it down. He rolled back his shoulders, steeling his adrenaline to laser-sharp focus.

Okay.

A mumble.

"What?"

"I said I wish they hadn't taken my backpack," Stephanie said. Her teeth chattered. "I had some snacks in there."

Tim shrugged, still mad but feeling the afterchill of ferocity. He was upset, yes, but it had been around an hour since. Guilt tumbled in his stomach like a slopping load of laundry.

And even though she wasn't acting like it, Steph was scared. She just put on a brave face like always. He got focused, she got silly. That was what they were good at. That's why Tim was Robin, partner to Batman, and Steph was—

Steph was—

He swallowed.

She was Bruce's sunshine, his salvation, his distraction. His way back to a normal life, wherein he would be normal and happy and no longer grieving and paranoid and focused to the point of a millimeter off balance and the whole world would come tumbling down. She was his way back out of the hole, the light at the end of the tunnel and Tim could get Bruce through the tunnel, sure, he'd go at his pace, but. Steph would beam as bright as possible, shout and pull and prod and she would be there at the end of it to lead him elsewhere, and Tim would watching them go, at the entrance of another tunnel.

God, he was such a jerk.

He thought he had been mad about the concert, and he was, sort of, he was mad that she didn't prepare him, they could have gotten a lot further in scheming if she just let him be a part of the planning, but he was mad, really mad, about something else.

He was resentful.

And that stung.

He was resentful and guilty of that resentment because what did he have to be resentful for? Bruce let him into the cave. He was Robin. He had been given everything he had agreed to.

He clenched his fists in his lap, not looking up.

"I'm sorry I made you cry," he said lowly.

She picked at her jeans. "I wasn't crying because you hurt my feelings," she said after a moment. "I was crying because I hurt you."

"Huh?"

She laid her head against the wall. She shivered after a moment. "I just—" she stopped. "Can you not get mad if I say this?"

He shrugged. "I'll try."

"I just notice that you're sad, Tim. You're sad all the time, and I know you're going to say that it's not any of my business, but I care about you, you're important to me. I don't leave people who I care about to drown."

"I'm not drowning."

"You don't think you are," she clarified. "People never notice they're drowning until the water is down their throat."

"I think I can be the judge of that myself."

She muttered something under her breath. She sullenly scooted away from him.

Frustration spiked his veins. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, you're saying something. Just say it," he ordered.

She leveled a look at him. "Listen, wannabe," she said icily. "How about you go play lapdog to people who ignore you and get off my back?"

Silence.

"I can't STAND you," he hissed. He stood. "I can't stand you, I can't stand you!"

"Oh yeah?! And just what is so awful about me?!" she demanded.

"You're SELFISH!"

"Oh yeah? OH YEAH?" She jumped to her feet. "Would a selfish person care about your mental wellbeing?! Would a selfish person take you to see a concert?!"

"I HATE DEVIL'S CUB," he roared.

"Well we didn't SEE Devil's Cub!" she roared back. "I don't know why you're so PISSED about a CONCERT you didn't even GO TO!"

"OF COURSE you don't GET IT!" He kicked at the wall, pulling back at the last minute so he didn't break his toe. "You don't get ANYTHING when it's not about YOU!"

"Who ELSE is going to make it about me?" she demanded. "I'm on my own, Tim, I take care of myself!"

"You are not," he said hoarsely, "alone. Bruce cares about you."

She scoffed. Then her face crumpled. "He doesn't even like me," she said. "He likes you. He lets you in. You're part of his life."

"So are you," he said back, but she shook her head.

"You get what I mean." She sat down. "His whole life. You get to be there. He doesn't want me. If I wasn't his biological kid, he wouldn't want me around. You said so yourself."

Tim winced. "I didn't say that exactly."

She snorted a laugh, genuinely amused. Then she sobered. "You were right." She waved away his protests, saying, "This entire time I thought I wanted to do this for you. But I think I was in denial. This entire thing has been about me, hasn't it."

Tim sat down next to her. Then he shifted closer. "You were right too," he said softly. "I just...I didn't want you to be."

"I wasn't right."

"You were."

"How about we were both wrong and agree not to speak about it ever again?" She wound her braid around her hand. "Loser has to eat Dick's eggplant parmesan."

Tim shuddered, tongue going sour in remembrance. "Deal," he said. He went to shake her hand, but then stopped. "But before we leave the topic..."

