Chapter 18

The days following Tim's return to Gotham city passed in a blur. He'd been in bad shape, worse than anticipated, and had initially required close monitoring from the Wayne's private physician. After being cleared for any neurological damage, Tim passed his first day back primarily in sleep. Occasionally, he'd wake up long enough to choke down a bland meal before the headache got too bad and then pass out again, catching up on all the sleep he'd missed while on his mission.

On the second day, Tim's waking hours increased somewhat, and the splitting headache he'd been nursing lessened; the invisible band surrounding his head was not quite as tight as he tossed and turned between fitful naps. His eyes blistered still whenever he looked into direct light, so the blinds to his room were kept closed and the room dark. Often the only thing he could see in the darkness was the small aquarium on the dresser immediately beside his bed, where his little red fish darted back and forth.

On the third day, Tim felt human again and was coherent enough to notice that Bruce and Dick stayed notably absent from his rooms. Alfred, on the other hand, he saw plenty of. The old man fussed over him like a mother hen (in the most dignified way possible) throughout the day. And by the time Tim went to sleep that night, he was more himself than he'd been in days. That was both a good and a bad thing because he inevitably ended up staying up late into the night, brooding over his prior week.

And when Tim woke up on the fourth day, he was downright stir-crazy and knew that he wouldn't last another day in his damn bed alone with his thoughts. So, he concocted his plans for escape.

Tim grabbed his phone and, upon turning it on, watched as messages cascaded down his screen in rapid succession. He ignored them and made a call, his voice lowered to a whisper as he confirmed the time and location. Then, with some difficulty, he slipped out of Wayne Manor.

It was still early. The sun had risen just enough to bathe the property in hues of blue. Raindrops pattered against the patio's smooth limestone pavers. Tim pulled his jacket tightly around him and dipped his head slightly under his hood to guard against the rain. As he ran down the long gravel driveway, his headache nagged behind his eyes in warning.

The taxi driver was already waiting for him outside the tall black iron gate. Tim briefly considered hopping over the towering spires but, in a moment of self-interest, decided against it. Best not to risk a further head injury. He clicked a large button on the post and watched as the gate creaked wide. Bruce and Alfred would be alerted that the gate had opened, but Tim figured it wouldn't take them long to find him gone anyways. It was about when Alfred typically came to his room to feed Fin, a surprisingly doting ritual.

Tim dipped into the taxi and gave the driver the address. The man was old, likely in his sixties or seventies, with age-weathered skin and a three-day-old grey beard over ruddy white cheeks. The cab smelled like cigarette smoke, and Tim's eyes slightly watered in discomfort when he shut the door behind him. Sixties music played from the cab's stereo.

Thankfully the man didn't seem rapt for conversation, and even more thankfully, the drive was short from Wayne Manor to his destination. Tim asked the driver to wait for him as he stepped onto the quiet street; it was still too early for the morning city bustle. The man merely grunted in response and tapped his finger on the meter, a silent reminder that he'd keep the time running. Tim nodded and shut the car door.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting or even if he'd been expecting anything at all. He quelled the surge of disappointment when he looked up at the clearly vacant townhouse. A small, wire "For Rent" sign had been hastily placed in the grass strip between the sidewalk and street.

He approached the front door and glanced over his shoulder to the cab driver still parked in the street. The man had lit a cigarette and held his arm out of the car window, dropping the ash onto the road. Either he wasn't paying attention to Tim, or he simply didn't care enough to bother.

Tim turned back to the door and pulled a lockpick from his pocket. With ease, he dislodged the deadbolt and pushed the door open.

It was empty.

Any indication that the al Ghuls had once rented the place, no doubt under the table and untraceable, was gone. The only thing that remained in the vacant space was the ghastly old couch tucked in the corner of the living room. Tim wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Knowing he couldn't delay too long, Tim took two steps at a time as he made his way up the narrow staircase. Sure enough, all the massive computer screens that had once covered the walls of the room he'd briefly stayed in were gone. A single window was revealed in their absence, allowing a fresh stream of light into the space.

