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Chapter 4

Revelations

Tim stalled in the hall, back to the (firmly closed) bathroom door and the mirror there, like he could shut all the problems inside, containing them neatly in the square little room. His feet locked against the grain of the carpet, unwilling to carry him back to the guest bedroom he'd claimed on the way up—there was no way he was going back in Timothy's room. Even if the closed door behind him really could have locked all his problems away, he couldn't lock them out of his thoughts so easily. There was no way he was getting any sleep.

In the end, he headed back downstairs. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least get something done. He thought he'd seen a library on his way up, and that was the second best option after a working computer. Information was what he understood. It was the safety net saving him from the fall, the first piece to a plan of attack. It was the exit when everything went wrong. Ever since he'd run into Jason, he'd been dragged under into a world he didn't understand, tossed about, unable to keep his feet. It was time to rectify that.

As it turned out, he was right about the library. He'd have to ask about the computer though. While the collection of books lining the walls was extensive, it in no way made up for the speed or resources at his fingertips when poised above a keyboard. As if reading his thoughts, Alfred chose that moment to walk into the room, coming to a clipped stop when he spotted Tim examining an old grandfather clock along the wall. There was something about it… Something familiar that bothered him…

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" Bless the man.

"I need to look up a couple things." World syllabaries, police reports, cognitive functioning in retrieval and familiarity. "Is there a computer I can use?"

"Ah." His eyes twinkled knowingly. "If you're searching for culprits responsible for the attack on Mrs. Winters-Drake, I believe Master Bruce has already commandeered it for the purpose." Tim scowled.

"Because he thinks I'm Timothy?"

"No." Alfred seemed honestly taken aback. "Because he cares about you." Tim's gaze slid away to the bookshelf at his right. They wanted Timothy back. That was obvious. He had to be careful. These people could crush him. Did anyone else even know he was there? Or had they all conveniently forgotten? Tim shivered.

He didn't think any of them intended to intentionally hurt him—not when they all seemed to see in him the Timothy they'd lost. If anything, he was worried Dick would accidentally crush him in his enthusiasm. No, there was no danger of them intentionally hurting him, but… He thought of the déjà vu he'd been experiencing more and more frequently since he'd met them, the unexplainable black marks the day he'd arrived, the voice he'd heard so clearly in the upstairs restroom—I imagined it, surely, let me have imagined it—and couldn't suppress another shiver.

With someone so similar placed so temptingly before them, were they above doing something to turn him into the brother they'd lost?

He was startled out of his thoughts by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"What happened to Master Timothy was quite the blow. It's been hard on everyone. Give them a chance?" Looking at the kindly older gentleman, Tim couldn't help but feel put off. Alfred always seemed to know just what to say. Always seemed to know what he was thinking. Tim considered him curiously.

"Are you…?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Young man, when you get to my age, you learn a thing or two."

Tim was grinning now, dark mood temporarily forgotten. It was nice to know he wasn't the only human in the house. He leaned back and felt the cool wood of the grandfather clock. Speaking of what the butler knew…

"Alfred. This clock…"

"Yes. Master Bruce said you might figure that out." Alfred stepped forward resignedly, reaching up for the spindles while Tim watched, surprised, because honestly he had only been wondering why anyone would keep a broken clock around. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't for the grandfather clock to swing out, revealing a staircase behind it.

Alfred looked back at him expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

"If you'll follow me, there's something I think you need to see." Tim nodded, eyeing the dark passage with equal measures curiosity and wariness. It was too late not to get involved with this family. Far too late. Still, he was definitely not prepared when five minutes later found him at the bottom of the hidden flight of stairs, frozen in place on the last step where the stairway opened up into the largest cavern he'd ever seen. Several meters ahead, past a parking turntable containing the oddest collection of custom vehicles, the floor dropped away, revealing more levels below, disappearing into the gloom.

Realizing that he wasn't following, Alfred turned to look at him, smiling knowingly.

"Welcome to the Batcave, Master Tim."

