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Chapter 8

Thief

"Cut that out." The kid didn't even bother looking away from the computer screen, so Jason didn't bother listening, continuing to flick at wisps of black hair instead. Tim hadn't taken the hint (or had chosen to ignore it) when Jason had draped himself over the back of the computer chair in utter boredom earlier, so he deserved any retribution Jason saw fit to inflict.

"Why are you wearing this?" He hooked a finger under the kid's high collar, tugging curiously. "We're not going to bite you," he teased. "Well, unless you want us to. Or is it the marks you're still trying to hide?" Which was pretty pointless, really. It wasn't like they didn't all know about the marks. It wasn't like the high collar completely hid them anymore either. He traced the filigree-fine path of a black brush stroke idly as it wound up around the smooth curve of a jaw line before fading into indecipherability. Tim pulled away from the touch, the corners of his eyes crinkling briefly in annoyance, but that was all. Jason smirked a little at the response. He had most of the kid's irritated tells memorized by now. "That's it, isn't it?"

"I don't like the reminder every time I look in the mirror," Tim replied evenly, still facing the computer screen. Stupid computer. Displeased, Jason took the kid's face in his hands, tilting it back sharply over the arching back of the chair so he could look into those startled blue eyes upside down. Much better.

"You shouldn't hide them." He stroked a thumb over one black-stained cheek, ignoring the temptation of the kid's slender neck so beautifully bared like this, the pulse of blood beneath the skin. This time Tim didn't evade the touch, even briefly pushing into it. Jason breathed in the heady feel of that trust, of the kid relaxed back into his hold. "Don't let them rule you." Too bad it didn't last long.

"I'll keep that in mind." Tim's upside-down smile was droll, flashed for just a second. Then he pulled away, righting himself.

And Tim was ignoring him again. Jason groaned and spitefully contemplated giving in to the temptation to bite the kid, for revenge if nothing else. Tim probably would have hit him and kicked him out of the room though.

Getting wrangled into taking a shift of Tim-watching duty while Bruce hunted down a couple possible leads was one thing, and if he hadn't put up much of an argument, well he happened to agree with not leaving the kid alone. But if he had to spend one more second watching Tim on the computer, he was going to shoot someone.

"Come on, kid, you've been at that for ages." He flicked at a wisp of hair for good measure. "How far do you think you'll get when your brain turns into binary mush?"

"Further than I will playing games with you," Tim replied, slapping absently at the offending hand. Jason sighed, breath whooshing out against the back of the kid's neck.

"All right. I didn't want to do this, but you leave me no choice." Tim made a very pleasing yelp when Jason picked him up bodily and slung him over a shoulder.

"I was working on something!" Tim protested, hands pushing at Jason's back for leverage.

"This is an intervention. I'm saving you from a life of cramped fingers and bad eye sight."

"I may not have a life if you don't let me finish my work!" Oh yeah, Tim was irritated all right. It only served to convince Jason the kid needed a break. He needed a break, so there was no way the kid didn't need one too.

"Look, this object you're looking for, it was stolen from the museum, right? Why don't we go check it out. Maybe you'll remember something."

Tim stilled. Jason could practically hear the considering head tilt. He could definitely feel the pointy brace of elbows while the kid thought about it.

"Huh. That's actually a good idea." Tim sounded surprised. "But Bruce is going to kill you."

"Been there. Done that." Jason waved it off. If Bruce was going to leave him in charge of guarding the kid while he ran around checking out possible leads, then Jason was darn well going to do the guarding on his own terms.

"All right," Tim conceded.

That was what Jason liked to hear.

He made it all the way to the cave before Tim got fed up with the over-the-shoulder hold.

"Would you put me down already, I can walk!" Tim said, exasperated. He squirmed pointedly, wiggling in Jason's grasp.

"No can do," Jason replied. "I like you like this. You're more manageable." He patted Tim's behind demonstratively, rewarded by an offended huff of breath.