Tim's bed had been stripped down to a pinstripe cot. Atop it, his duffle bag sat tidy and undisturbed. Tim unzipped the bag and saw his red hoodie folded on the top of his piles of clothes. It was just as he'd left it. With some relief, he threw it on, fitting his prior jacket into the duffle. For just a moment, he savored the familiarity of the soft fabric against his skin.

Tim exited the room with his bag thrown over his shoulder, confident he hadn't left anything behind. He was just about to go back downstairs when he paused outside what had been Jason's room. He'd never even had a chance to see inside. Curiosity winning over, Tim pushed the door open with a loud creak.

Disappointment flared again. This room, too, had been left empty. All that was left were bare walls and a water-stained cot that matched his own. Tim was just about to turn to leave when a flash of color caught his eye. There was something underneath the bed, just visible in the gap between the mattress and the wall. Something that the house's sweeper had missed in their clearing. Tim dropped his duffle and leaned over the bed, blindly reaching his hand down the gap. When his hand landed on a smooth surface, he pulled it out.

It was a stack of three books, Frankenstein, Beloved, and Wuthering Heights. The pages of the books were yellow and soft with age but otherwise well-kept. The spines were creased with long white stripes, the telltale badges of well-loved books. The person who'd read them had clearly done so more than a few times over. Tim ran his fingers over the soft covers, considering them for a moment. He then carefully set them in his duffle so as not to bend them.

Tim didn't bother relocking the front door as he walked outside. On this side of town, it wasn't like a deadbolt would come between anyone who wanted to occupy the vacant townhouse anyways. The cab driver had waited for him. The pile of ashes outside his window was evidence of his boredom.

Crawling into the cab, Tim told the man a second address and settled into his seat with his duffle on his lap. His arms folded around it to protect its contents from the bumpy ride.

The second drive was even shorter than the first one, only requiring a short jaunt to North Gotham near the outskirts of Gotham University. The homes here were much nicer, meant to appeal to a healthy mix of college students and Gotham suburbanites who didn't want to live downtown. Tim thanked the driver as he stepped out onto the cobbled street, offering him a small stack of fives. The man grunted again, taking Tim's offering before hastily peeling off into the road, already ready for his next customer.

Tim turned to the brick apartment and approached the building's weathered metal intercom under the awning. Finding the apartment he wanted, he clicked the buzzer and listened to the subsequent dial tone emitted from the speaker. He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, chilled from the April morning showers, and shuffled more under the awning.

"Hello?" the bleary and not-yet-awake voice of Stephanie Brown crackled through the intercom. "Who's this?" Just barely, a muttering of curses coursed through the speakers remarking at how early it was.

"Stephanie?" Tim asked, already apologetic. "It's… Tim. I can come back later if you'd—" He quickly said the last part but was cut off by Stephanie's shriek.

"Tim!" Steph's voice was now totally awake and crackled through the shitty intercom. "Hold on a sec; I'll buzz you up."

Tim had only just approached Steph's third-floor apartment when the door flew open, revealing a very disheveled-looking Stephanie Brown. Her hair was thrown up in a messy bun, and she wore a sleep t-shirt and sweats. Long fuzzy socks were haphazardly pulled up over the edges of her pants.

"Holy shit, Boss," Stephanie pulled Tim in for a hug, simultaneously closing the door behind them. "Damn, you know how to make a girl sweat. I tried, but those Bats sniffed me out in seconds." She pulled Tim out of her embrace and gave him a once over, her eyebrows pinching together. "But I heard you were injured. How'd you get here?"

Tim shrugged somewhat sheepishly, "It was just a hit to the head… And I took a cab. Figured it probably wasn't a good idea to drive just yet."

Steph nodded and then gestured to the couch snuggled up in the corner of the two-bedroom apartment's living room. "Sit down; I wanna know everything."

Tim didn't argue. It was why he'd come after all. Stephanie had stuck out her neck for him, and Tim figured he owed her an explanation. And better to seek her out sooner rather than later because he wouldn't put it past the woman to hunt him down and force it out of him if need be.

Tim told her everything. He spared no details as he recounted his story from the moment Jason had shown up back in his apartment in L.A., which felt like years ago, all the way up to his embarrassing rescue by Bruce and Dick on the SuperCycle. Stephanie, for her part, stayed quiet throughout the story. She listened intently with elbows propped on her knees and her chin resting on folded hands. She appeared quite serious for her otherwise disheveled appearance. Her bun balanced precariously on her head.