"Batcave, right." Tim laughed disbelievingly, still taking it all in. Was that a dinosaur? They didn't seriously expect him to believe…

Alfred started through the vehicles to the right, up a set of steps, and Tim hurried to catch up, following him up to what could only be the computer he'd mentioned earlier. It resembled something closer to a command center, and at its heart, bathed in the blue glow of the screen, sat Bruce.

"Tim," was the only acknowledgement. Tim ignored the man, stepping slowly up behind him, drawn by the familiar photos on the screen. Judging by the incident report, SF600, SOAP notes, and various other documents, Alfred had been telling the truth.

"You really are looking into who attacked Dana?"

"The timing was too perfect for it to be a coincidence." Bruce's attention remained focused on the screen. He didn't turn.

"Can I help?"

"You can tell me if there's anyone you can think of who might have a grudge against you or your family. Anything you can… remember at all." Bruce turned then, and those ice blue eyes were suddenly riveted on him again, knowing, and it was all Tim could do to hold that gaze. He trembled under the full weight of it, seeing him, seeing through him with that same tug of fear he'd felt when he'd first met the man. Something about Bruce inspired terror, and Tim was not completely immune, but he couldn't give the man what he wanted. He wouldn't. Practically, he just didn't trust Bruce, didn't believe the man's goals were all benevolent, especially since the man had already undermined him once. He wasn't about to give Bruce any more leverage in this war. But truthfully, it was the worried, desperate whisper that kept his tongue glued to the top of his mouth: They aren't memories. Not mine. I'm just Tim. Just Tim.When he didn't answer, Bruce made a considering "hm" sound.

Dispassionately, Tim started to ask if there was any other way he could help, but he never got the chance.

"Timothy!" It was his only warning. That and the ghosting of fingers mussing his hair. Tim jerked around, swinging into an attack before he even registered who it was. Which was how Dick nearly got taken to the ground in five seconds flat. Or would have, if he'd been anyone else.

As it was, it didn't actually connect. Dick just caught it, snagging the attack out of the air as though he'd had all day to think about it. Which was how Tim found himself suddenly face to face with the older boy, all his momentum brought to a jarring halt, irrefutably stuck.

"Tim," he emphasized, tugging experimentally on his trapped hand. He was never going to get used to them doing that. Dick blinked at him.

"I think we need to take out some of this aggression." He paused, looking the arm he'd captured up and down. "Huh, ever thought of trying out a bo staff?"

There was something infectious about Dick. Something that pulled others along in his wake. Tim could feel it—an undercurrent, sweeping his feet out from under him, aligning him slowly and surely with Dick's will—but even knowing it, he couldn't bring himself to say no. Especially not with Dick beaming at him expectantly like that. Even Alfred seemed to see the inevitability, turning away with a murmured, "I leave him in your capable hands." And that was that.

So even though it hadn't been his intent, he found himself dragged along down a couple levels and onto the mats of a training area, unable to resist that pull anymore than anyone else. Anyway, he reasoned, it was a great observation opportunity, and more importantly, Dick seemed the most open with him and most likely to share information—the kind of information he needed to start making necessary contingency plans.

He caught the staff Dick tossed his way. It felt good in his hands, a comfortable weight.

"Good grip." Dick twirled a second one expertly as he approached. He took up position opposite Tim, feet grounded, arms holding the staff in front of him, ready. Tim copied, sliding into the pose easily. It was a little tricky at first following the other boy. Dick was obviously making an effort to slow down for him, but even then, his movements were too fluid, unhampered by normal limitations. Tim adjusted, trying different things, finally compensating by shortening the distance he pulled back. Once he'd settled on the solution, it was easy. Easier perhaps than it should have been, the movements coming automatically. There was something pleasing in it—a euphoria born of continuous motion and the clack of their two staffs meeting, Dick's appreciative murmurs.

"Who trained you?"

"Someone I met in Gotham several years back." Tim stepped back to avoid a sweeping blow from Dick's staff, only to have it angle sharply back at him from above. "Penchant for sneaking around at night like you do, but doesn't kill."

"We don't kill."

"Well, Jason didn't look like he was going for fond hugging last night." Tim could still feel the fingers around his throat, the cold appraisal in green eyes. Considered and discarded.

