No one would ever call Metropolis a stagnant city, so Tim was surprised that the BatStash was still there. He changed into less conspicuous clothing (all civvies were in black—like he should have expected anything different), and took a bag. He grabbed a few power bars, some bottled water, and a bunch of money. Bruce, of course, would have all the serial numbers of these bills marked, so he would exchange them as quickly as possible. He bypassed the vehicles (he'd find his own) and the burners (B definitely had them equipped with trackers). Last thing Tim grabbed was a pair of sunglasses. In terms of disguise, never underestimate the shades.
Speaking of… Tim had somewhere he wanted to go, so long as he was in the area…
He stopped off on his way at multiple bodegas to exchange money and get some extra energy drinks, a burner, and lunch. He asked a kind young woman if he could use her smart phone for a moment and did a quick search for a cheap bike. Tim mentally bookmarked the sellers, but they seemed a little out of his price-range. Either way, he'd get that later, since (as everyone knew) you could never find parking in Metropolis.
Tim caught a bus south. Lucky that Tim had been released on today of all days, because Tim knew he was off. Unless, of course, there was a drastic earthquake or he had been called to space an hour ago, he'd probably be at his home doing whatever all of Tim's friends did on their days off. Sleeping.
So Tim knocked on Conner Kent's door. He shifted from foot to foot. He hadn't thought he'd be nervous.
"Keep your tits on, I'm coming!"
Well, too late now.
Conner opened the door. Wonder Woman boxers, and hair mussed from sleep. He still smelled vaguely of smoke, but Tim supposed that having a day job as a firefighter would do that to a guy.
Conner froze, mouth open.
"Hi," Tim said, giving his best friend a half-smile. "Surprised?"
Conner pulled him into the apartment, eyes wide, and slammed the door behind them. Tim had hoped for a hug. Maybe? Not… Kon pulled out his phone and began frantically typing.
"What are you doing..?"
"Did you break out or something?" Kon demanded. Tim rose to his tiptoes and tried not to feel too offended that Kon was busy Waynet searching his jail's name.
"Hey! Would I do that?"
"I don't know, Tim! Would you?"
Well, now Tim was super offended. "No! Of course not! I got released early, you dummy!"
"No, no, no," Conner said, shaking his head. He took a step back from Tim and Tim winced. Not the warm welcome he'd been expecting. "You don't get released early from a life sentence after two years!"
"Twenty-five to life," Tim grumbled.
"If you're in trouble, if you need anything just tell me, but don't say that this is-I don't know—normal!"
"I know. Someone bought me out—I don't know who!" Tim added hastily when Kon frowned at him, "but the paperwork's gone through. Not like I can kill someone else to put me back in."
Kon didn't laugh.
"That was a joke," Tim said.
Kon rolled his eyes.
Was Tim just not funny anymore?
"Look, I know, I know, I know, but I swear, this is real. I checked. And…" Tim shrugged, sheepishly. "I wanted to come here. See you."
Kon's face fell. Aw man, Tim hadn't wanted to get into real emotions here. He tried to think of something to say to change the subject, but Kon murmured, "You're really out."
Tim gave him a weak smile. "Yeah. I'm really out."
Finally, Tim got his hug.
"Did I wake you?" Tim asked as Conner poured them both cups of coffee.
"Nah," Kon lied. He sat next to Tim on the couch and spread out his legs. Tim shifted into a position so familiar, fitting into the extra space. They hadn't sat like this together since before… everything. Tim took a sip of his (horrible) coffee, scorching his mouth.
"Sorry." Tim apologized anyway.
Kon kicked his foot gently. "Yeah, because if you'd been let out of jail early and hadn't woken me up, you'd be in soooo much shit."
Tim snorted and kicked Kon back.
"Have you spoken to Cassie and Bart?"
Tim shook his head. "I've got a burner, but it's a flip phone. I'll buy a smartphone when I get to Gotham. I don't want too many people to know just yet."
Kon nodded. "And… the people who got you out?"
Tim flicked the business card at him. Kon turned it over, frowning as he studied it. He took a sip of coffee.
"Well, this isn't ominous at all."
Tim grinned. "Yeah, because, me being taught by the World's Greatest Detective and all, I never realized."
Kon flicked the card back at him. "So what are you going to do?"
Tim shrugged. "Go, I guess. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'm going to be safe about it. I'm not stupid."
"Uh-huh, Mr. I'm-Going-To-Do-A-Kickflip-On-The-Rim-Of-Titan's-Tower."
Tim made a rude gesture and Kon threw back his head and laughed. His laugh was so different now. He was an adult. They were both adults. So much time had passed, but it felt like nothing. Maybe… in the end, it all didn't matter. Not really. Because everything was going to be okay, and they were good now. Everything was good.
… Yeah, right.
"I'll be fine." Besides, he was sure Bruce would want to come along once Tim told him. But he wasn't going to tell Kon that. He didn't feel like talking about Bruce.
Bruce hadn't ever come to see him. Not once.
"If you say so," Kon said. He drained his cup and put it on the coffee table. "I'd offer to come with you but…" He paused. Tim hadn't been going to ask. Kon had work—a civilian life—after all. But there was no need to hesitate when saying that. Was there something Tim was missing?