Tim pulled some little trick where he braced suddenly against Jason's back upside down and jerked his lower body forward, through Jason's grasp. Jason let him go rather than catch at his ankles and leave him dangling like that—it was sorely tempting. The kid landed feline-like on his feet instead, unruffled.

"You realize I just have to pick you right back up so we can go."

"I'm not luggage! Pick me up properly, or better yet, we could drive like normal people." Jason stared down at him silently for a couple minutes, not surprised when Tim only stared back, unimpressed. When had intimidation ever worked on Tim? Fine then.

"Please fasten your seatbelts and make sure your seatbacks and tray tables are in their full and upright position." He swept into a graceful kneeling position, offering his back. There was something about the kid he had to respect, however grudgingly.

"Are you sure I can't persuade you on the driving thing?" Tim asked heavily, even as he wrapped his arms around Jason's neck. "Why do you even have the automobiles?"

"Hey! You're traveling air-Jason now! We don't take in-flight comments." He waited until Tim had settled snug against his back, waited for the tight grip of the kid's thighs around his waist, the brush of toes at his knees. Of course, it was just as he'd decided Tim was secure and they could leave that Dick and Damian chose to return from patrol.

"Wasn't there some detail about house arrest?" Dick asked, pausing in the middle of removing a blue-striped black gauntlet. "Where are you going?"

"I'm breaking him out." Jason straightened, defensive, even knowing it wasn't meant as a reprimand. Dick wouldn't have looked so curious if he'd been upset.

"We're going to the museum where the dagger was stolen," Tim elaborated, unnecessarily. Jason had become somewhat adept at reading his siblings over the years, and he was fairly sure Dick had no interest in keeping the kid caged up in the manor. No, Dick definitely wouldn't try to stop them. That wasn't the problem at all.

"In that case," Dick declared, "I'm coming with."

That was the problem.

"We're not taking hitchhikers," Jason growled, outright ignoring Tim's "I don't mind" from over his shoulder. He knew where this was going, and he had to put his foot down somewhere before they all decided to join in. "Besides, aren't you teaching the brat bad habits, disobeying daddy?"

"Father is not without his faults," Damian replied dismissively, waving a green gauntleted hand. "I am offended by your implication that I follow blindly."

"If this helps find that dagger faster, then I'm all for it." Dick shrugged. "Anyway, the more of us to watch over Timo–" The way Dick paused while looking at him, just over his shoulder, Jason thought maybe Tim had given him a warning glare to equal his own. "–my," Dick finished a little belatedly, "the less Bruce can complain about letting him get some air."

"I don't need help keeping him safe," Jason replied. Damian crossed his arms.

"Please. If we must accompany you, at least stop wasting our time with this pointless debate. It is impossible to dissuade Grayson."

"None of you are coming!" Jason threw his hands in the air. This was what he'd been afraid of. Damian was practically inseparable from Dick, and while he could put up with the latter, he disagreed with the demon brat on principle. He faced down Damian, and if he didn't manage to look as imposing as usual, well, Tim was still pressed against his back, arms curled around his shoulders. Laughing, judging by the soft stutter of breath against the back of his neck. Even Tim knew it was a losing battle, and the kid was laughing at him. Jason considered dropping him. Instead he put the added irritation into his glare. "I draw the line at demon brats." Like Tim, Damian wasn't impressed, but then, he was rarely impressed by anything. Jason wondered why he bothered.

"Do desist your complaining, Todd. Be grateful I've decided your cause is worthy of my attention."

"Come on, Jason," Dick grinned, locking arms with him. "I hardly ever get to spend time with you. It's been forever since you came around this often." He ignored Jason's muttered, "With good reason," smiling brightly instead. "It'll be fun!"

Jason could feel the headache already.

"Did we have a plan for getting in?" Tim asked, sometime later, as Jason let him drop safely to the sidewalk. Somehow he'd anticipated some sort of secret rooftop entry, possibly through a skylight, and was intrigued as to why they were on the ground heading for the locked and guarded main entrance.