Dick's frown became troubled. "He didn't use to." It seemed a sore subject, so Tim left it alone, letting the clack of the bo staffs fill the emptiness instead until the mood lifted. Dick shifted, changing the variation of the exercise, and Tim followed, catching on without instructions.

"Good. Good." Dick nodded approvingly. "Alfred said you nearly took down three officers trying to get to your stepmom. We'll teach you how to take down twenty." Tim almost missed the next hit.

"Who exactly are you guys?"

"Gotham's protectors." There was Dick's grin again. Tim rolled his eyes.

"Metropolis gets super-powered alien protectors and Gotham gets vampires. I should have seen that coming."

"Technically, we're cursed."

"You drink blood." When Dick started to open his mouth to protest, Tim paused to shake a finger at him warningly. "Don't tell me you don't. I won't believe you." There were still two little marks at his wrist where Jason had bitten him. As if to prove his point, Dick's amused smile gained more teeth. Tim continued. "You avoid sunlight." He couldn't confirm that one, but he hadn't seen any of them during the day yet.

"It disagrees with us." Dick planted his bo staff, leaning on it disarmingly.

"You can enthrall people by looking them in the eyes." He was even less sure of the technical aspects of that one, but when the other boy didn't disagree, Tim crossed his arms, closing his case. "Vampire."

"Very well." Dick conceded the point. "But before you get any ideas about walking undead…" Just that quickly Tim found himself pressed flush up against the other boy's chest, one unmovable hand pinning his head tight enough he could hear the heart beat beneath well-developed pectoral muscles. Desperately, he brought the end of his bo staff down on Dick's foot. It didn't hurt the other boy—he'd known it wouldn't—but Dick released him with a little laugh that might have been for the color Tim could feel suffusing his cheeks. As soon as he was free, he stepped back, putting some distance between them, and raised the staff defensively.

"I get it. You're alive." Dick could have found another way to prove his point. The jerk. "How did you end up like this?"

"That would be Bruce's fault. He ticked off the wrong woman. She cursed him to live as the thing he feared most for the rest of eternity." Dick used Tim's surprised glance at his face to sweep low, attempting to throw his footing off. "Seriously."

"You can't actually turn into bats, can you?" Tim interrupted, turning just a little too quickly into the older boy's most recent attack.

"No." Dick laughed. "Nothing against the little guys." And well, that was good to know. "At some point Bruce decided to do something with eternity and it turned into a crusade to clean up Gotham. As for me, I fell." Dick shrugged elegantly, even while blocking Tim's next advance. "Bruce said he could save me and I said yes. Afterward he took me in."

"And the others?"

"Jason's story is much the same as mine. Bruce met him on the streets. When the streets got the best of him, Bruce gave him a choice and brought him home. As for Damian… Damian is Bruce's legitimate son. His mother tracked Bruce down a while back to inform him of his negligent parenting responsibilities."

"Wait, Bruce didn't know?"

"It was a bit of a shock for everyone."

"I'll bet."

"And then there's Timothy." It was Dick's turn to glance at Tim, to try to judge Tim's reaction. "Timothy was the son of a dear family friend. He actually stalked us for a couple years." Dick chuckled at the memory. "When his father died, he asked to join us."

"He didn't…" Tim started to ask, startled. But Dick was already shaking his head.

"No. Bruce took him in but refused to turn him. Timothy wasn't about to let that keep him from helping on the streets. I think he worked harder than anyone to be out there. When it nearly killed him, Jason turned him." He paused to avoid Tim's swing. "We still haven't figured out how to break the curse. There's some debate that it might break if Bruce ever settles down and does a woman right, but…" By the wry upturn at the corner of his mouth, that wasn't about to happen anytime soon.

"So now you haunt dark alleys as one big, mostly-immortal family." Their two staffs met with a pleasant clack. "Do you even need the weapons training?"

"Oh, we can be hurt." Dick pivoted away from what could have been a decisive blow for anyone else.

"Nice to know, because I'm pretty sure you could afford to let me land all these blows without a bruise to show for it tomorrow. If you were fighting me for real, I wouldn't stand a chance." As Tim rushed forward to take advantage of Dick's opening, a sudden sense of familiarity washed over him—the dizziness he now associated with bouts of déjà vu. He could see it coming, a whisper of movement to his right, feel the blow to his side he hadn't expected, the ghost of a smile. Someone's cheerful laugh. "Got you."