At the end of Tim's saga, Stephanie stayed quiet for a couple moments before leaning back into the couch and pulling her feet underneath her. She looked at him thoughtfully. "Tim, why'd you tell me all of this?"

Tim shrugged, not quite sure himself. She'd asked for the truth, and he'd given it to her, no questions asked. Why did he feel like he could trust her with this secret? In fact, why had Stephanie Brown been the one he'd called back when all of this started?

"I don't know…" Tim said, frowning at his lack of a solid answer, "I guess… because we're friends?"

Stephanie shook her head, her eyes concerned, "But Tim… we're not friends."

Tim's stomach dropped like a block of lead; his mouth gaped open and closed, unsure how to respond.

They weren't friends? Tim was sure they'd grown closer when he'd been the leader of their small covert squad. Though their time together had been short-lived, he would have gone so far as to say that he considered Stephanie one of his better friends! Tim was usually so good at reading people. How could he have been so wrong?

"Wait, shit," Stephanie interjected between his downward spiral. "That came out wrong," she said, slapping her hand on her face. She gestured to him vaguely, "I mean, you're Boss! I would do anything for you. But I don't know, I guess I just thought that you were kinda like Bruce. All business, no personal ties, ya know?"

Tim was at a total loss for words, his mind focused as he reflected on his recent interactions with his friends. He suddenly wondered if they thought of him the same way. Is that why it seemed like they walked on eggshells when he'd returned to the Outsiders? Had he really given his friends the impression that he didn't care about them? That he didn't profoundly regret how his purposeful distance had impacted their relationships? Fuck. What must they have thought of him? What must Cassie have thought of him?

Tim's eyes burned; he blinked rapidly, trying to eliminate the sensation.

"Hey, ease up," Steph gently placed her hand on Tim's knee before retracting it. "Let me think for a second."

Stephanie sat and stared at him, her gaze astute. Her finger tapped against her bottom lip in contemplation. Tim didn't know what she could possibly be thinking about. He suddenly felt claustrophobic in his own skin, like he was being stripped down under her gaze. He couldn't wait to get out of that cramped apartment and away from the embarrassment of this misunderstanding.

"I changed my mind," she said finally, "we're friends."

Tim barked a humorless laugh, "You just decided that huh. Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Stephanie scooted closer to him. She took his hand and interlocked their fingers, "I'm realizing, mister Tim Drake, that you're a much bigger softy than you let on. You spend all this time looking at other people, picking apart their 'tells' or whatever you call it. But I don't think anyone is picking up on yours. And that's tragic."

Tim grimaced, conflicted over her explanation. He didn't want to be anyone's… pity friend.

Stephanie laughed, "You know, now that I really see you, you are remarkably easy to read. Okay, look, Boss," she clasped her other hand over their interlocked fingers and stared up at Tim with utmost seriousness, "though you literally couldn't have been vaguer about it, it was my error that I didn't pick up on your attempts at friendship. I won't make that mistake again…And besides," she smiled devilishly, "Some part of me musta known because I don't tell just any boss that I have the hots for their ex-girlfriend."

Tim's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "What?!" he exclaimed, retracting his hand. "You did not tell me that."

Stephanie nodded emphatically, "I did too! I told you over the phone before you went off the radar!"

Tim recalled that phone call perfectly and did not feel like that was an adequate recollection of that conversation, "You told me you liked Cassie!" he argued back, totally flustered, "not that you liked her!"

But Stephanie just threw her head back and clutched her belly in laughter. Tears trickled from her eyes at Tim's panic. And oh, it was so beautiful. If Tim were still in the habit of tucking away memories, this would surely be one of them. But no, that wouldn't do. That part of him had come crashing down, and maybe it was better if it wasn't rebuilt.

So instead, he just reveled in that moment, savoring the glimpse of what friendship with Stephanie Brown truly looked like. Because if this was any indication of what their future together held, then Steph had been right, and everything up to that point had only been tastes.

Tim smiled. This was their start.

Suddenly, there was a tapping on the window. Tim craned his neck only to see Orphan balancing precariously outside the third-story window.