She groaned.

"Why...why are we so angry with each other all the time?" he asked hollowly. "When..." he swallowed, "When did this happen?"

Steph sighed, tucking her head into her knees. "We're mad at Bruce," she said, voice muffled. "Only we're not really mad. We want to be what he needs but we know we can't be. And what the other is for him, we resent. I don't know, Tim. It's probably my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, wearily resting beside her. He stretched out his legs. "It's not anyone's fault, and that's the shittiest part, huh?"

"No one to pin the blame on," she mumbled. "And it's not like we can blame Jason. We'd have to be assholes to do that."

"Sometimes we are," pointed out Tim.

"Oh, definitely."

He drew an arm around her. She knocked her head against his shoulder.

"Friends again?" she asked.

He sighed, gazing up at the metal ceiling. It was probably nighttime already. Maybe they'd get out of the city long enough to see the stars. "Yeah," he whispered. He laid his cheek against her head. "Friends again."

A pinkie came into view. "Friends forever? Even when we're bitchy?"

He wrapped his pinkie around hers, laughing. "Especially when we're bitchy."

She smiled and settled closer. Then: "Fuck, I'm so hungry."

He was in the car going eighty miles per hour.

Trees blurred together outside the window. The sun was setting. It was orange.

Bruce let his eyes wander to his hands on the steering wheel. His fingers were edged with the orange light. Five fingers. He looked back up.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

His face tingled from where Alfred had held it an hour ago (fifteen minutes ago?) and he breathed deeply.

His breaths were even.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

Dick had said it couldn't be him, that he couldn't be Batman and Bruce (but he was, he was, why didn't anybody ever understand that he was—), that he had to be Stephanie's father first in this scenario as if he wasn't always a father, always.

He was a father before, he was a father before Stephanie. Didn't Dick know, didn't he remember—

He clenched his hands. Orange light. The smell of leather.

Tim was with her. Tim. Tim.

They had asked for money for Stephanie. They hadn't mentioned Tim.

He was wearing a brown tie. His face still tingled. Alfred's hands. Alfred's hands always felt the same.

Tim was smart. He was very smart, smarter than Bruce gave him credit for. He could keep them off. They wouldn't hurt Tim.

Tim wouldn't—Tim wouldn't let anything happen. Tim was like that. Bruce...trusted him. Tim wouldn't let anything—Tim was—

Tim—

Blood in his curls, blood down his neck, broken jaw, smashed nose, blood in his hands, blood on his neck

Bruce inhaled. Exhaled.

He was going eighty miles per hour.

"Can you see anything?"

"No, it's dark out. Here, you try."

"No way, you're shorter than me. You can't boost me up!"

"I am barely an inch shorter than you."

"Lies."

"Sorry to tell you this, but those few inches you give yourself? Made of delusion."

"Nuh-uh!" She released Tim's legs, and he came back down with a clunk. "Bruce is super tall, so I have a chance."

"Your mom is like, five four," he told her. "You clearly take after her. The odds are stacked against you."

"Shut up," she said. "I'm going to be like Christie Brinkley."

"You're going to be like Christie Brinkley's little toe," he teased.

"Shut up, shortie!"

"Boys have a later puberty," he said, offended. "I have, like, eight more years. Face it. I'm going to be like Christie Brinkley."

She laughed and pushed at him, then stumbled when the car came to a screeching halt. Tim slammed against the wall and held her, limbs tangled.

They breathed in the darkness. Tim silently slid into a fighting stance.

"Tim," whispered Stephanie in the quiet, "I think we should try to escape."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He gave Stephanie a steel-edged look that she now recognized as fear repurposed, and nodded. She quickly withdrew her hairpin, softly and silently working on the door.

Gravel crunched.

They met each other's eyes.

"What do we do?" she mouthed. "Fight?"

Tim didn't respond. He was trained. When it came down to it, he would fight. Even if it meant discovery. He knew that, if Bruce were here, he would want him to pick Stephanie.

"Tim—"

The door flung open.

"Shit!" Stephanie exhaled. "You startled me. God, you couldn't have announced yourself?"

Nightwing stood on the other side, smile resplendent in the tail-lights.

"Hello to you too," he greeted.

The police lights flickered over the landscape, making the lower half of Nightwing's face look sallow. Stephanie leaned back, braid slipping off her shoulder as she stared up at the sky. Cloudy, but at least it didn't seem like it would rain.