The unexpectedly loud clack of staff meeting staff startled Tim, bringing him back to the present, and he blinked to find he'd twisted, staff angled, blocking a blow to his side he hadn't expected. Dick appeared just as startled, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"I didn't know you were that good. Even Timothy couldn't block that the first time."

Tim dropped the staff like it was a snake, dragging in a deep breath.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine." He shook his head, trying to shake off the disorientation. The memory had been so clear. Dick's blue eyes evaluated Tim for a minute, but decided not to call him on it, returning instead to their conversation before the episode.

"You're safe here. You know that, right?"

"You want me to live under the same roof as a family of vampires, one of which has attacked me once already, and you call this safe?" Tim asked disbelievingly.

"Jason doesn't really come by the manor anymore," Dick shook his head, expression regretful, "but perhaps I can give you something to defend yourself anyway…"

Tim quickly hid his triumph behind a surprised, grateful smile. Dick considered him for a minute—just long enough that Tim started to wonder if the other boy had noticed—but finally he gestured Tim to follow, leading him off the mats to pull something from a compartment concealed amid the rest of the weapons.

"You keep something that can harm you this close?"

"Bruce believes in being prepared." He held out something slender and made of glass—a little red vial—but when Tim went to take it from him, Dick held on, blue eyes intent. "If you're really Timothy, you won't use that."

"If you mean me no harm like you claim, I won't have to," Tim countered. Dick must have considered that acceptable, because he let go, and Tim broke eye contact to look down at what he held. "It looks like blood."

"It is. If it gets into our bloodstream after its owner has died, it's like poison."

It couldn't be that easy. Dick wouldn't just hand him something like that. Maybe it was a test. Maybe it was fake and Dick just wanted him to think he was safe and trusted. At that point though, his thoughts were interrupted.

"He could kill us all with that." Damian stood, arms crossed, on the other side of the room. Dick seemed unconcerned.

"Timothy is family. We can trust him."

Tim could've pointed out the obvious problem with that philosophy, but he wasn't going to undermine this opportunity. Damian did it for him.

"Stop fooling yourself. He doesn't remember you. You don't mean a thing to him."

"That doesn't change who he is. Timothy wouldn't hurt anyone without reason."

Tim reevaluated his initial impression of Dick's gullibility. Maybe it wasn't misplaced trust. Maybe it was an attempt to make him feel safer with them, to make him trust them. That was okay too.

Either way, I still have what I need.

"You're a naïve fool."

"I trust him." Looking into those bright blue eyes, Tim felt the smallest twinge of guilt for using the other boy's faith in him like this. Especially if Dick really was just trying to make him feel safe. Anyway, he reasoned, Dick's trust wasn't completely misplaced. The other boy was right: Tim wasn't going to hurt any of them. At least, not unless they tried to hurt him first.

At that point, an alarm rang out through the cave, jerking everyone's attention toward the sound. Tim used the distraction to pocket the vial he'd been given.

"Sorry," Dick said, apologetic. "We'll have to do this again sometime."

"What's going on?" But both Dick and Damian had disappeared, and the question fell on the empty room. Tim hurried across the mats and up to the garage level, wanting to know what was happening, frustrated by how quickly they could move, how slow he felt in comparison, and how loud. The large, echoing cavern only served to accentuate that difference, so that even his normally soft footfalls sounded as harsh scuffs against the concrete. By the time he reached the computer, he just managed to catch Dick, pulling on black boots. The rest of his outfit had changed too, replaced by a black suit with blue stripes. Tim blinked.

"Dick, what's going on?" he asked again.

"There's some trouble downtown, and it's Nightwing. Don't call me Dick in costume. You never know who's listening."

"You mean, so no one finds out you're the famous Waynes?" Tim asked archly. "Were you trying to keep that a secret?" Dick finished pulling on the boots and looked at him.

"Imp." He scowled fondly. "Not everyone gets taken home. But seriously, be careful about names. We do have enemies."