"But…?"
Kon looked up at him and scowled. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"That… thing, with your face." He waved vaguely at Tim. Tim hadn't realized he'd been doing a thing with his face. "You don't wear a mask anymore. I can see you, you know."
Tim rolled his eyes, exaggeratedly. "See that?"
Kon kicked him again.
"What did you mean?"
"I–" Kon hesitated and then gave up. "Whatever, you're going to find out eventually now that you're out, I guess." This was not reassuring. "I'm uh… not Superboy. Anymore."
"What?"
Kon slumped against the couch. That–that couldn't be true. Kon's whole life had been Superboy at one time. How could he–he wouldn't just quit!
"There's, um, there's this girl? Clark's cousin."
"Supergirl," Tim said.
He'd seen the news headlines when she debuted with the Young Justice team. Then, subsequently, when the Young Justice team (Jason's team) blew up Mount Rushmore so they could break out a bunch of meta kids who were being experimented on by the government. Bart had told him that one of the kids they'd saved had joined their crew. She was an alien, not meta, who had crash-landed and been taken. A war-princess of a planet called Tamaran. She was going by the moniker Starfire now.
"But she's… a girl, not Superboy." Tim remembered the drama when Kon had taken the Superboy name. Jon had been about as happy as Damian had when Tim became Robin, but he had gotten over it quicker.
"Yes… it's… a long story, but…" Kon sighed. "After," he waved a vague hand, "all that happened, and the arrest and the trial… Jon and I got into it. A lot. We said some… pretty bad things to one another." Kon shrugged. "Clark was busy trying to teach Kara how to pass as a human, and Lois was trying to cover your story… long story short, I quit."
How had Tim not known this?
"You quit being Superboy because of me?"
"No!" But that was exactly what it sounded like. If Kon had stopped being Superboy because of him, if all of this had affected Kon badly… "I just realized," Kon paused to choose his words carefully, "I'm not who I used to be. I still want to help people—I still have the power to." As proof, Kon used his TTK to levitate a couch pillow. "But I wasn't Superboy anymore. I didn't want to be Superboy anymore. So I quit."
"You've always wanted to be Superboy."
"Get your head out of your ass, Tim, this isn't because of you. I just needed some time. For me."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Kon shrugged and slouched, pouting. "I didn't want you to worry. You were in jail, and had already had five attempts on your life." Well, yeah, that had happened.
"I hadn't died, though."
"Not the point. You were busy. I didn't want to worry you."
Tim kicked Kon, slightly harder than usual. It wouldn't hurt, but it would get his point across. "Idiot. I was in jail, wasn't like I had anything else to do."
"Okay, okay, so I'm an idiot." Kon held up his hands. Kon placed a hand on Tim's foot. "I'm glad you're out," he murmured.
Tim smiled. "I'm glad too."
"So, what else do you need before you head to Gotham?"
Tim thought about it and Kon snickered.
"What?"
"You're doing the–" Kon made a very constipated expression and steepled his hands, bringing them to his chin. Tim glanced down. He hadn't even realized.
"Oh, shut up."
"Make me."
"I'll need some disguise. Maybe I'll dye my hair."
"What? You going blonde?"
"No."
"I'd love to see that." Kon laughed again. "You'd look like the 'Sensitive One' in a boy band!"
Tim groaned. "Okay, no hair dying."
"You have any other clothes?"
Tim shrugged. "Not much, but I have money. I can always buy more."
"Okay. Food?"
"Yes, Ma."
Conner and Tim went through their list, and after a brief argument ("Hey, glasses work for you!" "Yeah, but I'm not a public figure." *incredulous stare * "Anymore.") they settled on a hair-cut, baseball cap, and pair of glasses. Besides, all of Tim's old aliases had been burned. He didn't have the ability to go by anyone other than Tim until he managed to find someone who been living under a rock for two years to sell him one.
"Anything I can help you with?" Kon asked. He flushed, waving a hand to his sparse apartment. "I mean, I don't have much, but–"
"Other than your sparkling personality?" Tim said. "Nah, really. I'm good. Or I should be–well…"
"Well?"
"There is one thing…"
"Shoot."
"You know anyone who's getting rid of a bike?" 'And will sell to someone who didn't technically have a driver's license?' went unspoken.
"As a matter of fact…" Kon smiled.
Kon's friend was another firefighter, who, after completing their training, had decided that running into burning buildings was enough danger in their life and was getting a minivan. Tim was happy to take the bike off their hands.
To test it out, Tim drove them over to a nearby diner that Kon loved and they ate lunch. Tim's supposed 'meeting' with the people who'd gotten him released was set for nine at night (or so the ominous metallic business card demanded). Tim didn't have much time. Gotham would be a four hour drive, at least.
With one last, lingering hug so long (but not goodbye), Tim dropped Kon at his apartment and jetted.
Gotham never changed. Tim was half convinced that it hadn't looked different before he was born either. Sure, sometimes a new skyscraper went up but then there was a mob war or a super-villain attack or an alien invasion and the skyline (though slightly different) would again have the same number of silhouettes. It had been comforting to Tim.