"Shit fuck!" Stephanie exclaimed as she hopped to her knees and cranked the window open. "I thought you got back hours ago!"

"I got held up," Orphan signed once she was safely hidden inside. "What's he doing here?"

Orphan had always been an enigma to Tim. He'd only seen her face briefly upon their first meeting and then never again after that. She'd never even shown her face when she was on Tim's squad. Stephanie had probably seen her plenty by now; they lived together, after all. But Tim would have been equally unsurprised if Orphan just left her mask on even in this small space. She was particularly evasive when it came to her backstory. But then again, weren't they all? No one came into this life totally unscathed, so Tim had let her be. Despite her impulsiveness, she'd been a fantastic asset to his team. And at the time, that had been all that mattered.

He looked at her again with renewed interest, only to shift his eyes away quickly. "I should get going," he said. He'd forgotten how disconcerting the faceless mask's stare could be, and now it was directed at him. Tim had never been able to shake the feeling that for how good he was at reading people's body language, Orphan was better. And Tim wasn't sure how he felt being so known by someone else.

"You drove?" Orphan's disapproval was evident.

"He took a taxi." Stephanie punched Tim's shoulder lightly. "Come on, I'll drive you home." Orphan nodded and then disappeared into her room, slamming the door shut.

It was well into the morning when Stephanie dropped Tim off in front of Wayne Manor.

"You want me to come in with you?" Stephanie asked, rolling down her window as Tim walked up the front entry steps. "The man can be a jackass when he wants to be." Her eyebrows pinched in an annoyed frown.

Tim smiled. He appreciated the offer, especially coming from Steph. While Stephanie Brown had done well under Bruce Wayne's tutelage, and their relationship was overall positive, they were prone to their little spats. The fact that she'd offered was huge.

"No thanks," Tim's smile became slightly forced, "It's probably best I just get it over with myself." In all honesty, Tim was still nervous around her. Their friendship still felt so new and fragile, and Tim didn't know if he could handle the embarrassment of an inevitable scolding in front of Steph just yet.

"You'll call me after?" It was an order.

"I will," Tim said and meant it.

Stephanie's tires crackled on the pea-stone gravel behind him as Tim walked the rest of the way up the steps and through the front door. Quietly, he closed the door.

"Have an enjoyable outing, Master Tim?" a demure voice rang across the foyer. Tim cringed to see Alfred stepping through the doors of the lateral sitting room. No one had explicitly said so, but Tim was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be leaving the Manor without a doc's go-ahead. He lowered the duffle bag from his shoulder to the ground.

"Sorry, Alfred," he apologized, "I had some things to pick up."

The old butler's eyebrow lifted, his mustache quirking to the side as he did so. "From your stay at Miss Brown's residence?" he inquired. He looked at Tim shrewdly as if daring Tim to lie to him.

Cool moisture gathered on the back of Tim's neck. "Not exactly," he replied, shifting in his hoodie so that the perspiration was wiped away on his collar. That old man always did have the uncanny ability of making Tim sweat with little to no effort.

But thankfully, the older man did not seem intent on pressing further. He shifted his hands behind his back. "Perhaps I should supply you with some reading materials on post-concussion care, sir?"

Tim let out a small laugh, "That's alright, Alfred; I don't think I'll be going anywhere for a while anyway." Once word got out of his injury, he was pretty sure he'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who'd let him join a mission. And even that was only if Bruce didn't retire Tim permanently for his insubordination.

"Very well. Master Bruce is waiting for you in the kitchens. Please remind him to keep it somewhat tidy, will you?"

Tim's mouth went dry as his head swiveled towards the hallway leading to the kitchen. This was it. This was his reckoning. As he walked through the manor's corridors, he couldn't help but feel like a man walking to his trial. Everything Tim had ever worked for, what he'd dedicated the second decade of his life to, could go up in smoke with the impending conversation. Tim wasn't sure he was ready to live among the ashes.

He swallowed a hard lump in his throat as he neared the archway to the kitchen.