"Father is waiting for us. Aren't you coming?" Damian had reappeared, clad in green and red and yellow, with cape and hood. It looked like someone had taken crayons to him, and Tim couldn't help the hike of eyebrows up his forehead. The bright colors were totally at odds with the brooding, angry boy he knew.

Dick gazed between them, seeming to consider for a second.

"Damian, stay with Tim." That brought instant objections from everyone.

"You are not leaving me here with this interloper!"

"Can't I come with?" Tim blurted out simultaneously. He wasn't even sure what he was asking for, but if he stayed at the manor, he'd be alone in the silence waiting to see if that voice would come back. Waiting to see if he was going crazy. Anything was better than that. Besides, the more he learned about this family, the better his chance of surviving if it came down to it.

"Bruce wouldn't like the idea of putting you in danger…" Another of those small, considering hesitations.

"I'll stay out of the way," Tim promised.

"Wait here." Dick was back a moment later, black mask clutched in one hand, identical to the one he wore himself. "We don't want anyone to ID you." He pressed it to Tim's face, a caress of cool fingertips against skin. Then he stepped back, tilting his head just so to check his work, grin growing. "Not bad." Tim blinked through the lenses, and curious, reached up to trace the edges, the feel of it against his face.

"Any slower and father will have finished without us." Damian huffed. The obnoxious attitude slid off Dick, who reached out to ruffle his hair fondly. Unlike Tim though, Damian was perfectly capable of ducking away in time with a half-hearted, "Touch me and I'll break your face."

"He's right. Let's go." Dick turned around, gesturing for Tim to get on. Tim wrapped his arms around the other boy's shoulders warily, not about to mention how much he hated travelling this way. He'd already had to fight for the privilege of coming.

So he gritted his teeth, hung on tight and prepared for the ride.

Seeing them work was mesmerizing. Damian and Dick had their own style. Damian cracked wrists and twisted arms. The thrill of warm blood coating cold hands. He was haughtiness and shadow and fear coming out of the darkness. And Dick… Dick was scarier. He smiled at them, whispered with heavy blue eyes, and the men listened. A brush of fingertips, a polite request, and the men tied themselves up, dropped guns, took out comrades. Dick was danger and seduction.

Tim watched him pull one into his arms, kiss that neck sweetly and then sharply, watched his catch give up everything. Tim watched and shuddered.

So this was what they did, this was how they protected the city. It was… fascinating. He wasn't sure where Bruce was—they'd gotten separated from him in the fray.

His observation abruptly cut short when something moved unexpectedly in the shadows to his left, running along the dark divider of glass that walled off the ledge where they'd left him to watch, safe, out of the way. It was quick—possibly as quick as Dick and Damian down below—and gone by the time he turned. Tim stared into the darkness for a few minutes, trying vainly to make out shapes there, and nearly jumped when someone suddenly spoke up from behind him.

"Something wrong with your side, kid?"

Tim breathed a sigh of relief when Jason stepped out of the shadows, red mask partially obscuring his features and a red helmet tucked under one arm, and only then realized he had the fingers of one hand fisted in his shirt where it covered the markings. Belatedly, he forced his arms to his side.

"Nothing. I…" He shook his head distractedly, looking back toward the dark glass. "Did you see anything?" Jason turned to follow his gaze, but the assessment only lasted a second.

"There's nothing."

Great. First he was hearing things, now he was seeing things. But something real had attacked Dana. It was better to be wary, better to be a little jumpy. A tiny thread of doubt pointed out that he couldn't prove the Waynes weren't responsible themselves. If they'd intended to make him stay with them, removing Dana from the picture was a great start. But… Well, here they were intervening in gang violence in the middle of the night, making sure no one got hurt, and he was starting to think Bruce really had just been trying to protect him by forcing him to stay at the manor. The man probably had other motivations, of course. Maybe he was hoping Tim would warm up to them and tell them what he was hiding, but he hadn't forced Tim to tell him. That was what mattered.

He didn't believe they were responsible. He just wasn't dismissing the notion.

Jason frowned and was just that suddenly beside Tim, as though he'd skipped the distance between, and Tim's line of thought cut off into startled silence. Dang, he hated when they did that. Then Jason's fingers brushed the edges of the mask, following the curve of it, and what was his problem with it anyway?

