6. Morning After

After calling a cab, Tim booked it back to his parent's (and Dana's) apartment. He was able to brush off enough of his clothes to make them reassemble the usual wear and tear of a Gotham day, and luckily the cut on his forehead was easily covered up by a brushing his hair forward, Impulse style.

Upon arrival, he paid the Pakistani cabbie and took a small amount of pleasure in the man's reaction to being thanked in Urdu. Then he embarked on the long climb… okay, elevator ride… to the apartment.

Tim kept repeating to himself, over and over again, that the worst possible thing to do would be to cop an attitude. So, naturally, as soon as his father (having a pretty good idea what he had been up to) shoved him into a room to talk in private…

"Where have you been? Your mother and I have been worried sick!" It was a cliché, but as clichés go, a pretty good one. Jack rolled on: "Tell the truth!"

After holding his arms out, Tim let them fall and slap solidly against the sides of his body. "Alright, ya got me. I was with a girl."

"A girl," Jack repeated emotionlessly.

"Yeah. Don't worry, we weren't have sex, just saving a few lives. Newborn baby, her mother, and the father's going to get some much-needed psychiatric help. But I guess that doesn't matter to you, right?"

"Damn right it doesn't!" Jack roared. "You have such potential! You could be an astrophysicist or a brain surgeon or… or anything! And instead you choose to run around in tights punching people in the face. Do you have any idea how much of a waste that is?"

"It's what I like. It's what I'm good at. But I guess you don't care about that either."

"Who was she?"

"Who?"

"The girl you were with."

Tim looked down, sighing. "You know I can't answer that."

"You will… just not how you think."

With that, Jack stampeded out of the room and towards Tim's bedroom. Tim trailed behind him, reluctant, but unable to look away.

"Jack, what is it…?" Dana called as her husband pushed past her. He ignored her.

Leaning against the wall outside his doorway, Tim listened as his father rampaged through the room, finally triumphantly emerging with Tim's Blackberry.

"Let's see who you've been calling," Jack crowed victoriously as Tim did his best to appear blasé about the prospect. He hit the first number on the contact list and waited as the phone rang.

"You'd think no teenager had ever stayed out past curfew," Tim observed casually to his stepmother.

Whoever was on the other end picked up. "Is this Cassandra Cain?" Jack asked in his most parental voice.

"Speaking."

"Yes, can I speak to your father?"

"He's in jail."

"Your mother then."

"She's a world-class assassin, at large somewhere in the Afghani region." Cass paused for a moment. "You may have to hold."

Jack hung up and dialed a new number. "Great company you're keeping, Tim."

"If we're going to start passing the sins of the father on to the child, then I'm really in trouble."

"Watch it, boy! You're skating on thin ice!" His call got through. "Hello, am I speaking to Mr. or Mrs. Kent?"

"Yes you are," Ma Kent's voice said over the phone. "What can I do for you?"

"Yes, I think our children might have been doing things last night without your knowledge."

"Not my boy. We live in Kansas."

Jack hung up and glared at Tim.

"Pen pals."

Dialing the next number, Jack took his eyes locked on Tim. "I hope this… Bart Allen… is someone normal."

Tim tried very, very hard to suppress his smirk.

"It's ringing," Jack announced. "Still ringing."

The machine picked up and Tim could hear the gruff voice of Max Mercury over the Blackberry's speakers. "You've reached the home of Max Crandall. If you're trying to reach me, please leave a message. If you're trying to reach my nephew, Bart Allen, please reconsider. Leave your message at the beep."

Jack hung up. "Nobody home."

Then there was a whoosh of air and Bart Allen appeared in their midst, shaking some mud off his oversized boots. "HeyTimwhat'dyouwanttoseemeabout?"

7. Breaking

"I finished the analysis on the… substance that came off codename Arkham," Oracle said, her floating funerary mask covering the black background on some of the stand-by monitors.

Steph, her injured foot soaking in a bucket of hot water that Cass had generously fetched for her, looked at the webcam that transmitted her to Oracle. "Can it wait a second? I'm Bejeweling."

"Steph!"

"Just kidding!" Steph minimized the Bejeweled window and pressed ACCEPT on the console. Instantly the multi-screens filled with Oracle's data. Appropriately enough, it was all Greek to Steph. "Ummm… you mind putting this in Nightwing terms?"

At the Clocktower, Barbara scowled at the insinuation, but pressed on. "That stuff is exactly what it looks like, soil."

