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Chapter 11

Leverage

An hour later, Robin crouched on the corner of a crumbling brick ledge, green mask carefully in place. The burglar he'd stopped on the way over had further reduced the lingering sluggishness of the poison, or rather, the burglar's blood had, and he could feel the clarity of sound and sight slowly returning.

Across the street, the lit up windows of the apartment complex he'd come to scope out resembled the scrambled white squares of a chessboard. In particular, it was a certain dark window on the second story holding his interest: the one where this whole fiasco had started. He was going to hunt the replacement down and find out what Drake knew.

His grandfather could have what was left when Damian was finished.

He was hoping to get lucky, maybe find a clue in the dark apartment, maybe something Drake had left, maybe Drake himself if the replacement had the brains to escape. He was not expecting the dark-haired woman running through the alley below him, dogged by two assailants, cornering her against the fire escape. A very familiar, dark-haired woman.

He hopped down silently into the alley behind them, following on quick feet. It didn't take long to incapacitate the two would-be muggers. They went down without a single shout of surprise—they weren't given time to shout one—just the meaty thump of a body hitting concrete. Then he was alone with the woman.

"You… You're just a…" Her deep brown eyes were startled, trying to assimilate the rapidly changing situation. Damian flicked blood off his fingers.

There was something… a prickling along the edges of his awareness. Something subtly wrong.

"You should get out of here," he told her. Somehow that seemed to focus her.

"No. I have to find my step-son. I have to find Tim. Please." Because it was always about the replacement. Of course he'd run into Drake's step-mom. On the streets. In the middle of the night. Hadn't she been in a clinic?

If he wasn't looking for the son, he was rescuing the mom.

"I'll look for him."

"I haven't seen him all week. I just have a bad feeling. I have to make sure he's okay." She stepped toward him in her earnest distress, trying to convey her case.

"You care about him." Damian drew back, letting the shadows obscure his features.

"He's a good kid."

Suddenly Damian realized what had been bothering him. It was the heat. It had been slowly increasing, prickling his skin. Anyone else might not have recognized the warning, might not have understood what it meant, but Damian knew. He was intimately familiar with what such uncanny heat could herald. He grabbed Dana's arm unceremoniously.

"You need to come with me."

"But Tim–"

"Now."

"I'm coming." Batman's voice cut off over the com. It had been thick with disapproval through most of the brief conversation, especially when he'd found out that Robin had taken off.

Damian looked over at the woman on his couch. Dana had calmed down considerably since he'd brought her to the safe house, given her a glass of water, and promised her step-son would be all right. She looked weary though. Her hands were too tight around the glass she held, strained from the ordeal.

Resigned to the wait, Damian leaned back against the wall, alert despite the posture, keeping a watchful eye on his charge. The shadows near him held perfectly still, as if sensing some sneakiness was in order around his guest. No sense alarming her any further.

"You're one of those vigilantes," Dana said suddenly. Damian only stared back, unblinking. Really, any idiot could have made that connection. "You're so young," she continued, not put off.

"So was Cao Chun," Damian replied derisively. If she thought he wasn't equal to the task of guarding her, she was sorely mistaken.

"But not everyone can be so skilled at such an early age." She smiled to show she hadn't meant any offense, even if it was a tremulous thing, strained by the circumstances. "You must train really hard to keep those skills."

"We're just that good." He sneered toothily at her, but couldn't help the begrudging warmth at the praise. At least Drake's stepmother wasn't a complete loss.

"Do you do this every night? Go out there and protect people you don't even know?"

"We dispose of criminals. That's all." He ran nimble fingers along the compartments of his bandoliers as the heat in the room ratcheted up another notch. Soon now.

"Thank you. For saving me then." Damian stared at her for a long minute.

"It was nothing."

Dana frowned suddenly, fanning herself with her hand, having finally noticed the heat. "Was it this hot earlier?"

"They're comi–"A shadow flickered a warning in the far corner of the room—better than an alarm system—and he was instantly crouched in front of Dana, waiting for the attack. "Stay behind me. I'll protect you."

"What is it?" Dana asked, startled to her feet. "What's coming?"

"Demons," Damian growled.

He knew Batman would hurry, but standing there, tensed, gauntleted hand clenched around equal measures salt and consecrated soil, he hoped it would be soon enough.

Tim speared a bit of tomato and lettuce on his fork and wondered when his life had become so surreal. Here he was, being eaten alive by a curse while sharing a meal with the man who'd killed him half a dozen times over the past century.

"Six, exactly," said Timothy, sudden as always—he had a tendency of inserting little details like that. He'd become downright chatty around Ra's. Speaking of which, his murderer had been disturbingly civil—a trait Timothy claimed he'd always possessed—offering him a meal, a bath, a change of clothes he hadn't accepted, asking if he needed anything else. Tim frowned at the tomato, part of some kind of salad dish. Fattoush, the name came to him suddenly, even though he knew he'd never heard of it before. It felt like his own memory anyway. If Ra's was to be believed, it was.