Tim hit Gotham Heights going eighty, and just barely missed a speed-trap. He zoomed through the suburbs and past the shining lights of Downtown without any trouble. Nothing seemed to be going on today—the bright billboards that were smattered across the tops of buildings displayed advertisements, not PSAs to stay home or that x baddie was on the loose.
So either everyone had forgotten about Tim Drake-Wayne, or (more likely) no one had heard yet that Tim had been released early. He would have to be on his best behavior to keep it that way as long as possible. But first, an apartment.
He couldn't stay where he had last time, but it wasn't hard to find low-rent apartments in the bad parts of Gotham, and when you were Tim you didn't have much to fear anymore. He drove around a bit until he found a lopsided sign hanging out of a half-decrepit building asking for tenets.
Two old women with canes and steaming disposable cups of coffee sat on the steps up to the brownstone. Tim tipped up his helmet's visor and pulled up the side of the road.
"Excuse me," Tim called. The women looked at him over their glasses. "Is this place still for rent?"
One of the women tapped her cane against the step. Tim would have to guess she was the owner. He swung off the motorcycle and rolled it behind him onto the sidewalk.
"Let me see your face, boy," she snapped, smacking her cane again. She took a long sip of coffee. "I want to see the faces of my tenets."
Tim pulled off the helmet. The chances that he would get recognized were minimal. Besides, there were tons of black-haired, blue-eyed white guys in Gotham. Slightly self-conscious at the way she frowned at him, Tim patted at his spiky hair to try and tame it a little.
"Come closer, boy."
"Yes, ma'am." Tim walked forward until she told him to stop. She tapped his shoulder with the foot of her cane to make him squat so he was on her level. She squinted at him and squished his cheeks. He'd never get used to that, not even after years of old rich ladies doing it.
"You going to cause me trouble, boy? Your type are always trouble."
"No, ma'am," Tim said, voice distorted by her squeezing.
"No henchmen, you understand?" She waved her cane menacingly. "I don't want any of them no-good hooligans on my doorstep. The Bat patrols here."
"Yes, Ma'am."
She released him and Tim resisted the urge to massage his jaw.
The old woman pushed herself to her feet and her friend glared at Tim. Tim knew better than to mess with old Gotham ladies. The old woman hit Tim's chest with the head of her cane.
"I'll need a deposit, and first two months' rent up front."
"Okay, thank you, Ma-uh, what's your name?"
"Doris Whittacker."
She turned around and walked up the stairs. "Come with me. And don't think I don't know funny money when I see it. Or that I live alone. My grand-nephew Darren wrestled Nightwing once and won."
Tim wasn't sure how true that was but he nodded anyway. "Yes, ma'am."
As if it was an after-thought, the old woman added, "What's your name, boy?"
Alvin Draper was burned. One of the wonderful consequences of Bruce getting his hands on Tim's things after he went away. Tim would have to think of something else—something that he could easily slip into.
"Tom. Tommy Hill."
Doris harrumphed.
"Is it a bottom floor apartment?" Tim asked, nodding to his bike.
The old woman shook her head. "Fourth."
Shoot. "Can I have a minute? I'll just put this away."
The woman sucked her teeth at him, but nodded. Tim made it fast. He found a garage nearby and made sure to use the unmarked bills when he paid. After he'd set up in his new apartment, and he'd need the bike more he would have to find a more permanent solution but for now this would do. Tim took two buses back and jogged the rest of the way.
His apartment was one of three on the fourth floor (which was also the top floor–good, it would be easy to slip in and out of). It was small. A bedroom, kitchenette, and bathroom (with the world's tiniest shower). The previous tenets had been killed in a shoot-out between Penguin and Two-Face goons (hence why the lady had said no henchmen, Tim supposed). All of their stuff had been collected and shoved into the only closet in case one of their family came to collect, but no one ever had. She threw in their stuff for free. Tim politely declined.
His first goal was to cart all of these things to the Dumpster. He needed a mattress, which would be his largest expense. A sofa would be nice but unnecessary. The bathroom had a cracked mirror over the sink but it was good enough. He had an alcove behind it, so he had, at least, one place to put some things.
Woah, Tim realized with a start. He needed a toothbrush.
Mentally, Tim made a list. Toiletries, towel, a cabinet/drawer of some type, dishes and utensils (he didn't have a fridge either, but that was okay, he didn't know how to cook anything other than toast), all the first aid and medicines, a laptop, a smart-phone, new clothes, and a weapon of some type (staff preferable). Oh, and IDs, if he could somehow find one.
Tim took his burner out and checked the time. Just after five. He'd start getting hungry soon, and he wanted to stake out the meeting-place at least an hour in advance. He'd have to wait to go shopping. He had one more important thing to do before he headed to the meet, and if he ate now he would just be able to make it.
Tim planned to go into a Batburger and book it, but he was distracted when he saw the menu, his own order (he almost always got the same thing anyway) halfway out of his mouth.
"Uh, sir?" the employee's voice cracked as he spoke, "Are you going to finish?"