"Getting in won't be the problem." Dick grinned at him, looking entirely too normal in a blue button-up shirt and jeans—apparently breaking and entering didn't necessitate an outlandish wardrobe and secret identity, if they intended to do any breaking at all. Tim was beginning to think they didn't. Dick sauntered ahead, adopting a wickedly sultry gait, and Tim was suddenly worried.

"What is he doing?"

"Watch and learn." Jason looked down at him, leer turning thoughtful. "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't watch."

"Do leave the brain intact this time," Damian drawled. "They're of no use to us in a drooling daze."

Yes. Definitely worried.

Dick waved them off, because at that point the security guard spotted them, turning to bar the door. Judging by the frown lines and the hard stare she turned their way, she was unimpressed.

"The museum's closed–" the woman started, but Dick reached her before she could finish, putting a connecting hand on her arm.

"Could you open the doors for us?" There was something coy about the way Dick tilted his head, something heated about his smile. Gone were the little movements too quick for the eye to see that always made Tim feel like time had skipped. Gone was the subtle sense of danger they always carried. The way he stood accented the tight lines of his hips, drawing attention to the curve of calves and thighs.

The security guard swallowed visibly, and right just then Tim understood. The terrifying thing was, if Dick had been looking at him with those half-lidded eyes, he might have tried to open the doors too.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jason's arm came down like a bar in front of him, and it was only then he realized he'd actually taken a step forward. Blinking in surprise, he dug his fingernails into his palms, letting the pain focus him. Sure, he'd noticed Dick's physical appeal before, but it had always been tempered by that underlying dangerous air they all carried. If anything, it had made him more cautious around the older boy. Now that sense of impending peril was gone, masked perfectly by careful coquetry, and there wasn't a soul that wouldn't at least look up. Couple that with Dick's naturally persuasive *personality, and…

The poor security guard didn't stand a chance. Her breath shuddered out.

"Yeah. No problem. Anything you want." She turned and escorted them to the door. Dick followed close enough to brush against the woman as they walked. The guard paused only once, key half in the lock, and looked back at Dick. Any resistance was crushed instantly.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" She was practically begging.

"Don't remember us." Dick patted her cheek and the woman walked off, somewhat dazed, as though there were not four people walking blatantly past her guard.

"He takes all the fun out of breaking and entering," Jason muttered. Tim watched the guard walk off, feeling vaguely disconcerted.

"What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. Maybe a little enthrallment." Dick was suddenly all business, slow saunter back to fluid grace, nothing spared. "They do most of it on their own." Tim paused, momentarily thrown.

"Wait, it wasn't some effect of the curse?"

"No." Jason grinned knowingly. "He was always that good at getting everyone's attention. Maybe the curse enhanced it a little, that's all." Tim shuddered. He hadn't considered…

Dick didn't even have to try.

Tim wondered what it said about himself that he didn't find that as utterly terrifying as he might have once. At least he wasn't like Timothy yet, who'd wanted to be one of them. Most of the time Tim couldn't see it. Most of the time Timothy's desire didn't make sense at all. Who would want to live in darkness all the time? But sometimes… Sometimes he couldn't help but be just a little bit enamored too.

Still, some boundaries needed to be set.

"For future notice, don't ever do that to me."

"Rest assured," Damian said, tart, "if I ever find you looking at Grayson so wantonly, you won't have long to endure the embarrassment."

"Thanks. I think."

At that point, the door closed behind them, shutting them all in with a neat click.

It was dark inside, the lights powered down to conserve electricity after closing. Only the glow of emergency exit signs saved them from pitch darkness, casting an occasional green gleam to the floor tiles. The exhibits loomed large and menacing in the half-light.

Damian wandered between a couple of them, looking bored and unimpressed, pausing with an outright sneer before a stone sphinx twice his size.

"Do you recognize anything?" Jason asked, recalling Tim to their purpose. He looked around, taking in the Egyptian sarcophagus and bust of Nefertiti, before moving on to other rooms, looking for relics that would bring on the flashes of déjà vu he'd been trying to avoid until now. The others trailed behind him, sometimes making silly comments about the displays. By the time they reached the end, Tim still hadn't been able to trigger any memories. He didn't need Timothy's whispery voice to know it had changed.