Not for nothing, but being rescued wasn't nearly as exciting as it sounded. In truth the whole night had been kind of anticlimactic, nothing like she had planned.

"Can we get a donut?" she asked Nightwing, still upside down.

He ignored her. "Tim? You doing okay?"

"Yeah."

"He could use a donut," she said, squinting up at the sky. Nightwing ignored her again. He had been doing that ever since he had found out that she had discovered the map that would help with his investigation.

"You mean to tell me," he had said, voice edged with disbelief and something else, something almost like pain or anger, "that you did this on purpose?"

After that he didn't look at her, but his fists were clenched all the time. She huffed, still gazing up at the sky. She did him a favor. And yeah, it had gotten sort of messed up, but a little appreciation would be nice. She twisted around until she faced the ground, looking down at her scuffed shoes. The laces were undone. She grumbled and kneeled down to tie them, ignoring the cacophony behind her. Really, it was just a simple kidnapping, there was no reason for—

Slam!

Her head snapped up. Her heart beat like a hummingbird, and she couldn't tell if she was happy or not. But she knew who it was. She always knew.

"Mr. Wayne!" called the police, but he kept running. And wow, he was moving really fast. She stood, not wanting to be bowled over.

"Hi," she greeted him from a way's off. "Can we get a—"

Her feet left the ground. Next thing she knew, Tim was drawn up beside her, both of them gathered in Bruce's arms.

"Oh, thank god," he breathed. "Thank god, thank god, thank god." He knelt, allowing their feet to touch the ground. He still held onto them, tightly. She twisted her head and looked at Tim, whose eyes were trained on Bruce's bent head.

"B," he whispered. "B, we're alright."

The man shook his head, drawing them closer and breathing deeply. Nightwing had left, giving them space, but Stephanie could feel his gaze on them. She shifted to look back at him (Dick was alone, he should be here), but Bruce's grip tightened. He was murmuring something, but it wasn't until Tim said, "No blood. There is no blood. We're safe, no injuries. No blood, B," that she understood.

Throat dry, she suddenly remembered her mom in the bedroom, door locked. She could hear the faint sobs through the oak. Stephanie had sat there, all day, waiting. Waiting for what, she couldn't remember. But she hadn't expected her mom to come out. So she just sat there, listening to her cry. Sometimes braiding thread together for bracelets, but sometimes just. Sitting there.

"We're not going to leave you," Tim was whispering. She blinked back into the present. "I promise. We won't ever leave you."

And suddenly she felt very tired and very, very small.

The door to the study opened. Tim shot to his feet. "I want to apologize. I know it won't mean much, but I'm sorry. I tried my best, well, I mean, I know I could have done better, sir, but I'm sorry. I made sure she wasn't hurt, and she hasn't been, I made sure of it." He watched Bruce cross the room. His chest tightened. "She's fine," he assured him. "She's fine, I promise. I tried to—I—" His throat clogged up. He looked down at the carpet. "I'm sorry." His voice was small. What kind of Robin was he, anyway? He had one job, to protect Bruce, to be what Bruce needed, and tonight—well. It wasn't the first time he had seen Bruce that upset, but it had been. unnerving.

And throughout it all, throughout the right embraces and whispered assurances, Tim knew: it was his fault.

He didn't deserve it, any of it. Bruce had held him without knowledge, he didn't know all the details. It had been wrong and Tim had tried to step out of his arms, but Bruce was single-minded. He was like that sometimes. Tim understood. He understood what it was like to want something so badly and suddenly have it right in front of you. It drove the mind to ruin, unchecked emotions drowning over like waves. Tim clenched his fists. He was trying not to cry, but he didn't know why that was the case. Probably leftover adrenaline. Nothing had happened, but he felt like he had an aching wound, swollen with emptiness, right in his chest.

His eyes filled with tears. He didn't. He didn't know why.