Tim blinked, splitting his attention between the cashier and the words that were displayed in bold letters on the menu. "Uh, yeah, sorry. Uh, if you don't mind me asking, when was this added?"
The teenager squinted at him, confused. "I don't know, sir. I'm just a high-schooler."
"Right. Right, sorry. One Batburger, a small Night-Wings, and a thing of fries, not jokerized."
"Not the Red Hot Hood Wings?" the teen asked, pointing to what had caught Tim's attention before.
"No, no, just what I said."
The teenager shrugged. "Okay, man. That'll be forty-three eighty." Tim dug out the cash and paid him. The teenager gave him change and Tim stepped aside a moment to put it away, and the next people in line (a family of four) came up to pay. The mother rattled off the orders like she'd heard them a million and a half times. From the way the kids kept jumping up and down Tim was sure she had.
"I'll take two batburgers, two zestis, and switch out the fries for two Tim-er Tots Drake-Wayne."
Tim couldn't hold back the laugh. The lady was so worn out, she didn't seem to have heard.
Tim waited until his number was called and ate quickly. Afterward, he headed out. He checked gas before he went. It would be somewhat of a long way, but he was fine.
It seemed like Gotham never changed in any real way that mattered. Everything was always the same. Two years since he'd killed the Joker, and goons were still hiring. But no amount of killing would change that, Tim was sure.
Two whole years, and all he had to show for it were a bunch of signed Batarangs and a corporation naming a dessert after him.
Two whole years, and yet the shadow of Wayne Manor was as unchanging as the rest of the city.
Tim drove in through the Batcave. One might think that Bruce would put some extra security there, but still nothing.
It was almost six-thirty. Dinner would be underway soon, and after that Jason Todd would stretch a little and probably work on some cases before heading out with Bruce on patrol. Steph would probably still be at her apartment. Tim doubted she would join any sooner than eight. He had no idea about the Batgirl though. She was barely in the news, and spent no time with anyone who actually spoke to Tim. Well, other than Alfred, but Alfred didn't count. He never spoke about others without their permission.
The Batcave was empty. The lights were off. Tim kept the headlights of his bike on until he stumbled his way to the Batcomputer and typed in the shortcut for the SmartLights. They flashed on and Tim took a moment to readjust.
Damn, Bruce really needed better security than this.
Tim was about to turn up to the staircase but he hesitated.
Bruce hadn't spoken to him in over two years. Tim was only here out of courtesy—'no heroes in his city' and all. He could just… leave a note. Could just… But Tim was also out. And he'd rather explain that to Bruce in person, so he could get it through Bruce's thick skull that Tim had had nothing to do with it. He was going to serve his time. All of it. But the paperwork had already been processed, and it wasn't like they could unprocesess it. Plus, Bruce might want to come with him to the meeting. Just as a security measure, right? So, really, Tim was doing this for him because Bruce would want to analyze this to the ends of the Earth, and this way, Tim wouldn't look like he was hiding anything from him. Who was the loser here? What was wrong with that? And, sure, B was mad, but wouldn't he be at least glad, at least a little, that Tim was free? That Tim was back? Couldn't everything just go back to normal?
Tim sucked in a breath of air, hands clenched into fists on the dashboard of the Batcomputer. Slowly, he relaxed his shoulders, his arms, his wrists, his fingers. Tim closed his eyes, tried to calm himself down. He used to be able to do that well, but ever since he'd come back…. It had been hard. In the-in the League Tim had never been told to calm down. Since he'd escaped, he'd used it as a way to reign in his anger, to keep the blood-lust from boiling his blood green, and now…
Tim had to see him, at least.
Tim forced himself up the stairs. It took him a few tries, but he made it up eventually. The old grandfather clock ticked merrily as he opened it and stepped into Wayne Manor. For the first time in two years. He'd never actually been in the Manor part since he'd been back, now had he?
Tim could hear laughter.
He swallowed down a lump in his throat. Leaned back against the grandfather clock, letting the methodical tick-tock-tick-tock dictate his breathing. Tick-tock-in-tick-tock-out.
Tim took a step forward. Now another. He could do this. All he had to say was 'hi,' that was all. No need to be fancy. This wasn't a perp or someone he was trying to impress. This was Bruce. Bruce who had seen him through the good and the bad. Albeit, before, but still.
All he had to do was say 'hi.'
Tim heard Steph's voice. He almost lost it. Almost ran.
"–and then I said to him, 'well, Mister Luthor, if that's what you're worried about, I can assure you I have the best endorsement.' And he did that thing he does where he raises one eyebrow and scowled like he's constipated–"
"Ha! He does do that!" Jason cried.
Come on, Tim. You can do this.
"-and he goes," Steph pitched her voice lower, "'If you're about to say his name, Miss Brown, might I remind you whom you're speaking to,' and I go, 'no, I said best endorsement. You know Tamara Fox, don't you?' and his eyes, I swear to god, bug out of his head. And BAM!" she slapped the table, "we got him!"
Jason burst into snickers and Tim heard a much lighter snort-laugh he could only guess was Cass.
"Very funny, Stephanie," Bruce's voice rumbled, though amused.
"It's about time you noticed, Bruce," Steph replied.