He chewed the tomato determinedly.

He studiously refused to feel awkward about eating on a balcony wearing only his boxers and shirt. Besides the inappropriateness, the short sleeves showed most of the inky markings adorning his arms and legs, but it was either that or accept one of the robes Ra's had offered him. Tim lounged intentionally on the gold-worked seat cushion. If he had to openly display the curse marks—really, there wasn't much use hiding them anymore—then he'd already made the decision to flaunt them: a decision he might have felt better about if not for the unnerving feeling that the green gaze sliding along his skin could see right through him.

He stared coolly back. Let the man try to unnerve him; he wasn't going to let this bother him.

At least the fresh air and the view was a relief, if he ignored the way the shadows stalked around them and the dull ache in his side that had been growing more uncomfortable the last hour. The view was the important thing. A city sprawled out below them, stretching dirty fingers toward the bay, and Tim was relieved to recognize the filth and grime of Gotham. He took in the position of the river and Central Park, the layout of streets below, working to triangulate his position while keeping his eyes on Ra's. The answer came suddenly: the Ty Warner penthouse. It was the only possibility based on their height above ground. It also explained the extravagant furnishings. Tim filed that information away for future use.

His murderer was still sitting across from him, the picture of old-world grace.

"We never talked like this before," Tim said suddenly. "Not in any previous incarnation. I would have remembered."

"Many things have gone differently this time. You've never remembered so much or been as close to the person you originally were as in this incarnation. Neither has our mutual acquaintance ever found you before now."

"That doesn't change anything. Even if you were worried about Bruce's influence, you could've just killed me like you have before." The ache in his side, maybe closer to his navel, was definitely getting worse. He shifted uncomfortably.

Ra's looked amused.

"Maybe I wanted the pleasure of your company and the challenge of your intellect while you are most yourself. Your point of view was always… refreshing."

"We aren't friends." Maybe he couldn't remember everything, but some things he knew by instinct. He had never enjoyed this man's company.

"No, but we didn't have to be enemies." When Tim only stared at him, Ra's sighed. "Regrettable."

"Why now?" Tim asked, undeterred. "Why bother explaining anything to me if you're just going to kill me?"

"A demonstration might be more expedient." He held his hand out. "May I?" Tim eyed the hand warily, remembering the corrosive feel of it on his skin. The thought of letting this man touch him made him physically ill, but he could see no way around it. Determinedly, he offered up his own hand, fork and all. Ra's' rough fingers wrapped around his, and Tim dug nails into the table with his free hand to keep the nausea at bay. Ra's examined their combined grip intently, tilting Tim's hand this way and that in his inspection.

"Fascinating." Tim jerked his hand back, away from the man's scrutiny, and then he could see… Where Ra's' hand had touched his, the faintest of black marks were fading like frost from a winter's windowpane. Tim could almost feel the chill of it. How had he not noticed that before?

"You see? The curse is getting stronger, Timothy. Each time it fails to consume you, each time your body is destroyed and it's forced to recreate it anew, it grows. It's beginning to consume the souls around you."

"No. I would have noticed." Certainly, Dick had hugged him often enough, and he'd been pressed to Jason's back all the way to the museum the night before. He thought back, tried to remember if he'd seen anything, even a fading shadow, but there was nothing.

"It is only now, in the latter stages of the curse, that its full effects are realized and it can be passed this way. Of course, if you've marked anyone…"

"Marked how?" Tim demanded, worry's constricting grip pulling tight.

"Drawing their blood."

He'd stabbed Damian. He'd cut Jason. What had he done? Tim's hands clenched on the table as he struggled to breathe, the dual edges of panic and guilt washing him under. Jason had been trying to help him. The unblemished skin of his neck burned guiltily where the older boy's mouth had covered it so long ago, washing away the wound. Even Damian hadn't deserved a fate like this.

"It's not possible," Timothy fretted, voice breaking into Tim's swirling thoughts. "Only the source of a curse can spread it." Timothy's cold reason grounded him, and Tim let the poisonous pang of panic dissipate. Worrying about Jason and Damian wouldn't do any good. Nothing had changed. He still had to find the dagger. He still had to break the curse. Then he could save all of them.

Ra's continued on, politely ignoring his dinner guest's brief panic attack.

"You might survive another incarnation..."

"I'd rather avoid that," Tim interrupted pointedly.

"…but that will be the end of avoiding this curse. You were clever to evade it as long as you did at the edge of my blade. I wonder… what will you do now?"

"It was never intended to be a permanent solution, only to buy time," Timothy said, carefully considering. Tim wondered if Timothy's voice was some affect of the curse. Was going crazy just a byproduct? Proof of the deterioration of his soul?