The massive room was bright, strategically placed to face the south lawn so that sunlight poured in throughout the day. The light glittered against vintage copper pots, pans, and pitchers that hung from an ornate pot hanger. Though the kitchen had been modernized since the original build, Bruce had kept it traditional in its French country styling with beige tiled floors and cream walls. Mahogany cross beams decorated the coffered ceiling, matched with an exceptionally large mahogany and marble island in the center of the room. It could probably fit sixteen seats if need be, though only four white wooden barstools sat facing the stove.

Across from the chairs, Bruce stood looking down at a newspaper spread out over the marble island countertop. A steaming cup of black coffee was just within reach. He wore casual clothes, beige sweats paired with a baby blue sweater. Glasses were perched low on his nose, the temples tucked over his ears where the first signs of grey hair began to sprout.

Bruce's casual demeanor did nothing to settle Tim's nerves. From a very young age, he'd learned not to underestimate the impossible rate at which rage could escalate from a powerful man within his own home. Tim had learned body language from someone, and Jack Drake had been his very earliest subject, after all.

And yet, Bruce didn't seem angry. His body wasn't taught with an impending explosion. His hands were loose as he reached for his coffee mug, brought it to his lips, and took a long sip. Suddenly he looked up to where Tim was hiding in the hallway, his gaze piercing.

"The coffee's good today. Alfred bought some new brand. You want some?"

Tim's mouth had been watering since long before he reached the kitchen. He'd smelled the coffee's nutty aroma and something else sweet from the moment he'd stepped into the manor. As he stood on the outskirts of the kitchen, it was almost overwhelming.

It had been so long since he'd had a cup of coffee.

Silently, Tim nodded his head as he approached the island counter and sat down in one of the wooden chairs. Bruce also didn't address him as he went to the stainless-steel coffee maker and poured a cup. The mug was already sitting beside the maker, waiting for him. Bruce didn't ask if he wanted cream or sugar. In their years working together, he'd learned that Tim preferred it black. Carefully, Bruce set it back on the marble and then pushed it across the counter to him.

Tim took the steaming mug in his hands. His fingers had been tingly with the change in temperature from the rainy outside to the warm manor, and this settled the sensation somewhat.

"Bruce," Tim started, feeling like he'd stalled long enough, "I'm sorr—"

But oddly, Bruce just held up a hand, pausing Tim midsentence.

"Why don't we start with a mission debrief," he said, leaning over and resting his arms on the marble countertop.

For the second time that morning, Tim started from the beginning. But unlike his conversation with Steph, Tim left out some critical details. Tim's attack in L.A. had been connected to the whole ordeal, but it had only been one of Talia's henchmen trying to get his attention. Bruce frowned at Tim's mention of his conversation with Talia in the shipyard, how she'd wanted him because she didn't want to get Bruce or Dick involved.

"She never should have approached you." Bruce's brows pinched together as if thinking. It was the first sign of simmering anger throughout their conversation, though thankfully not directed at Tim. "She should have come to me. Why didn't she?" Bruce asked himself the last part quietly, not expecting Tim to answer.

Tim shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in his omission of truth, but continued. He told Bruce about his discoveries on Santa Prisca and how Lady Shiva had been framing Talia for years and propelling the Shadows to war with the al Ghuls. How all she needed was a match to ignite the fire, and it was a trap that all of them played into perfectly. Tim told Bruce about how he'd been betrayed by Talia's henchmen in the final moments and how the other man had escaped with it before Tim could get to it in time.

"And you never got a look at what the weapon was?" Bruce asked, staring forlornly into his empty mug in thought. With all the messy details omitted, it wasn't that long of a mission report, yet Bruce still managed to finish his coffee in those few minutes.

Tim was thankful that Bruce wasn't looking at him because his throat suddenly felt thick. He gulped it down.

"No," he answered.

Tim thought of that little toddler, who'd resembled his mother in every way but one. He thought of those green eyes, though different in color, that belonged every bit to his father. They were the same eyes as the ones that now stared pensively at Tim.

Bruce had always done an abysmal job of hiding his paramours, much to his proteges' vocal horror. And though Tim had no proof, it wasn't that hard to put two and two together.

Tim knew that by not telling Bruce about Jason and his child, this mission appeared in every way a failure. Tim had gone off and joined forces with a criminal entity. And not only didn't he acquire said "weapon," but he'd also managed to let it fall back into the hands of Talia al Ghul. And for the cherry on top, he'd somehow set off a war between two rival legions in the process.