"There's nothing," he said, frustrated. "It's not the same."

"This museum was remodeled." Dick placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. "There may not be enough left to recognize."

"Tt," Damian said, arms crossed in the darkness. "Obviously you just need to look at it properly."

"I don't think–" Dick started, only to be interrupted by Jason.

"For once, the brat might be onto something." He suddenly clapped his hands over Tim's eyes, pulling him back against his chest. Tim stiffened as his view of the room blacked out.

"Jason…"

"Relax," Jason whispered. "Don't think about it too hard." That was easier said than done. Especially with the hard planes of Jason's chest pressed against his back and that hot breath against his ear.

Personally, he thought the real problem was that the flashbacks had previously always come of their own accord, usually when Tim least wanted them, and now he was trying to initiate them. He was trying to remember being someone with whom he wanted no connection. Just being here was admitting more than he liked.

"Relax," Jason repeated, thumbs warm against his temples. "Try to remember." Tim belatedly followed the direction, taking a deep breath and letting the tension seep out of him with the exhale. He leaned back against Jason and cleared his mind. It wasn't difficult to imagine the dagger, the weight of it, the way the light would have hit it. He could almost… There. Something flashed in the darkness—a glitter of gold and steel.

His eyes flew open. Throwing off Jason's hold, he hurried into the previous room.

"Here. Except…" The angles were all wrong. He slammed his eyelids closed and adjusted his view. "There wasn't another wing, and there was a shelf along the wall… there." Without opening his eyes, he pointed. "The dagger was on display in a case…" He turned. Pointed. "There." When he opened his eyes, exultant, it was to find Dick and Jason exchanging glances. Damian was eyeing him almost warily.

"You really are a freak."

Tim's exuberance flat-lined into annoyance, because of course it was one thing to spout bits of memories that could have been lucky guesses, another to intentionally recall someone else's life, but he was tired of hiding it like some shameful secret. Tired of not liking what he saw in the mirror. He closed his eyes, remembering Jason's advice earlier. He could still feel the brush of a thumb, sliding over the inky trails adorning his cheeks without hesitation, accepting all of him.

"Yes," whispered Timothy. Maybe in agreement, Tim was never sure.

"You're right." He met Damian's blue eyes, smile dangerous, and started rolling up his sleeves, first one, then the other. "But that's why we're here, isn't it? Because I can remember things I shouldn't." It was thrilling, exposing all the inky markings now down to his elbows. Let them see. Let them all accept him for who he was right now. "Because I'm the one with a curse consuming his soul, and if being a freak means my memories might hold the key to breaking it, I'd rather be a freak." Let Damian see how serious he was. "Say what you want, but know that I won't always be undermined by your petty jealousy." Because it was jealousy, he was certain of it. Though what he had to be jealous of, Tim wasn't sure.

It might have been a bold move to confront him about it so openly. If Damian attacked him right then, he couldn't stop the boy. But he was pretty sure he could count on… yes.

"Oh yeah," Jason nearly snorted. "You'll fit right in with the rest of the family just fine."

"He's right." Even Dick seemed amused. "You've got nothing on us."

Tim grinned back at them.

"Tt." Damian crossed his arms.

Dick must have decided Tim looked too pleased with himself, because he reached over and ruffled Tim's hair, pulling him into a one-handed half-hug against his side. Perhaps a little tighter than necessary. Tim felt the air squish out of his lungs, and only the softening of his smile said he found it enjoyable instead of annoying.

He was in trouble, because he was starting to like these people, starting to trust them, starting to want to be with them. They accepted him without reservations. When he was with them, he didn't feel ostracized for having someone else's memories. For the first time in a long time he felt like he belonged somewhere. Was this what Timothy had felt? Was this why he'd been drawn to them?