"No radioactivity? No ectoplasm? Not a hint of weird science or magic? Dirt doesn't just start walking around and killing people. Besides, I saw his face. He looked… well, not human, but definitely fleshy."

"I don't know what to tell you, Girl Wonder. It's just plain, ordinary, dirt. With one caveat. I've traced the minerals and there's only one place this specific composition comes from."

"There always is," Steph groused.

"You're not gonna like this, it comes from…"

"Arkham?"

"How'd you know?"

"Feminine intuition. Send me everything you have on Arkham Asylum, I'll be in touch."

The Oracle mask disappeared and Steph began poring over the files, only taking the occasional snack break. Three hours later, Cass found her asleep at the console.

"Steph," Cass said as she tapped the girl in question on the shoulder.

Steph reared up, yawning and stretching, revealing a red patch on her cheek where the keyboard had indented itself upon her. "I may have to sleep with you tonight."

"…pardon?"

"This stuff," Steph continued, waving at the computer files. "Enough to give me nightmares. Apparently, there are two Arkhams. Asylums, I mean. The first was before our time, got blown up by Bane and all the prisoners were relocated. That's where the soil came from. Now, ever since the explosion it's been abandoned, but I figure whatever this thing is we're fighting, Arkham original flava is its homebase. Tonight we'll hunt it down and…"

"You'll do nothing of the sort."

The voice came from the shadows and for a moment Steph panicked, thinking it was Arkham again. It wasn't. It was worse.

Batman stepped out of the darkness and held out his hand. "As of this moment, you're suspended from your duties as Robin. I'll need the keys to the Redbird back."

Steph's face went from confusion to anger to resignation in a matter of seconds as she realized who was responsible for her plight.

Earlier

Mercifully, Jack's fervor finally died down. Tim was left locked in his room, his computer's keyboard gone, with the promise that a man would be by soon to install bars on the windows. In the absence of his Blackberry, Tim pulled out the microtransmitter from his belt buckle.

"This is Robi… this is Tim, calling Batman. This is Tim, calling Batman, priority two. Come in Batman, over."

Tim knew that the signal would be routed through to Bruce's beeper and give a code phrase for "Call Tim next time you're alone." Within the space of two minutes, he heard Bruce's voice over the link.

"Do not persist in using your name over this line. Codename Robin is still an acceptable designation."

Of course it is, Tim mouthed, hoping that Bruce couldn't pick that up over the link.

"I need to talk to you about… the other Robin."

"Go ahead."

Bruce wasn't going to make this any easier for him. "Last night, I was helping her on a case…" and Tim could feel Bruce stiffen, even across the airwaves. "We ran into a new meta and he… said things to her. Very bad things. She overreacted, used excessive force."

"How excessive?"

"She put three Robin darts in him, two in kill zones."

There was a long silence. "Is he dead?"

"No. Negative. He got away anyway."

There was another long silence. "What did he say to her?"

Tim was relieved to discover that, at the very least, there were some bounds of personal loyalty he wouldn't cross. "It's personal."

"Robin…" Bruce said, with something that wasn't quite a threat but wasn't quite irritation either in his voice.

"My name is Tim. I don't take orders from you."

The other man let it drop. "Thank you for reporting this. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

"No," Tim said as he threw the microtransmitter into the trash. "You won't."

Now

Stephanie Brown's (not Robin's) motor scooter burped and gurgled fuel as it "sped" towards its destination. Steph tried to keep from biting her tongue as the old vehicle sputtered and buzzed.

"Damn you Tim Drake."

Technically speaking, Steph didn't have to take the stairs, but she did anyway. It just made her madder and she wanted to have a nice berserker rage going. It was all Robin's fault. Tim's fault. Whatever.

"Damn you Tim Drake."

Dana opened the door to see a fresh-faced young woman, smiling pleasantly.

"Hi!" she said in a voice as cheery as her smile. "I'm here to see Tim Drake."

"Oh, I'll go get him."

Dana hustled off and moments later Tim appeared. "Oh, hey Steph."

Steph punched him in the face.

"Damn you Tim Drake!"

8. Dam Burst

Now, far be it for me to criticize, but it strikes me that the main problem with people is repression. They deny who they truly are. You've got Van Gogh on Ritalin working at K-Mart, Einstein in summer school knocking erasers together to get all the chalk dust out. It strikes me that if people were to act on impulse, on instinct, we all would be much better off.