Tim could be fired for this. He should be fired for this. Tim closed his body around his untouched mug, cherishing the small comfort as he prepared for the reprimand.

Suddenly, a chime rang out from the corner of the kitchen.

"Ah, that's the waffles." Bruce stood straight, his back popping in the process, and walked to the far counter beside the sink. Sure enough, the man's industrial-sized waffle maker had been taken out of its designated cupboard and clicked open to reveal two golden brown waffles. A massive bowl with batter dripping down the sides rested beside the ludicrously sized contraption.

"It's my recipe," Bruce promised, "Not Alfred's. Berries?" Bruce spooned some berries over one waffle at Tim's nod. "Whipped cream?" Tim shook his head, and Bruce discarded the ready-made whipped cream can to the side. He shrugged when Tim declined the syrup, drizzling a scant amount onto his own plain waffle and then adding a heaping dollop of butter to his plate.

With two plates and sets of forks in hand, Bruce returned to the island and pushed Tim's plate towards him.

Tim had to swallow down his nausea. His past memories involving waffles with Bruce had been relatively happy ones. They'd had them after their first mission together in Gotham and later when Dick finally allowed him to participate on the Team. They'd even had waffles after Tim's first successful mission with his new covert squad, though the circumstances surrounding that milestone had been a little more subdued.

Tim really didn't want to have waffles associated with a dismissal conversation.

But still, Bruce had made him breakfast, and Tim couldn't find any reasonable excuse not to eat them. Tim's diet had been reduced to soft foods for the last three days, and his stomach grumbled in desire for something with a little bit more substance.

Tim cut off a piece of the waffle and brought it to his mouth.

"You know, Tim… I don't think I've ever apologized to you."

Tim nearly choked on his waffle right then and there. The bready substance caught in his throat, and he let out a loud cough, trying to lodge it back out of his windpipe.

"S-sir?" Tim rasped when the bite finally went down the right way. He gulped down a large sip of coffee and then looked up, eyes wide, at his mentor.

Bruce stared at him, his gaze pensive but otherwise difficult to read. Of all the things Tim had expected from this conversation, an apology was the last. Bruce clearly saw his confusion and continued, looking back down at the counter absently as if in memory.

"When each of you boys came under my care, I knew you all needed different things out of this relationship," he sighed, "Dick… after his parents passed, he needed purpose. He needed something new to live for and channel his grief into. That was easy to understand because I'd been just like him. He needed something that made him feel powerful in an otherwise powerless situation... And 'Robin' offered him that.

"Jason," Bruce's eyes became sad, grief slipping to the surface, far shallower than Tim had seen in years. Though Tim had abandoned trying to eat, his throat became as thick as if the sweet waffle was still lodged there. Tim itched, knowing just how easy it would be to tell Bruce that Jason was alive but also knowing just how truly a betrayal it would be to Jason, who, for whatever reason, didn't want to be found quite yet.

No… Tim wouldn't tell Bruce. Because some secrets weren't his to share.

Bruce cleared his throat, "Jason had been shaped by so much trauma. Not knowing where his next meal would be, where he'd sleep at night… He was the most resilient boy I'd ever met, but he was still a child at the end of the day. And what he needed from me was security. He needed to know that no matter what he did, the mistakes he made, or how bad he thought he was, he always had a home with us." Bruce looked back at Tim, his eyes piercing straight through him. "Looking back, I know I failed him in that."

Bruce's words hung heavy in the air.

"I failed you too."

Tim's eyes snapped up. "What? No sir, you never—" he paused when Bruce's eyebrow twitched, a silent command to let him continue.

"Tim. Unlike the others, you chose Robin. You sought it out, and I'll never forget meeting you that day in my office…" Bruce's eyes smiled fondly at the memory before growing serious again. "No one seeks this out, what we do, not unless there is something profoundly wrong or deeply missing from a person's life." Bruce's eyes stared straight through him. "Tim, maybe you had parents… but you needed a family. And with The Team, you finally found that. As difficult as those early years were, you had Dick and Connor and so many others with whom you'd found a place," Bruce sighed, "And then I forced you to give it up when I left The Justice League."