Tim shivered at the touch, those cold fingers against his face. He knew first-hand how quickly they could catch him up, haul him whole into the darkness.

Show no fear.

"Dragging you into their little club so quickly?"

"Something about secret identities." Tim batted at the hand. Not that he stood a chance of moving it if it's owner didn't want him to.

"It doesn't look as bad on you as I would have thought." Tim blinked. He must have heard wrong, because surely that hadn't been a compliment. Not from Jason.

"I think you forgot the threatening part of that threat."

Jason's grin was all teeth. "Anyone else I caught checking out my family like this, I'd have to snap their neck."

"Lucky me," Tim breathed.

"Why did they take you with them? You shouldn't be out here alone." Jason's sure stride mapped out a semi-circle around Tim, like a circling shark.

Tim nearly snorted.

"Please. Save someone who needs it." He leaned back against the stone edging, above the black warren of streets directly below, subtly putting a little more space between himself and the older boy. "Contrary to popular belief, I was doing just fine on my own before you showed up."

"Who said I was going to be doing the saving?"

"If you're not the knight, are you the demon then?"

"Just cursed." He smiled humorlessly. "Demons are nothing more than slaves to a master. They don't have free will." Tim blinked and filed that away—a note in the Weird folder that had rapidly expanded in the last couple days.

Some movement down by Dick and Damian caught his attention, a flash of yellow in the darkness.

"Aren't you going to help them?" Tim asked. Jason's breath huffed out in something that was almost a laugh.

"Are you kidding me? The odds are grossly in their favor." So that's what he called forty on two. Though Tim had to admit they seemed to have things well in hand. Something about the way they moved—they even seemed to be enjoying themselves. There were a lot fewer people running around, half of which were helping Dick tie themselves up. Tim shook his head.

"Why don't they fight him?"

"Everyone loves Dick."

"They don't seem to have much of a choice." There were so many things he didn't know about this family. He was going to have to learn quickly if he wanted to stand a chance.

"He's naturally persuasive that way. Don't tell me you haven't felt it." Jason's grin was feral. Tim refused to let the other boy get under his skin.

"And the rest of you aren't… persuasive?" Before he could blink, Jason's hand wrapped tight around his chin, jerking their faces close enough that Tim could see just how very green the other boy's eyes were through the mask. Molten, living green.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Point taken." Tim didn't breathe easy until Jason released him, pulling away.

"Looks like they're about done." Green eyes flicked to track something in the alley below—the shadows were too thick down there for Tim to tell what. "Hm, straggler." Jason put a hand on the stone edging and swung over the side, dropping into the darkness and out of sight. Shaking his head at the impossibility of making a jump so high and wondering how he'd ever gotten involved with such people, Tim headed for the fire escape around the corner and started down.

By the time he dropped the last five feet to the ground, the deep shadows had thinned into a fine gloom, revealing familiar trash-lined alleys. He stuck to the darker wall anyway, hurrying around the corner back to the side where he'd seen Jason disappear. He wasn't sure why he needed to find the other boy. It was an impulse, urging him onward. Something told him he wasn't going to like what he found, but he had to know.

Somewhere up ahead someone started screaming, and heart pounding, Tim raced toward the sound. It only took him a minute to track it back to the source: a little niche with a doorway. The shadows clung there unnaturally thick, and Tim paused, remembering that darkness thick enough to choke on, the immovable weight of a hand against his chest, pressing him hard against chipped brick, making it difficult to breathe…

But that wasn't this time.

Tim took a deep breath and stepped forward, far enough into the darkness to make out shapes: the dangerous slant of Jason's body, one hand wrapped tightly around the neck of the man he'd cornered against the building, tilting it just so. Tim couldn't see Jason's face—it was buried against the victim's throat—but he could make out the wide eyes of the man over Jason's shoulder. There was no recognition. He didn't see Tim at all.

The screaming had stopped anyway.

"Leave." Jason didn't look at him, but he released the man in his grip, letting him drop unceremoniously to the ground, eyes glazed. "You're not wanted."

"Is he…?"