Tim hadn't realized how close he'd come until her head bobbed into view. She was grinning. She sat to Bruce's left, next to Alfred. Jason and Cass' backs were to Tim, and since Bruce was looking at Steph, he couldn't see Tim either.
Tim had meant to wait. To find a good time, a lull in the conversation or something, and just… knock. Or something.
But Steph's eyes flicked to him, and then before she could blink and he could disappear, Alfred's gaze caught on him. He might have been able to bluff Steph, but Alfred always knew what he saw.
Tim swallowed. Suddenly his mouth wouldn't work. Or his hands, or his–
Alfred was already half out of his seat. Confused, the others followed his gaze to see what had made him move.
Tim was caught now.
Bruce turned his head towards Tim. Their eyes locked.
He managed a weak, "Hi."
Wow. Brilliant, Tim. Sounds very cool. Dumbass.
Should he say 'hi' again? No. Bruce clearly heard it.
"What are you doing here?" Bruce demanded.
Oh no. Oh, he looked mad. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Tim held up his hands in surrender. "Don't get mad! I didn't break out." Maybe Tim should have led with that.
"I." Bruce snapped his mouth shut, and stared.
"Tim!" Steph cried. She rolled out from under the table and over to him. She grabbed him in a hug around the waist and Tim caught himself before he could do anything else stupid like lose his balance and pinwheel.
"Hi Steph."
"Young mast–" Alfred cleared his throat. He stood ramrod straight. "Master Timothy."
"Hi Alfie."
"Stop saying that!" Steph demanded, flicking him gently. She wouldn't let go of him though. "God, I never thought… what are you doing here? What do you mean you didn't break out? Then how did you get out?"
"I was released."
"You mean, paroled?"
… shit.
"Uh… no?" Tim didn't know. No one had mentioned him needing to contact a parole officer, or even what his mysterious benefactors would do if he did have to report to parole. Was this his parole officer? The thought hadn't even crossed Tim's mind. No, surely there was some rule about parole officers not leaving ominous bird-themed business cards. "I mean, uh, no one mentioned parole per se."
"How?" Bruce grunted.
"I figured you could help with that." Tim disentangled himself from Steph enough so he could pull the card from his pocket. "They said everything had been processed, and legally I was clear. Then, when I got my clothes back–"
"Not that. How did you get here?"
Huh? "Really, B? I mean, your security in the Batcave is pretty shit–"
"The Batcave?" Bruce hissed. He pulled out his phone. "Did anyone see you?"
Oh, security. Okay. "What? No. I wouldn't do that to you, Bruce. I know how to keep off a tail—not that I've had one all day. No one seems to realize I'm…" Tim waved a hand to himself, "you know, me."
"So, what are you doing here?" Bruce asked, in that gruff monotone of his.
Didn't hurt any less though.
"I…" What was he doing here? What was Tim doing, crawling back to Wayne Manor? Like a good little soldier, returned from enemy lines? "I'm here to… to see you. And…" Tim didn't even know what to say. "I'm back!"
"You think you could just kill someone and come back?" Bruce asked.
Oh.
Oh.
"Bruce–" Steph said cuttingly, but Bruce ignored her as usual. Not that it mattered.
"So, that's how it is? I killed the Joker!"
"And you're still proud of that?"
Yeah, a little. Not like weirdly, but he wouldn't change it if he could.
"Do you think that you're exempt from the rules?"
"Bruce!"
"Master Bruce, I think you should stop before you say something–"
How could he not understand? After all this time. Tim could empathize with Bruce, why couldn't B do the same with him? "I did what I had to do! He's a murderer, Bruce! He's a freaking mass murderer!"
"You don't get to decide that–!"
"He killed me, Bruce!" Tim's body shook. "He beat me to death! He didn't even care! Did you know that?"
Bruce's jaw clenched.
"Did you know that he didn't care who I was? He didn't do it because I was Robin. He did it, because I was just one more hapless bystander who had seen too much before he could tell his punchline. He beat me until I could barely move and then blew me up! I could feel it. Every excruciating minute! I felt myself burn. And then, when Ra's brought me back, I thought you would understand, I thought–"
"You thought I would break my rules for you?"
Yeah. Tim had. Tim had… wished. In those rough nights, muscles screaming, blood still on his hands from when the rage hit again. He'd thought it had been for something.
"We have those rules for a reason."
"Yeah, and I get that, Bruce. I know you can't kill. I know that when that door opens you can't close it. You. But I'm not you. I won't kill again. I won't–"
"So, the Joker makes the list? But not Killer Croc? He eats people, Tim."
"That's–that's not the same thing. Croc needs help–"
"The Joker needed help. You don't decide who has and has not reached their limit of improvement."
"The Joker wouldn't take help! How many more times were you going to wait for him to break out of Arkham and kill half the city before you understood that? Did those deaths validate your conscience?"
"Everyone has the ability to kill, Tim. Everyone."
"Yeah!"
"But we don't. That's what separates us from them. They kill. We are not judge, jury, and executioner."
"Well, maybe next time you get killed you can have an opinion on the man who did it!"