"Timmy," and he even thought he could accept that: Dick's compromise on getting his name right, "what you've told us, we already know. Is there anything else?" Tim nodded determinedly. Maybe he hadn't asked for these memories, but he could use them.

"There was… a scuffle." Tim paused, pushing past the growing headache, trying to hang onto the hazy thread of memories. He could just recall the sinuous lines of the thief if he concentrated hard enough—the curve of hips and elegance of movement. A woman. There had been something surprising… "He saw the thief's face."

"He saw him?" Jason interrupted sharply.

"Her." Tim nodded. "He was surprised. She stabbed him." For a second he could feel the flare of heat in his abdomen where the blade had penetrated before letting the memories go.

"That wasn't in the report," Dick mused. "Why would Timothy omit a description of the culprit?"

"Maybe it was someone he wanted to protect?"

"Someone he recognized?"

Tim let them speculate. Identifying the thief was important, yes, but… There was another angle here. He could feel it. It wasn't just about who had stolen the dagger and why. Maybe Timothy had meant to draw attention to something else entirely when he omitted information about the thief. Maybe…

"What did she look like?" Dick asked, pulling him briefly out of his thoughts. Tim considered. It was easier now that he'd done it before to remember that night, the details coming quickly.

"Five-foot-eight. Brown hair. Brown eyes." Tim shook his head absently. "Maybe Timothy recognized her, but I don't."

"If we can figure out who the thief was, maybe we can figure out where the dagger is."

"You're all idiots," Damian declared suddenly, turning everyone's attention to him. "Mother's been playing you from the beginning."

"Talia?" Dick asked, frowning. "The description fits," he agreed, "and Timothy would have recognized her."

"What would she want with an old dagger?" Tim asked. The name didn't mean anything to him.

"A dagger rumored to grant immortality," Jason reminded him.

"For grandfather, obviously."

"Grandfather?" Tim asked, curious.

"Ra's al Ghul," Jason replied grimly. "Familiar at all?" That name definitely sounded… The world tilted a little before righting itself—the familiar disorientation of a memory just out of recall. It felt important. Timothy whispered something cautious.

"Yes," Tim said, blinking in the dark museum, unable to hang onto the memory or the fleeting impression of… what? He couldn't recall. He tried to listen to the whispers, but they were too soft. Jason looked about ready to ask another question, but Tim preempted it with a distracted headshake. "Not that familiar."

"We should tell Bruce."

"Someone needs to find Ra's."

Tim tuned them out again.

Something was bothering him. Timothy had omitted information from a report. Dick said Timothy had always had a plan. How long had the computer been around to store the report anyway? Maybe it was nothing, but…

"Kid. You in there?" Jason's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him. Tim blinked at the sudden violation, the realization, gaze snapping to meet the older boy's.

"Do you still have a copy of the original report?"

Tim yelped as he walked through a doorway only to be snagged into a set of clingy arms. They'd returned to the manor a couple hours earlier, empty-handed in the early-morning gloom, and he'd been trying to work through the dizziness of severe fatigue to examine the original hardcopy of Timothy's report ever since then. In fact, he'd just been returning from a trip to the kitchen to find something to keep him awake. Not that sugar was going to work much longer. Or anything else for that matter. Even so, Tim was determined to push through the fog as long as possible. He'd been looking over the bloody document for several hours, and maybe he'd found something or maybe he hadn't. "Find the seal." That's what he'd found. What did that mean anyway? Maybe he was just desperate, looking for answers where there weren't any, finding meaning where there wasn't any. Maybe he could have sorted it out if he wasn't so exhausted, but anything—anything—was better than trying for empty, troubled sleep that left him more exhausted than rested.

All in all, he was in no mood to deal with the older boy's antics.

"Dick!" he complained, trying to leverage himself free by pushing against the floor. "Let me go, I don't have time for this!"

"No. You promised. Hugs. Anytime. Besides, you need them."

"I do not."

"You do. You're cranky."

Tim took a deep breath, because yelling at Dick wasn't going to help.

"I'm just tired."