Tim's mind spasmed, and his stomach churned in discomfort with Bruce's words. "Bruce… You didn't force me to do anything… I chose to follow you," he said quietly.

Bruce shook his head in disagreement, "I gave you an impossible choice. A no-win situation. I knew you'd follow me, and I took advantage of that. At the time, I was so focused on the Anti-Light initiative that I didn't stop to think how that choice would harm you and continues to harm you."

"Sir… I'm fine… I joined the Outsiders. I have a place now."

But that wasn't exactly the truth now, was it?

In a startling moment of honesty with himself, Tim realized that he indeed held some resentment towards Bruce for breaking from the Justice League, only to reintegrate so easily only months later after the Anti-Lights disbanding.

It hadn't been the same for Tim. Batman and his cohort operated differently. They were coworkers, colleagues. They fought and bickered and disagreed but, in the end, came together with their shared goal of justice.

For the Young Justice squad, the ties that bound them ran deeper than that. It was that tie that had made Tim's time with the team so special. But that very same tie also made his betrayal that much worse. Tim's decision to follow Batman had driven a wedge between him and Cassie. His secretiveness during their months apart created distance between him and his friends.

And when it came time for Tim to reintegrate back into the team, he'd realized that the shape of that family changed while he'd been away… and he didn't quite fit the way he used to.

Tim hadn't realized that he'd said the last part out loud and was surprised when Bruce nodded in agreement. "I don't think I'll fully forgive myself for that." Bruce took up his knife and started cutting into his impossibly bland waffle. "I know I've brought up the topic of adoption with you before, and I want you to know that offer still stands. You could have a family here." He looked up, asking Tim a silent question.

Tim had been in this situation before, the night after his parents' deaths when Bruce had called him into his office to console him in his grief. But Tim had known it then, and he knew again now that while Bruce had been a savior from a dreadful existence, a dear mentor, and the closest thing to a father figure that he'd ever had. Tim already had a father. And although Jack Drake had been far from perfect, too critical, too aloof, always too eager to dip into violent rages even though he never actually laid a hand on Tim… No. Tim had already had a father, and he wasn't sure he wanted someone else to take up that mantle.

That title had been laid to rest.

Bruce took Tim's silence as an answer and, thankfully, didn't seem offended. In fact, he gave a small smile. "Well, even if you can't be my son, you will always be my Robin. And when you go back to the Outsiders, just know that you have a place here in Gotham."

The two sat silently in that warm kitchen for a while as they chewed on their waffles in comfortable silence. Tim wasn't sure why it felt like a heavy plate had been lifted off his chest. His eyes were slightly dewy as he forked a glob of the berry-waffle monstrosity into his mouth. It was the second time that day that he felt teary-eyed. Apparently, that mission had done a number on his control of his emotions… but maybe it was for the best.

"I'm not sure…" Tim paused, a little nervous about having Bruce's full attention on him again. "I'm not sure I want to go back to the Outsiders," he offered quietly.

The destruction of Tim's old apartment had felt like the end of a chapter. After returning from the stealth squad, he'd done his very best to fit in with the Outsiders in L.A. He'd thought he wanted that, to recreate that sense of belonging he'd felt before he left the original Team. But maybe he'd been going about it all the wrong way. Tim's time with Jason had shown him how utterly irreplaceable the older boy had been in his life, and maybe it was the same for The Team. The version of Young Justice that Tim had grown up with was gone, and maybe it was time for him to find a new place to belong.

Bruce's eyebrows shot up in a brief moment of surprise before he schooled his features, "Oh? Where are you thinking?" he asked between bites.

Tim took a deep breath. "I think maybe… I'll stay here in Gotham," he said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks at Bruce's smile.

"Should we have Alfred configure your room for a more permanent arrangement?"

Tim shook his head, "That's okay… I think I— I think I have another place in mind."

Bruce simply nodded, wolfing down the last bite of his depressingly dry waffle. "Well, just let me know how I can help."

Tim looked up at his mentor, for the first time in a long while, maybe actually comfortable around Bruce Wayne, "So does this mean… you're not benching me?" Or worse, firing? He thought to himself.