Bruce barely even looked struck. Nothing could crack that Batman facade. Tim had always admired that in him. Always admired his stoicism. Now, it just told Tim how little Bruce actually care. Bruce could emote, when he wanted to. And Tim had wanted it to hurt. Wanted to make Bruce bleed. To rip that scar open and let it fester.
"Tim."
"No! Shut up! I came back because, god, Bruce, you're my dad. You're all the family I have left! All of you..." Tim wouldn't cry. He wouldn't.
And, of course, Bruce had that god-forsaken expression of I-know-better-than-you on his face. "Then maybe you should have thought about that before you murdered someone."
"Fuck this." Tim had to get out of here. He could feel the spark of acid disintegrate his will, inch by inch. He had to get out of here before he lost control. Before he couldn't–not anymore. Bruce wouldn't hurt him, he had nothing to fear. Not… physically.
"Tim, wait!" Steph tugged on his hand. "Bruce, apologize!"
"Let him leave, Steph."
"No! Double fuck you!" she snapped. "I'm not losing him again, I don't fucking care what you–"
"Steph," Tim's voice was strained. Her hand hardened on his wrist.
"I'm not letting you go again."
"If you follow him out, you don't have to show up to patrol to–"
Steph whirled on Bruce. "Shut up, you asshole! I'm not your kid, and I'm not your charge anymore! You have no say over what I do and don't do. You can kick me off patrol over my dead fucking bod–" Steph's eyes widened and she gasped. She slapped a hand over her mouth.
Tim snorted. "Don't worry, Steph. You can be sure he will. My death never changed his mind much, why would yours?"
"TIM!" But Steph had been mortified enough that she'd let go of him. He didn't have to hurt her, making her let go (which he was getting more and more scared he might), and though it was cheap, he could run. She couldn't.
So Tim ran, and ignored Steph's yells.
"What is wrong with you?" Steph cried. "Are you trying to drive him away?"
Jason hated when Steph yelled. Cass put a hand on his shoulder.
Bruce frowned down his nose at Steph. "He knows how I feel about killing. If he wants to isolate himself, that's his prerogative."
"He didn't come here to fight, Bruce! You were the one who brought it up–ugh! I can't with you!" Steph turned around and punched a few buttons on her wheelchair. It hissed and fizzled instead of moving and Steph let out a cry of frustration. "Alfred!"
"Yes, Miss Stephanie?" Jason had almost forgotten that he was there.
Steph took a deep breath, and in a much calmer voice she said, "Could you please bring the car around?"
"Where are you going?" Bruce snapped.
"I'm going after him! God, Bruce. The first words that you say to your son in two years are 'fuck off'?"
"I didn't say–!"
"Doesn't matter what you actually said, you emotionally constipated walnut, all he heard was that you didn't want him around and that you hate him!"
Bruce schooled his features into a mask of nothingness. "I don't hate him. For God's sake, Stephanie, he's my son."
"Yeah, well, maybe you should tell him that sometime. God, I'm not your fucking therapist. You deal with it." Steph rolled over to the coat closet and yanked hers out. She pulled it on and placed a blanket over her lap.
Bruce grunted at her, and Steph ignored him.
"I can't work with him, Steph. He went against everything I beli–"
"I don't care!" Steph snapped. "Rationalize it to yourself all you want, Bruce. I don't care anymore. I have spent too much of my life trying to mediate fights in your fucking family. Talk to your kids or don't, I'm going to go find him before he thinks we all hate him."
On cue, Alfred pulled open the door. "Miss Stephanie." Steph harrumphed and rolled out.
Bruce growled something under his breath and stormed out in the opposite direction.
Jason swallowed thickly.
Tim Drake-Wayne was out. Someone had let him out. Tim freaking Drake-Wayne. The Prodigal fucking son.
Bruce was pissed at him for killing the Joker. How would he feel if he ever found out that Jason had let him? Jason had to talk to him. Try to see if he could keep him from accidentally telling B. For fuck's sake, Bruce had just kicked Tim out of the Manor. If he found out…
He'd take Robin away from Jason, and he'd kick him out.
Jason was having a crisis of faith, sure, but he wasn't–he couldn't give up Robin. Not yet. Not now. He couldn't-Traya had offered him a place on the Teen Titans. He wouldn't be able to do that if he wasn't Robin! He-
"Jason," Cass' voice broke through his fog. He turned to her. "Tim–" at the word, she tensed. Jason knew that this was affecting her too. She'd been withdrawn after the Joker had been killed. Disappeared for a year—missing the trial and everything surrounding it. Something about needing to find who she was, and dealing with her dad (who was shitty enough without her also having to deal with Jason's mini-crisis), then showed back up happier and with an apartment that she was more than pleased to let Jason crash at.
Having sorted out what she wanted to say, she tried again, "Tim will not hurt you. Or us. You feel?"
As if that was what Jason was worried about.
"Cass, really, I'm fine." Jason shifted out of her grasp. She knew he wasn't, Jason knew she could tell that, but she didn't push.
"Jason, I'm not good at… emotionally helping people. But if you need to talk to someone, I can be there."
"Thanks, Cass."
Cass paused for a moment, before she said, "Be careful."
"I thought you said he wouldn't try to hurt us."