"You should get some rest then." Dick's nose tickled where he'd buried it in the feathery black wisps of hair at the base of Tim's neck. Tim wondered if the older boy was just trying for more of that physical contact he always seemed to crave or if he was lulled by the whispery thread of blood under the skin, by the warmth and smell of it. For his sanity, he decided on the former, and as usual when it came to Dick, Tim felt caught between exasperation and fondness.

"I can't."

"Why not?" Tim felt the frown against his skin and shivered. "We can track down Ra's while you sleep. It won't solve the problem if you kill yourself with exhaustion."

Tim smiled grimly at the humor, because what were a couple days more or less if he was going to die anyway? "I can't," he reiterated. "I've tried. The nightmares keep me up." He tried to brush it off, but Dick wouldn't let him turn away.

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?" And now he could see the older boy's frown, the concerned down turn of his perfect mouth. "We could have done something."

"I've already tried sleeping aids."

"That's not what I meant. Look at me." It was hard not to, what with Dick's face so close to his and that warm hand against the side of his head, fingers tangled in raven locks of hair, keeping him from turning away. Still, he could have chosen not to. He could have chosen to close his eyes and tell Dick to stop, because he was pretty sure the older boy would have listened. But he didn't. He really was tired—exhausted—the depth of his fatigue weighing on his limbs as sure as shackles. And it was easier just to give in, easier to meet the demanding pull of those blue eyes, locking their gazes together.

The heat and restlessness that always came with Dick's enthrallment hit him then—the need for skin and contact—and he pressed closer, drugged, wanting…

"I want you to sleep and not dream. Just until you're not so tired." Dick's smile was gentle. "Can you do that for me?"

Tim nodded. Anything. Anything.

Then he slumped into Dick's arms.

Bruce's thoughts weighed him down as he pulled the cowl back and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long night, made longer with frustration and the nagging creep of fear. The rhythmic padding of his feet across the floor was the tick tock of the clock counting down.

He was going to lose another one. Maybe lose the same one again.

That thought had pushed him all night, hugging his heels worse than a shadow.

He went to find Tim, to check on him, because he needed to see for himself, needed to know the boy was still safe. Something of the painful grip around his heart softened when he found the boy asleep in bed, looking peaceful and untroubled for once, Dick keeping watch by his side.

Bruce leaned against the doorframe for a few minutes just to watch the rise and fall of the blankets. The tight corners of his mouth softened just a little. If he'd been harder, more stringent on the boy than occasion called, it was only because he was worried.

"Anything?" Dick mouthed, looking up to take in the new shadow in the doorway. Bruce shook his head, lips thinning again. He'd tried talking to Dana, tried asking what she'd seen, but that had been a dead end. If Dick had been right about the demons, then maybe he knew what she'd seen anyway, and that narrowed things a bit, but he'd talked to Jason Blood, and even though the person he really wanted to interrogate was Ra's, he still hadn't been able to find the man, only places where he'd been. Ra's' comings and goings had always been nearly undetectable.

Heaven knew Tim deserved some good news, but Bruce had none to offer yet. None at all.

Author Notes: Firstly, I am sick. Feel miserable, all that jazz, and so didn't get the line from Timothy's report figured out completely like I wanted to. I promised I'd post, so I am. If for any reason it turns out later that I have to change it, I will warn you.

Second, question of the chapter… I feel that DC has pretty much paired Tim Drake with Stephanie Brown. How many of you like this pairing? How many of you think another pairing suits him better? (curious)

Finally, forgot to mention last chapter that Timothy's ability to prepare for probable outcomes stems from the time he once beat a situation based on a 4.67% probability of things going a certain way. I remember reading that and thinking the writer was crazy, but I totally had to use it for this fic. (this sort of thing is why Red Robin kills me to write) The curse enhances the talents they possess naturally, so when I wrote them all up, I went around trying to figure out what characteristics they all had. Three of them were easy. There were two I couldn't peg with a specific talent though: Jason and Damian. Jason is angry, yes, but that's not really a talent. Are there any readers who know this character well and can tell me what skills he possesses that the other Robins don't?