Well, call me irresponsible, but you can hardly blame me for seeking to prove my little theory. Back in the old days, all I had was the crazies. Don't get me wrong, they were good company, but coming from a long line of scientists and doctors as I do, it strikes me that I need a control. I know what happens when you stick a maddie into the madhouse… but what happens when a normal is exposed to my tender, loving care?

Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just trying to help. I mean, what is this, Victorian England? Let's stop being ashamed of ourselves! If you wanna hit on someone that isn't your wife, you damn well start hitting on them. If you want to shoot up, tune in, and drop out; be my guest! If you want to have sex with a member of the same sex… or a goat for that matter… go for it! If you want to swerve your car to hit that annoying little punk on a bicycle, go nuts!

Go… nuts…

Donuts?

Huh. Guess that's one of those "God is dog spelled backwards" things. Should send that in to Wikipedia.

My point is this: can you really blame me for what people do with this gift I give them? I free them from their inhibitions and what do they immediately do? Kill themselves in fits of self-loathing. Express those long-repressed hostilities with rifles. Is any of that my fault? I'm scratching away the surface and you attack me because you don't like what I find. Really, I'm just an innocent bystander in all this. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Because, I know, if I visited you, I'd find exactly what I found in my quote unquote "victims."

Now, where were we? Ahh, yes. Back to the story.

"You are such a little teacher's pet, Drake!" Steph hissed through clenched teeth as Tim doubled over, pinching his nose to stem the nosebleed she'd given him. "Always tattling on people! I bet you always reminded the teacher when she forgot to give the class homework."

"Perhaps," Tim said in his most reasonable, placating voice… which happened to be quite nasal owing to present circumstances, "it'd be best if we discussed this in private."

Steph followed him into his room looking like a bomb about to explode. As soon as Tim had shut the door, she did.

"What were you thinking!? Just when I was starting to build some trust with Bruce, you ruin everything! I haven't pulled a tenth of the crap you have and now I'm out on my ass! All because he listened to you!"

Tim reached out and gestured for her to calm down. "Steph, you tried to kill someone."

"He was a meta, you nitwit! They're all got superstrength and agility and whatnot!"

"So you knew, for a fact, that he wouldn't die?"

Steph, exasperated, turned away from him and paced a distance. "Not with a hundred percent certainty, no."

"Well, gee, Steph, let me do the math. Less than a hundred percent certainty… carry the one… equals a one or greater percent chance that he might end up a hundred percent dead."

She wheeled on him. "And would that be so bad? He killed someone. He tried to kill a woman with her baby, for God's sake. You telling me he deserves to live, huh?"

"Is this about that…" Tim paused, wondering if he should really say what he was thinking. He made his choice. "Or about how he made you feel?"

Moving closer to him, Steph didn't stop walking until she was right in his face. The air seemed to crackle around them. "I was never out of control. Not for one minute."

"That's not how I saw it. And Batman agrees with me."

"Oh, here we go with the appeal to the authority. That's supposed to end the argument? You might as well tell me God's on your side, right? I wasn't trying to kill him and he deserved to die anyway."

"You know, I'm getting this kind of oxymoron vibe from that last sentence…"

Steph slapped him.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to reconcile the angry young woman with the Spoiler he'd known, then gave up as she waved an angry finger in his face. "You're not Robin anymore. Stop trying to define me. Stop trying to control me. Just… stop."

She turned away from him just as there was a knock at the door. Tim turned his head immediately. "Come in!"

Steph put on her shiny-happy-people face along with Tim as Dana walked in, holding a plate of Bagel Bites. "Snack?"

"Thanks Mrs. Drake."

"Thanks Dana."

Dana set the plate down on Tim's desk after both teenagers had taken a handful. "So, what are you kids up to?"

"Just… rehearsing for a play!" Tim said.

"Shakespeare!" Steph added helpfully.

"I didn't know you were an actor."

Tim and Steph exchanged a pointed glance. "Well, I…"

"Tim's quite the actor, Mrs. Drake," Steph said. "He'll act like your best friend one moment, then stab you in the back the next!"

Tim winced as he waited for Dana's reaction.

"…Are you playing Brutus?"

"Et tu!" Tim quipped.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then."

Dana shut the door behind her as Tim and Steph went to get some mini-pizzas.

"She listening at the door?" Steph asked.