"I'm really sorry," he whispered. His voice trembled, but he couldn't bear to clear his throat. "I'll do better next time," he promised. "Just please—d-don't. I'm—" He looked up. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

Bruce stared at him. The firelight made his eyes look strange, reflective and blue in all the wrong areas. "Tim," he said, and Tim could feel himself shaking. Low blood sugar, he thought absently. But no, they had had donuts. Powdered sugar had gotten on his pants, he was—he—

Calm down, he told himself. He could have a reaction later; for now he had to hold it together for now, hold it together until Bruce got through with yelling at him. He was Robin, he was Robin, why couldn't he do this—

Arms wrapped around him. Again. For the hundredth time that evening. But this time it felt almost painful, like his skin had been peeled back and all his nerves had been exposed to the open air. It hurt, it hurt and it felt wrong because Tim had messed up, he had messed up—

"Tim," said firmly. Gently. And Tim hadn't realized he was squeezing his eyes shut until he felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Warm, large hands wiped them away. "Tim," he said again. Softly. As if Tim was important, as if Tim were some sort of a person, or a salvation, and Tim—Tim couldn't—

"I'm sorry!" he wailed, as if those words were the passcode to fix the puzzle. But his heart was still click-clacking, jagged and sharp and he couldn't breathe, he could barely breathe and Bruce had his hand on the back of his head and Tim was ruining his shirt because he had messed up, he wasn't enough for Bruce, no matter what, no matter he did they wouldn't stick around, they wouldn't come back, they never came back—

"Tim, kiddo," and those warm, strong hands picked up Tim's own feeble ones, pushing them off his face.

"N-noo," he muttered, trying to dip his head. But Bruce caught his chin, and although Tim wanted to move away, touching hurt, everything hurt right now, his face was stupid and gunky and he wasn't Robin, he wasn't good, he wasn't good—

"Listen to me," he instructed, tone enough like Batman that Tim was forced to listen, he couldn't help himself. "You are important. You are important to me, and you have nothing to be sorry for."

Tim blinked up at him, body shuddering. "I didn't keep her safe," he croaked. "I couldn't stop her."

Bruce's palm lay against his back, taking up more space than his entire shoulder blade. Tim didn't mind. The man tilted his head, meeting his eyes, looking stern. Tim shrank back, but Bruce held firm. "You listen to me," he said. "Stephanie's choices are her own. You cannot take on Steph's choices. You are not responsible for her."

Tim shook his head, ready to protest, but Bruce clasped his hand on his other shoulder.

"Do not argue. I love you, and my love is not contingent on you making her behave. It never has, and it never will. Do you understand me?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't true. Bruce was just in shock from the evening, he didn't mean any of those things. Tim was nothing, less than nothing, he was a placeholder, he didn't really matter, and he was fine with that, it was fine it was fine it was fine—

"Timothy Jackson, you open your eyes and look at me."

Tim wrenched his eyes open, tears still flowing. Bruce's brows were high, face searching his. And then—

He smiled softly.

"I love you, kiddo."

A large thumb brushed at Tim's face, and Tim couldn't help it: He leaned into it.

"Do you understand me?" he asked, eyes still focused on him. Tim nodded his head, lip trembling. Large hands cupped his face. "Do you believe me?" Bruce asked softly.

The boy's face crumpled. He fell forward onto Bruce's chest, sobbing. The man held him close.

"You take care of yourself, Tim Drake," he whispered. He dragged a hand through the boy's tangled locks. "Because somebody loves you."

He opened the door to find Dick storming out, footfalls clanging down the foyer.

"You need to talk to her," Dick spat, yanking his keys off the side table. "Because I am done. I'm done with this entire fucking situation, I'm leaving."

Bruce shut the door behind him, quickly following his eldest son to the door. Dick had a temper, but rarely went into rages anymore, especially regarding family. Ever since—

Bruce's throat went right. He held his breath in his chest, then exhaled slowly.

Ever since—Jason—Dick had tried to do better. He kept a firmly cool head, sometimes nearly causing harm to himself in his self-censure.

"What's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice low. Tim had only just calmed down and, while he didn't want to shush Dick, he also didn't want to upset Tim again.

Dick whirled around, unknowing and uncaring. "It's bullshit, it's all such bullshit!" he shouted. "Things haven't been the same, you know that, I know that, hell, even fucking Vicki Vale knows that! It's never going to be the same! But that doesn't mean that rules still don't matter, that we don't keep each other safe, and I hate this, Bruce, I hate everything that's happened and I hate that we're stuck in this rut since—since—" He stumbled, but continued quickly, "And things are never going to change but that doesn't mean it has to be like this and I hate this so much."

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Dick kept going.

"And it's such a pile of shit," he said, striding furiously to the door and wrenching it open, "that this even happened, that you don't even care about what she did. It's such bullshit, it's such fucking bullsh—"

Bruce's voice stopped him.

"What did she do."