I was thinking Damian's talent might have something to do with his mechanical ability, like "Why don't we use the cars?" Because "The cars are Damian's babies. You should have seen the last time Bruce came back with one dented." Something along those lines. However, my beta decided to take off with the lack of a specific talent for Damian and wrote the 2000 word scene I've included below. I was quite taken with her use of my half-cursed Damian, though she made him a little more human than I was thinking. So if you like Damian, here's an extra for you:

Damian's Ability

Damian had discovered his power quite by accident. Truth be told, for the majority of his life he'd thought he might be the only one in his family not cursed. He could still hide himself in the shadows, but it was nothing more than a human did wearing camouflage in a forest. The shadows never obeyed him, never listened nor came to his bidding like they did with his father or Grayson, molding themselves to their touch. He couldn't manipulate them; he could only use their presence to his advantage. And as for not having a special talent to subdue humans, well, he blamed his mother for that flaw in his genetic coding.

Still, though he may have found himself lacking, his family had always treated him as an equal (well, maybe not Todd so much). He could hold his own weight in a fight, he made sure he was never a burden, and his opinion was valued if not always heeded. He knew his father admired and was proud of him in that aloof, distant kind of way, and that was fine. Grayson showered him with enough praise and attention for two people. It had annoyed Damian at first, how clingy his oldest brother was, how often he gave out hugs and hair-ruffles, and how he wanted to know the boring, most miniscule aspects of what happened during his day. Damian got used to it gradually. He might have even grudgingly admitted he liked it, if only to himself.

He was sharp enough to realize a large factor of Grayson's affection, of his father's aloofness, of Todd's sullen, angry brooding, had something to do with that boy's portrait on the manor's wall, the boy who had once been a part of his family in the past. It didn't matter who the boy had been though, because he was no longer alive. He was gone, Damian was here now, and his family belonged to him and him alone.

And then the imposter had showed up.

He hadn't cared too much in the beginning. It was obviously some clone or being infused with dark magic to make him look like the boy in the portrait, put purposefully in his family's path to infiltrate their home. Perhaps everyone else was fooled by his appearance, their emotions swayed by some fond memories of the past. Damian was not. He would be the only one not caught off guard when the imposter revealed his colors and attempted to destroy them all.

There was a slight hitch in his plans when it began to appear as if the imposter really was the boy in the portrait. This revered Timothy returned from the dead here to steal his family away. The imposter had already brought them pain due to the striking similarities between his personality and appearance and what seemed to be his past self. He had no recollection of his former life, no lingering attachments to these people who he claimed "kidnapped" him. He was already causing them enough grief and strife. Then he had to go get cursed.

Damian would have wished the imposter would just die and get it over with already, except it seemed he had died before and just kept coming back. So even if Timothy were to die, his family wouldn't give up, they'd spend years searching, looking for him again, hell-bound to save him this time. In short, the imposter was here to stay, for good, and Damian would just have to accept that and get used to his unwanted presence.

He thought he might be able to get used to it. The imposter was surprisingly intuitive and clever and possessed wicked skills with a computer. If he were taught how to fight properly, he might actually be useful. Perhaps in another twenty or thirty years, and if all went well, Damian might have come around to like him.

At the image of the imposter—the interloper—lying with his head in Grayson's lap, their foreheads almost touching, at the obvious closeness and fond affection between them… his stomach curdled and the back of his throat swelled with a wild, raging jealousy. Grayson had smiled at him when he had entered the room, a smile just for show. Grayson hadn't asked him to leave, but it had been clear enough: he was uninvited, unwanted. Right then, Damian had been the interloper, not Timothy.

Damian was aware of the role he had played, patching the gaping wound left in his family after Timothy had died. Would he be ignored, passed over, now that they finally had their precious Timothy back?

These were his thoughts when he donned his costume and went on patrol on his own without notifying anyone, allowing his fear, his insecurity, and his burning wrath to flow out in his punches and kicks.