"My dad too, probably."

"Oh, wretched villainy!" Steph cried melodramatically. "That thou who was once like a brother to me now art inclined to be my slayer!"

"Brother?" Tim mouthed, then whispered "You sound more like the Mighty Thor than Julius Caesar."

Steph slapped him again. "Speak, cur! Thy silence damns thee!"

Tim rubbed his cheek and asked sotto voce. "Must you keep up with the hitting? I thought actors pulled their punches!"

"I'm method," Steph sotto voced back.

"Your words are… unfair and impetuous, my lady! What you par…ceived as treachery was but my attempt to help thee!"

"Help me! … mine… myou… my art… me?"

"By thy brazen and impetuous actions," Tim said, trying hard not to sink to the depths of drama queen that Steph was plumbing, "thou wert in danger of becoming something thou art not."

"Tim…"

"Permit me a respite to finish, my lady…"

"Tim, I think they're gone."

"Oh." Tim ate a Bagel Bite. "Look, I didn't mean for this to happen. I just wanted Bruce to rein you in a little, not fire you."

"I don't need to be reined in. I need you to trust me."

"Steph…" Tim took a step closer to her. "How can I trust you when I don't even trust myself?"

"What are you talking about? I've seen you fight. You trust yourself plenty."

Tim reached out and ran a hand through her hair. "Not when I'm with you."

Steph pushed his hand away slowly, sadly, then shoved him back. "Don't you understand? I hate this! I hate that we fight all the time! I hate that I don't know how to feel about you! I hate that I can't stop thinking about you! I wish we could just… just…"

She kissed him. It escalated quickly.

It all happened so fast that it took Tim a minute to realize he was kissing back. Her hands ran over his chest until the distance between them closed and they wandered around to feel the strong muscles of his back, running up the length of his spine slowly, languidly, as if she had all the time in the world… or as if she didn't know the meaning of time. He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, her scent permeating the air.

And then they came up for air and Steph taught him that a truly passionate kiss wasn't just a kiss, it was a series of kisses with a staccati all their own, like a drumbeat or the pounding of the surf. Then suddenly she was leaping on to him, her weight transferring to him so fast that he almost fell on his ass, slender legs and thighs wrapping around his waist with a firm, steady grip. Through her jeans he could feel that the musculature of her legs was hard as granite.

"Perfect…" Steph breathed against his cheek and chin when the kiss broke. There was a feverish, surreal quality in both their expressions as Tim looked deep in Steph's eyes. There was no mask this time. Maybe there never had been.

The girl let out a small gasp of surprise as Tim pressed her against the wall, pinning her there with his body and kissing her again. Steph felt his hot breath against her neck, she felt Tim's lips brushing against her throat, the tip of his tongue flicking at her earlobe, and her unfocused stare took in a diffused image of his spiky hair, which brushed against her face as she hugged him close to her chest, making him a part of her. She hugged Tim to her with all her might, trying to force him into her with sheer willpower.

A tremor ran through Steph, she stiffened, and Tim pulled back a little, confused and apprehensive. Steph stared at his face; ran a finger down the line of his jaw, then kissed him one last time, bittersweetly, on the lips. "You tell anyone this happened, I'll fit you for a full-body cast."

"...You probably want to get down."

Tim backed up from the wall and Steph stepped down, ignoring the waking hard-on between his legs. She tripped a little upon getting off him, her legs wobbling as if she were drunk, and he steadied her with his hands; they both chuckled and Steph pressed another kiss to Tim's lips.

"My parents…" Tim said, pulling himself away with an actual physical effort, "are right outside the door."

"That's what makes it so much fun," Steph whispered, her mouth at his ear. "We could do this thing…"

"We will… if you still want to." Tim hugged her. "But we have problems and this won't…"

"Solve them, I know. I'm not trying…"

"I know," Tim said, trying very hard to ignore the scent of her hair as the embrace lingered, her warmth fading into his body. "But it's… a part of it, and it shouldn't be. We should be doing this because we love each other…"

"And do you? Love me, I mean?"

Tim looked at her for a long moment. "I don't know."

"I do." Steph walked to the door. "I'll, uh, see you around."

"Right. We still have a dress rehearsal to do."

Smiling, Steph opened the door. Jack and Dana were in the hall conspicuously close to the doorway.

"You know," Jack said suspiciously. "I don't recognize that dialogue from Shakespeare."

"It's a reimagining."