"The human psyche wasn't meant to endure the repeated destruction of its physical half; some fracturing was inevitable." Tim nodded thoughtfully, and then wondered when he'd started accepting all this. Since when had he started taking Timothy's comments in stride? Was it only since he'd started having nice meals with his murderer while they discussed the state of his soul?

He really needed to find that dagger.

"The strengthening of the curse won't matter if…" Belatedly, he realized Ra's was watching him, amused. Stupid. It was dangerous to ignore this man. "What?"

"Forgive me." Ra's chuckled. "You're not so guarded in this incarnation as you once were. Your expressions are captivating when you're focused, Timothy."

"Well, I'd hate to disappoint you," Tim replied archly, spearing a bit of fried pita bread and lettuce.

"You have never been a disappointment." Ra's' green eyes bored into him intently, and Tim stalled under the weight of it, considering how many times those same eyes had drunk in his death. Quickly, he stuck his fork in his mouth to avoid answering that and nearly choked when it turned out to be a bigger bite than he'd intended.

With another chuckle, Ra's returned to his own meal, leaving Tim feeling somewhat flustered and off balance. Had Timothy been as easily discomfited by this man? He had an uncomfortable feeling Timothy hadn't fared that much better, and yet, he'd still chosen Ra's, trusting him to keep the curse at bay.

"Ra's had no qualms about doing what was necessary, and his immortality suited him to the purpose. Also, he could be counted upon to use the situation to his advantage, ensuring his continued interest. The parameters were acceptable."

Tim tapped his fork thoughtfully against the plate.

"That's still not the reason you haven't killed me," he decided finally.

Ra's' answering smile was decidedly dangerous. "I've done you a favor. I intend for you to return it."

"If I won't?" Tim countered, frowning. He reached for his glass—he was still thirsty—only to frown harder at the taste. It was pink, something sweet.

Ra's' smile only deepened.

"It's far too late for that."

By the time Bruce arrived at the safe house, it had been plunged into a dismal darkness, the window shattered and gaping brokenly. An ominous greeting. And when he slid through the jagged opening, foot crunching on the broken glass inside, all the little shadows—the ones from the light switch and carpet tufts and glass shards—immediately flocked to him, hunching behind his boots and hiding in the dark well under his cape. The larger shadows of overturned chairs and end tables leaned toward him protectively. In all that darkness, there was only one heartbeat, the soft song of a single set of lungs, deep and even.

Bruce's own heart sped up.

He couldn't take losing anyone else tonight. His heart was already in at least four worried pieces (even if all those pieces were completely competent, near-immortals in their own right, it didn't stop him from worrying), one of which had been broken for decades, and one estranged for the better part of that same century. If he lost another he didn't know if there'd be enough of himself left to save.

He slogged through the ruin, following that single song of steady breaths to its end. The couch in the living room had been shredded and scorched, the lamp smashed. Robin lay amid the broken glass and devastation, suit torn, curled in unconsciousness—only unconscious from the resolute thrum of his heart, and right just then it was the most relieving sound Bruce had ever heard. He raced to Robin's side anyway, turning the boy over and scattering the shadows curled worriedly beneath. Then he could see the brilliant ribbons of deep slashes covering the smaller body—hips and thighs, shoulder and chest, and one severe gash heart-stoppingly close to his jugular vein—but they were already healing, the pale flesh knitting together slowly but surely. If he'd been human… but he wasn't. Not entirely. Bruce had never been so grateful for that. The relief melted the tension down his back and the strain in his shoulders.

There were still plenty of other things to worry about: finding the other son Ra's had stolen, stopping this curse from taking anyone else from him, figuring out what had happened here. But those worries could wait until he got Robin home again.

Pulling the little vigilante, his son, into his arms, he stood, cradling the boy close as he cast one last searching glance through the debris.

There was no sign of Dana.

Author Notes: Initially, I wasn't going to use Dana (I could've accomplished everything without her), but when a reviewer asked about her, I realized I couldn't just write her off to Bludhaven like the comics, I needed to actually do something with her, thus more kidnap scenes. XD So. Much. Ra's. In the next chapter. _ And so much information to convey so quickly.

Some of my reviewers have been worried that this was headed towards a Tim vs. Timothy conflict. There's a clue in this chapter (almost an answer) about that. My beta didn't catch it. Wondering how many of my readers did? (otherwise you'll just have to wait until ch. 13 for that resolution)

As a future fic idea, I'm curious... If Tim had grown up with Ra's, taken in by him instead of Batman, do you think Tim would be willing to kill? If you were to read a fic along those lines, would you prefer him to still keep his Robin ethics anyway? Or maybe somewhere in between, more willing to be brutal but still unwilling to put problems down permanently?

P.S.: If you notice grammatical errors or incorrect word usage, would you tell me?