"He won't try," Cass said. Her intense eyes locked onto Jason's. "But there are many ways to accidentally hurt someone."
Jason nodded. Yet another reason to look out for him. Who had let him out? How could they have possibly thought this would be a good idea? Tim had even mentioned that he didn't know who it was. Was this not concerning to anyone else?
Jason hadn't been planning on going on patrol anyway tonight, but now… he wanted to track him down. Had to. Had to make sure Tim wouldn't make Jason's life any more complicated than it already was. He'd wait until Cass left for patrol (which would be soon anyway) and would sneak out after.
She wouldn't believe any lie he told (freakin' body language wiz and all that she was), so he tried not to make it a lie. "I'm just… I'm not hungry anymore. I'm going to go do my homework." It wasn't a lie. He wasn't, and he would.
Cass nodded. She didn't look skeptical, but hell, when had he ever been good at reading her?
"Jason," Cass added, before he turned around. "I'm sorry about Bruce."
Right. Bruce. Tim appearing had completely driven his earlier anger from his mind. He'd gone to school yesterday straight from Cass' apartment.
Bruce hadn't said a word to him all day.
"He'll come around."
Of course, Cass would—could say that. Jason couldn't think of a single time they'd ever argued.
Cass finished up her dinner. Jason headed upstairs and waited for her to leave.
Finding out where Drake-Wayne went was actually harder than Jason expected. Not hard, just harder. For one, no one knew he was free yet, so it wasn't like anyone was posting sightings in the #RedHood or #TimDrakeWayne hashtags. Jason's next call was to Steph to see if she'd found him yet. She hadn't but she wouldn't stop looking, she'd texted back. After that, Jason only had one more avenue: calling the prison. But they were no help either. Jason managed to swing around the Wayne name enough to talk to the guard who'd walked him out, but even she had no idea where he'd gone.
"I'll tell you what I told the girl, he just left. Walked right out the doors at seven AM. Haven't heard anything since."
Seven AM? He'd been out for hours. What had he been doing? Getting that leather jacket? Jason, stop admiring the guy's jacket, focus. Jason tried to steer his mind back on topic but–wait. A jacket like that would have cost a lot of money, and no one had known he was out, so no one could have bought it for him. Either he'd robbed someone for the money (unlikely) or he'd raided a BatStash. Probably one in Metropolis since that was closer to his jail, and he would have wanted to change clothes as fast as possible. Explained how he got back to Gotham on his own too. Probably bought a bus ride or–wait.
Jason scrolled through his contacts. He hesitated, but he didn't have the guy's number. This was the only way he could get it without contacting either his team or his family. He pressed call.
"Jason? What's wrong?" Her breathing was heavy, and Jason could hear the sounds of machinery in the background. It was late at night, so Traya was probably in her body shop. "Do you need me to come get you?"
"I–Come get me?"
He could almost hear Traya shrug. "I'm friends with Damian, remember? I remember how your dad can be sometimes."
"He's not… my dad. That's–no, thanks. I was just wondering… could I have Superboy's number?"
"Superboy?"
"Uh, the… old Superboy. You know, before he… quit." Jason had heard Kara complaining about the family drama more than once.
"Oh. Sure." Traya seemed surprised. "Should… I… be worried?"
"No, no. I just have to ask him a question."
"Okay, I'll text you, one sec."
Jason felt his phone buzz and he pulled up the contact.
"Thanks, Trays."
"Sure thing, kid. That it?"
"Yeah. I'm, uh, not done thinking it over yet."
"Okay, kid. Well, I'm always here. Call anytime."
"I will. Thanks again."
"Good night, Jason."
"'Night."
Jason pulled up the contact. It rang for what seemed like ages. Unable to calm himself, he paced back and forth across his room.
Superboy picked up and Jason jerked the phone away from his ear when he heard shrieking. Good shrieking. Friendly shrieking. But loud nonetheless.
A faint voice cried, "Hey, give that back!"
Someone was moaning exaggeratedly on the other end. Jason rolled his eyes.
"Stop! Jeez, you guys are gross!"
"Sorry, Mrs. Lane!"
"That's not my mom, it's someone–give it back!"
"Oh. Yikes. Sorry random person. We always do that when his–yowch!"
"Sorry," Superboy had wrestled his phone back and from his friends' yelps he was pushing them away rather forcefully. "These guys think they're funny. Um, who is this?"
"It's Jason." Jason winced at the way his voice seemed to fail him. Superboy, Kid Flash, and Wonder Girl had always scared the shit out of him. Partly 'cuz they seemed to hate him, not that Jason had ever really met them before everything with Tim, but they'd seen each other like, around. Saving the world and whatever. Every time they'd given him the stink-eye.
"Jay… Jason?" Superboy sounded surprised. Jason winced again. He could only imagine what was going through his head. "Jason To-" Superboy cut himself, and surreptitiously lowered his voice, "like, you know who?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Superboy paused. "Not to like, sound rude or whatever, but why are you calling?"
Yeah, okay. Understandable.
Jason tried to choose his words carefully. "Uh, well… we had a friend visit today."
"Fri-" Superboy's words died in his throat. "Oh."