"One less piece of trash to make trouble? Oh yeah."

"Jason doesn't kill. When did Jason start killing?" Tim's breath hitched. That hadn't been his thought, but he'd heard it all the same. Jason mistook his sudden apprehension.

"Afraid to see what we're capable of?" There was a split-second expression on Jason's face that Tim would almost have called disappointment. "You're nothing like him." Then the other boy started to turn away, dismissing him.

"Why?" Tim caught Jason's arm, keeping him from leaving, refusing to be taken so lightly. It was possibly a stupid move. "You didn't need to kill him. What was the purpose?"

"Why?" Jason repeated, glancing at the hand on his arm, and just that suddenly their positions reversed. It was Jason's hand wrapped around behind Tim, pressing at the small of his back, preventing him from leaving. "Because by the end of the week there'll be a dozen less people dead because he's off the streets." Tim's heart jumped, his breath stuttering under the hand so suddenly cupped around his throat, fingertips a dangerous staccato against the base of his skull. Little warnings went off in his head: caught, trapped, danger.

"Jason won't hurt me." It was whispered with uttermost confidence. Tim sure hoped the voice was right, because it'd obviously been mistaken about Jason's willingness to kill, and he didn't want to make bets with that kind of track record.

"I think our views on acceptable loss differ somewhat," he replied with grim humor. Not that there was any answer.

"You could've turned them over to the authorities," he told Jason.

"No. If we'd taken them out from the start, we never would have lost anyone! I'm going to keep these streets clean, whatever it takes. And maybe tomorrow you'll be alive because of it." Jason's thumb ghosted up and down Tim's larynx when he swallowed.

Tim took a deep breath, feeling the stretch of it expand his chest and diaphragm, down into his abdomen. Then he let it go: the breath, the coiled tightness in muscles held at the ready too long, the tension in his shoulders. He let it all go and really looked at Jason.

He couldn't stop the electric current of fear along his nerve endings—fear was a warning system his body used to keep itself functioning, fear was necessary, fear was safety. And it was right to warn him to caution. Jason could tear him apart. Or worse. But the longer he looked at the other boy's face, the more he could see… the way that mouth would shape just so when he laughed, the little quirk when he was teasing. They were pale shadows, but right just then the toothy smirk didn't mean anything in comparison.

Tim reached up and pressed tentative fingers to Jason's face, mapping the contours of frowns he was suddenly sure had once been wry smiles. He fought through the headache pressing in on him from all sides, trying to see.

"You used to smile more." The moment he said it, he froze. Later he'd blame it on Jason's crushingly tight grip—he was going to have bruises the next day—and the headache that reached a merciless peak just then, and the stress of a day fraught with worry and helplessness watching over Dana. It didn't mean anything. It didn't…

And the look on Jason's face…

"Tim…" But whatever he was going to say was cut off.

"Jason!" Dick's sharp reprimand echoed down the alley. Jason took a minute, still clutching Tim, ignoring the intrusion, but finally his grip eased.

"Better watch out, little pretender. That face won't always save you." He picked up the helmet he'd left on the concrete and turned away. The shadows seemed to cling to him, converging around him a little too quickly to feel real.

"Timothy." Dick blinked. "Tim. You alright?"

"Fine." Tim finally managed to tear his eyes away from the spot where Jason had disappeared and look at Dick. "It was my fault. I think I touched on a sore subject."

"You should avoid antagonizing him."

"Todd has a point." Damian ghosted up beside Dick. "Killing them would be more efficient."

"Don't you start too."

Tim shook his head as he listened to the two banter, his gaze drawn back to the shadows uncertainly. It wasn't until later, the sudden realization made him smile.

Jason had called him Tim.

When Bruce returned from patrol, it was to find Tim bathed in the pale glow of the high definition flat screen connected to the main computer. He didn't bother the boy. After all, if the information Tim found helped him regain some of the control he'd been stripped of, if it made him feel just a little bit safer and more secure, then Bruce wasn't going to take that from him.

However, when he found Tim still at it the next night, apparently having worked at it all through the day and into the evening, he decided to intervene. He knew for a fact Tim had been up for nearly thirty-six hours at that point, what with the attack on Dana the day before, and he looked exhausted.