Despite this, his fighting game was severely lacking, probably due to his distracted thoughts. This one human, a mugger whom he was certain he should have been able to take out in less than a minute under normal circumstances, kept evading all of his attacks. The stench of cigarettes rolled over him when the man opened his mouth and laughed, and Damian took pleasure in finally landing a solid right hook to his jaw. Small droplets of blood splattered on Damian's cheek from the close range, and he flicked his tongue out from the corner of his mouth and licked up the nearest drop without thinking. But then his legs were suddenly swiped from under him and Damian had to roll over and leap back when the man lashed out with his switchblade, aiming for his chest.

Damian clutched the side of the brick wall and was humiliated to find himself panting in exertion. He hadn't even been half an hour on patrol and he was already winded? If his father ever found out, he'd be back in the Batcave on monitor duty and doing sparring sessions for a month. This had never happened before! It was all the imposter's fault, he just knew it, and it wasn't fair!

The human laughed again and Damian's anger spiked.

"You big, stupid oaf!" he snapped out. "Why don't you just stab yourself and save me the trouble!"

The laughter was cut off mid-gurgle as the man seized up, the hand clutching the switchblade rising up and turning inward on its owner. Damian watched in morbid fascination as the point was thrust home between spaces of the ribcage. The man collapsed on the ground of the alley staring wide-eyed in disbelief at the mortal injury he had just inflicted on himself, at the fresh blood seeping into his shirt, and began babbling incoherently, "W-what did you do, you d-damned brat? What the h-hell!"

Damian backed away into the shadows and fled the scene.

It was a fluke, it was a fluke, he did it to himself, humans are crazy, Damian told himself over and over in a panicked mantra.

He found a secluded alcove and sat a while to gather his thoughts. He concluded that the only other option, besides the human being highly intoxicated and prone to suggestion, was that his power, the Wayne family curse, might have at long last blossomed within his veins.

It made sense. Father instilled fear with his presence alone. Grayson had his persuasive charm that made people bend over backward to do his bidding. Todd had his own talent, which he had yet to see in all his years because Todd rarely used it. Why shouldn't he have his own version of the family curse? It was his birthright.

Little by the little, the panic faded away until only an urgent curiosity and yearning to know if it really was his power remained. He had to test it again.

He found his next prey mid-burglary robbing a convenience store and chased the man into the street, up a fire escape, and cornered him on the building's rooftop.

The man shot at him a couple of times with his gun, but Damian eluded the bullets with ease. The man held off his last few bullets and eyed his target warily, not sure what to make of this small kid in front of him.

Damian cocked his head to the side. "Why don't you shoot off a couple of your toes instead?" he said, waiting expectantly.

Nothing happened. The man only swore vulgarly at him and fired off his gun. Squashing down the bitter feeling of disappointment, Damian rushed forward with vampiric speed, dodging again. Clamping his hands around the man's wrist in an iron grip, he wrenched the gun away and flung it to the side. When the human tried to get him in a headlock, he bit down on the man's arm instinctively.

Oh, Damian thought in remembrance as the taste of coppery blood spilled across his tongue.

Ducking low and cartwheeling a safe distance away, he stood and bared his fangs in a bloodstained smile at the human.

"Take a couple of steps towards the edge," he said.

There it was: the muscle-spasms, the wide-eyed look of disbelief in his victim's eyes as the body acted of its own accord even with the human's mind screaming for it to stop.

The man obeyed and swiftly walked over to the side of the building, falling without a sound.

There had been a dumpster on that side. If the human were lucky, he would have landed on the trash bags, probably broken a lot of bones, maybe even his spine. Maybe he was alive, maybe he wasn't. Damian didn't care. He was only a criminal, after all.

By the end of the night, Damian's rage had mostly subsided and he was more than a little pleased. Father and Grayson will be proud, he thought. Now I can aid them more on patrol.

Now he could be closer to them because they shared something in common.

Let the imposter try and drive a wedge between him and his family, just let him try.