"Sooo… you know already."
"Yeah."
Yowch. He sounded maaaad.
"This isn't like… you-know-who calling. It's just me," Jason said. "I'm… they got into a fight and he stormed out and I'm… worried." Why the hell not? Maybe it would work. "I mean, he was pretty pissed. Do you maybe know where he was going? A lot's changed in Gotham… I just…" Damn, Jason was bad at lying.
"You don't know?"
"He, uh, he was gone before we got a chance to say hello."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess fights with him do that."
"Yeah."
"Well–shit." A loud siren started going. "That's my crew, I gotta go. Nine o'clock, Old Wayne Tower."
"Oh, okay, tha–" Nope. He'd hung up. Jason put down the phone down. Old Wayne Tower? Not on the nose at all. Well, the more Jason thought about it, the more it made sense. It was a tourist trap, and there was nothing of real value there—just architecture and like, history or whatever. Plus it was far away from street level and B never swung by there much.
Jason suited up. It was eight twenty. Jason got swinging.
Growing up in Tim Drake-Wayne's shadow had never been easy. Especially since Bruce had been vicariously trying to revive Tim through training Jason. Yeah, like Jason hadn't fucking noticed. It hadn't been too bad to deal with—Jason had got to be Robin because of it. Then, Bruce had gone to therapy and it had almost been… normal. Yeah, they still fought, but now it was like, family fights or something. And that was better, so.
But then, just when it was all getting good, Tim had to just show back up. One might think that would make the Magical Tim Drake-Wayne Robin sized shadow disappear, but instead Murderer Tim Drake-Wayne had joined the "You'll Never Be Him" team. He and Jason could have a pity party. Toast to never being enough. It would be fun. Jason could make nachos.
Old Wayne Tower sat on Union Station. Bruce would wax on about it sometimes. Something about the gargoyles and… his great-grandfather… Jason never listened. But he did have a favorite gargoyle. It was number seven. He'd dubbed it Fred.
Jason sat on Fred, watching Tim as he settled down. Tim had already wired the place, and the Whoever were on their way. Jason counted down the minutes. Jason had to hand it to Tim, he was good at being patient. Jason was always too jittery to wait long.
But he waited. Mainly out of spite. Turned out spite could fuel a lot.
Jason didn't even see them appear. They were suddenly just there. Jason couldn't even see where they'd come from. Three steampunk, gimp-type masked people and one blonde woman with a minimalist owl mask. Creepy.
"You can stop hiding now, Timothy."
Surprisingly, Tim popped out from his hiding place. Surely, the great Tim Drake-Wayne wasn't that dumb.
"What did you want?" Tim asked.
Wow. Dumbass.
"Quite the question, isn't it?" Oh great. Monologue. Jason rolled his eyes. "–You a big fan of nursery rhymes?"
"No."
Ha, suck it, Bird-Lady.
The owl-woman cleared her throat. "Well. I'm sure you know the old Gotham tale." She started humming something but Jason couldn't–
Oh no freaking way. No way the Court of Owls was real! No way! That would be–well, that would just be too much.
"Uhhhh… huh?"
The woman stopped. Really? How had Tim not gotten that? Or was he purposefully fucking with her?
"You… Beware the Court of Owls? That watches all the time?"
"What?"
He didn't look like he was faking it.
"You've… never heard of us?"
"I was dead for five years, if that makes you feel better."
"You were…" the old woman shook her head. She was losing control of this situation. "Timothy Drake, the road has been long and hard, but finally, you're home."
"Home?"
"Yes." The woman spread her arms and one of the–well, if it was really the Court of Owls, secret society of Gotham Elite who ran the city from the shadows, then those gimps must be…
Shit.
Talons.
Shit, shit, shit.
The Talon held a briefcase in his hand and slowly he opened it. Jason's mouth dropped open.
"Holy fucking shit," he couldn't keep himself from saying.
The Talon held out an owl mask to Tim.
"The Drake seat has been long empty, and it is our pleasure, Timothy Drake, to finally see you upon it. Welcome to the Court of Owls."
"Last stop: Gotham Union Station."
She was out of the train doors before they even finished opening. She sighed giddily as the narrator on her latest favorite True Crime podcast went over the evidence again in his thick Australian bray. The last train to Gotham tutted out of the station behind her and she skipped up to the turnstalls.
Oh, cool, her Metro card still worked. She would have to refill it now that she was back in Gotham for good this time. Finally. The world was her oyster and she was ready. She adjusted the bow clip in her hair and the pencil behind her other ear.
Every new step was one more step into her new life. The life she'd been training herself for years to start. The smoky air had a new spice to it. The squeaks of rodents scurrying by like music. Tomorrow, she would start at her new job. Tonight, she'd stay with Kyle, but then onto her own apartment and, of course, she'd have to drop by some friends. It was too late now, but it would be the first thing on her list after her first day.
She spun as she exited the station and glanced up. Above her, the Batsignal lit up the cloudy sky. It was as if she were seeing it for the first time. As if she was experiencing everything for the first time again!
That was the thing about Gotham, there was always something new, and Maps Mizoguchi would explore it all.