"I'll take it from here. You should get some sleep." As weary as he obviously was, Tim still shook his head, focused on the data before him.

"No. I have to figure this out. It's too important to wait."

"You're exhausted. Get a couple hours sleep and come back." Another stubborn headshake. Unfortunately, he was just as obstinate as Timothy when it came to completing projects and twice as bad at thinking of himself. Bruce frowned. Perhaps he'd developed an overprotective streak since Timothy's death, but Timothy or not (and he had to admit all the data down to the blood test, impossibly enough, indicated he was) Bruce didn't like watching the boy exhaust himself. He'd been hoping he could simply persuade Tim. Dick probably could have. Luckily, there were other ways. He stepped in front of Tim, catching those tired blue eyes when they narrowed at him.

"Sleep, Tim." It didn't take much, just a tiny suggestion. The hint of a suggestion. Tim folded forward. Bruce caught him before he could hit the ground, scooping up the limp body. If luck were with him, the boy wouldn't realize what he'd done in the morning, passing it off as exhaustion or the haze that blurred dreams and reality. The same couldn't be said of the older boy on the steps behind him.

"Cheater," Dick accused, not unkindly. There was a fond smile touching his lips—a little melancholy, or maybe just reminiscent—as he took in the boy curled against Bruce's broad chest, the familiarity in lean limbs, the way the shadows clung to that bone structure, the features softened in sleep. Of all of them, Dick might have been the most sure of Tim, the most attached. Speaking of which…

"You gave Tim one of the vials."

"Yes." Dick stood his ground, unperturbed and obviously expecting the accusation. "You know how he is. Corner him and he won't stop until he's prepared ten ways to take you down. I figured it was safer to just give it to him. Now we know he has it instead of worrying about what he'll come up with on his own."

Bruce didn't smile, but perhaps the tight line of his lips softened a little. Had he ever doubted Dick knew what he was doing? Still…

"Be careful."

"Aren't you going to tell me what you found?" Dick asked, glancing back down at the exhausted Tim pointedly. "And don't tell me you didn't look. I know you did." Bruce felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Dick knew him too well.

"He's not our Timothy." Before Dick could object, Bruce continued, starting past him down the steps with his sleeping burden. "His name is Tim Drake. He has a life, a birth certificate, school record, parents—had parents." Dick winced. "None of it was faked. As far as anyone's concerned, he's not Timothy."

"Buuuuuut…?" Dick pressed. Another fond twitch. Too well indeed.

"I had a hunch." The flight of stairs back up to the manor proper was dark, the rock walls pressing in. "I ran a search on persons matching Timothy's description over the past century." He hadn't been prepared for the number of matches. It had taken awhile to weed through the results, especially the older, less detailed records, and still the number of matches had surprised him.

He frowned, paused on the threshold of the manor proper, where the stairway left off, becoming the study.

"What's wrong?" Even after so many years—maybe because of all those years—he couldn't hide anything from Dick. He turned to meet Dick's eyes, blue boring into blue. In his arms, Tim slept on obliviously.

"This isn't the first time."

Author Note: Extra long chapter. Merry Christmas. Happy New Years. I was hoping to be at 40k words by now, but no, holidays put a damper on things, and I admit, I got distracted writing some short fan pieces for some Justice Lord Tim art. And that's where the other 8,000 words disappeared to. XD

Goal: post the next chapter by Valentines.

I had one of those well-duh moments and realized I'd been writing Jason's eyes green again like in the movie. Since this story started out with green, I'm going to keep it that way. It'd actually be kind of nice to have something to distinguish them instead of… "No, it's the other black-haired, blue-eyed kid." Also, I realized in writing this that the blueprints I have for Wayne Manor don't include a study… WHAT?! So I retrofitted the library. I'm using Batcave designs from the back of Time and the Batman.

Blame Blue for the use of Supernatural's dead man's blood as a weapon against vampires, since this is a spin-off of her verse. I actually had a talk with my husband about coagulation, and as long as the blood doesn't have to be viable, we believe it would remain the right consistency as long as it was treated with anticoagulant/preservative.