Bruce gave him a tight-lipped smile, his eyes crinkling to slits, "Oh no. You're off duty for three months."

"What?" Tim nearly choked; his fork clattered onto the marble counter.

Bruce laughed, "You did go behind my back and got yourself into a huge mess. But no, after everything, I think you're allowed a little bit of a rebellious phase… As long as that's the extent of it," his eyes grew sharp, so quickly slipping back into that stern mentor that Tim had long admired and feared. "I know what you're thinking, so let me just say that from what it sounds like, that conflict on Prisca was a ticking time bomb with or without you. That's not why your off duty." Bruce leaned across the counter and tapped his fingers along Tim's temple. Tim winced at the sensation, a familiar pain resurfacing.

"We have to protect that noggin of yours, kid. Two concussions in two weeks? Ninety days off. Minimum," Bruce said firmly.

Tim slumped in his chair, deflated. He might have remembered the private doc who'd assessed him saying something to that effect. But everything had been so fuzzy a few days before that he hardly remembered.

"It's not so bad," Bruce said, giving a strong side eye when Tim opened his mouth to protest. Tim snapped his mouth shut. He never could argue against Bruce. "Maybe this time off will give you a break and help you figure out where you want to go from here."

Tim couldn't disagree with that. Before his mission, he'd been ramped up, unable to sit still. But now he was just… so tired.

Seeing that Tim was done with his breakfast, Bruce reached again to grab Tim's empty plate. "So," he said mildly, "Tell me about this place you're thinking about."

For the second time that day, Tim rolled out a stack of dollar bills for his taxi driver as he pulled up to the small townhouse. This driver was a little friendlier than the last; she dipped her head in thanks as Tim handed her the fare plus tip.

Once Tim had floated the idea, Bruce had made short work outright purchasing the property. The landlord had been a bit resistant at first, no doubt a little bothered to lose one of his many properties where he could jack up the prices on unsuspecting tenants, but ultimately, he cowed at Bruce Wayne's offer. It was far more than what the old place was worth.

Tim had told Bruce that he didn't need to do that, that he was okay with renting it. But Bruce insisted. Tim smiled; it had been so obvious how happy the impervious Batman had been to finally have his Robin back in town. Bruce hadn't been totally enthused about the townhouse's location; its proximity to Crime Alley had been a sore spot. But Tim had been equally insistent that this was where he wanted to be, so Bruce relented without that much fuss.

Tim stepped out of the cab and walked to the "For Rent" sign. He picked it up and folded it under his arm. He hadn't brought much with him. Alfred promised to direct all his thing's from the L.A. apartment and what he'd taken to the manor sent his way. Though the old man had been a little reluctant to return custody of his betta fish, Fin.

Tim walked up to the front porch steps and took out a pair of keys from a lock box the landlord had left for him. The door was still unlocked when Tim entered the building, albeit more legally this time.

He breathed in the space. It was as dingy as he remembered. There was the godawful couch, the busted-up kitchen cabinets, the bullet holes peppering the living room walls, the patter of the Gotham rain on the single pane windows…

He loved it.

Tim turned to the deadbolt on the front door and considered it for a moment. He wasn't worried about safety, and it wasn't like he'd moved in any classified or incriminating materials just yet. If someone broke in, they'd have a highly trained vigilante to answer to.

Tim thought of a particular red-hooded assassin who, only a few days before, had occupied this space…

He left the deadbolt unlocked. Just in case.

A/N: And with that, we've reached the end of the first arc of The Bird and The Hood! (part two to be continued in the next chapter). Holy smokes, so much happened this chapter. We have the start of the fallout from Talia's mission, Tim got his promised waffle date with Bruce, we finally get an apology from the man (much needed), Tim is out there collecting fire signs like chia pets, and we have the return of Fin!

From here forth I have decided to dub thee all my little Phantoms, both in homage to the final season of YJ and because I do see you all silently following along ;) I feel so honored to have you joining me. This story is my love letter to Tim Drake, especially his YJTV depiction, and I sincerely hope you all adore him as much as I do. I cannot wait to show you where he goes from here as we transition to the second half of the story, "The Hood." My greatest thanks -Green