Gotham City

March 29, 21:48 EST

Wayne Manor straight up looked like a mansion out of one of those old BBC films. It was all sharp edges and domed towers. Spotless exteriors and manicured lawns. It was imposing and unwelcoming, and Tim had never gotten used to being there.

Cyborg helped Tim out by giving him a lift via boom tube. It was nice of him considering he was a big-time justice leaguer now. Tim hadn't had the chance to see him much lately until their mission the night before. It had been a nice surprise when Tim showed up and saw him at the pre-mission debrief. Somehow, even with all those new responsibilities, Vic still made time for his OG squad.

"You got it from here?" Vic had landed them at the bottom of the long staircase leading to the mansion's front entrance.

"Yeah man, thanks." Tim reached for Vic's outstretched hand and pulled him in for a loose hug. He tried not to wince when Vic slapped him on the back with his metal arm.

Pulling away, Vic looked like he had something he wanted to say but was second guessing himself. "Look, uh…" he paused as he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "I didn't know him as long as you did, but he…" he paused, not looking at Tim in the eyes, "Connor… he helped me out when I really needed it. And if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

Tim briefly wondered how bad he must look if everyone and their mother was suddenly reaching out to him for a heart to heart. But he quickly shut that thought down. Connor had been loved by everyone. How could he not have been? In his short ten years, he transformed from a hot-headed force of nature to the diplomatic voice of reason. He'd been larger than life, and his absence was felt by everyone. And that was simply a testament to him… who he'd been.

Tim gave a half smile, "Thanks Vic. Same goes for you."

Vic nodded curtly, having said what he needed to say.

Hauling his duffle over his back and careful to not tip over the glass that housed his disgruntled fish, Tim made the slow ascent up the stairs as Vic disappeared behind him. With the eerie sound of the boom tube gone, Tim suddenly felt apprehensive with how quiet this place was. It was nothing like HQ where teens were either bickering or laughing at all hours of the day, or like his apartment which always had something interesting going down on the streets below.

It was just quiet.

As he approached the massive front doors, Tim wasn't surprised when they already started opening ahead of him.

"Master Tim," an old, slender, mustached man addressed him, dipping his head in greeting, "Master Dick told me we'd be expecting you."

"Hey there, Alfred." Tim couldn't keep relief out of his voice as a smile creeped up. It was probably one of the first true smiles that he'd given in days. He dropped his duffle and then, careful not to spill Fin's glass, wrapped his arms around the man in a big hug.

Alfred was always so stiff with hugs, but Tim knew the old geezer secretly loved them. He tapped his hand against Tim's back affectionately as Tim held on, just breathing him in. Alfred always smelled of fresh linens and pine.

"I have your room in the west end prepped and ready for you, sir. The one across from the library… and the staircase, should you need it," he said as Tim released him.

God, Tim loved this man. He knew him so well.

"Thanks Alfred. Sorry for the short notice." Tim looked up at the lanky old man. He frustratingly towered over Tim at a whopping six feet. Tim never did grow to the height that people promised he would, having tapped out at a measly five foot seven.

"No matter, sir, we are happy to have you home. I was in the middle of fixing dinner when I was alerted of your arrival. Food should be ready in fifteen minutes… is there anything you need in the meantime?" Alfred's nose twitched, "A shower, perhaps?"

Tim's ears flushed red at the implication. He never did get that shower, and he'd been tromping through swamps in the Pacific Islands only twelve hours earlier. Damn, he probably reeked.

Tim scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Uh, yeah… I'll get right on that," he muttered, face splotchy red in embarrassment.

"Very good, sir," Alfred dipped his head formally before meandering back to the kitchens.

Wayne manor was just as imposing indoors as it was outside. Bruce had done what he could to make it a little homier and more livable, but Tim never could shake the feeling that he shouldn't touch anything, for fear that it was some priceless relic. The rooms were all hardwood, dim lighting, jewel tones and far too big for the single men who occupied it. Tim always felt like he had to check over his shoulder as he passed through each corridor, for fear that something or someone was lurking in the shadows.

The room chosen for him, however, wasn't so bad. Sometimes Tim felt like Alfred knew him better than he knew himself. Located in the west wing of the mansion, his room stayed light far longer than the other rooms, which grew dim and dreary by midafternoon. The room Dick preferred was on the East wing. He said it forced him to wake up early with the sunrise when he had a predilection for sleeping in. And Jason's room…

Jason's room was one floor directly below Tim's and stayed dark morning and night due to the massive shrubbery blocking the windows, as had been his napping preference—

Tim didn't want to think about Jason's room.

After dropping everything off in his prepared room, Tim finally got that much needed shower. Getting to finally rinse off the remnants of the day felt better than Tim could have imagined. Tim could feel his muscles noticeably unwind under the hot water. He didn't know how long he'd been showering, but it must have been a long time given how steamed up the room was when he stepped out of the stall. After wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist, Tim took a moment to appraise himself in the mirror.

Red Mask had done a number on him. Even Tim's most recent missions hadn't left him in this bad of shape. No… these fresh marks that riddled his face, chest, and abdomen, came from someone who'd known exactly what Tim's fighting style was, and fought two steps ahead. Tim leaned over the sink as he got a closer look at his face. His hands gripped the edges of the sink on either side. Just as he expected, there, across either side of his chin, were two purple splotches where rough fingertips had been.

Tim didn't want to say what was lingering in his mind. Hell, he didn't even want to think it, for fear that it would manifest into reality.

Catch you later, Timbers.

Grimacing, Tim turned away from the mirror and pulled on a basic tee shirt and fresh jeans. It was late, now approaching eleven, but there was something that he needed to see for himself before the day was over.

Tim opened the door to his ensuite bathroom and stepped into his room. Alfred must have stopped by while Tim was showering because a plate of steaming hot steak and potatoes sat on his mahogany desk. His mouth watered at the sight. Alfred's cooking was unparalleled—Well, except for his waffles which tasted like paste and always left him with a claggy sensation in his mouth But ultimately Tim ignored his stomach as it grumbled in protest. He needed to do something first.

After sprinkling a dash of fish food into Fin's makeshift cup, because he shouldn't have to suffer even if Tim was, Tim threw on his hoodie and made for the door.

Even when he'd been living in Wayne Manor during the short period of time that Batman had broken from the Justice League, thus forcing his proteges' hands as well, Tim had never really gotten used to the place. It felt like whenever he wanted to go one way, he always took three wrong turns before finding the right direction. The fact that he was looking for something specific made it even harder.

"If I were Bruce," Tim muttered to himself, "Where would I keep my shovels?" To be honest, Tim didn't feel like shovels were in Bruce Wayne's normal repertoire of tools. The thought of Bruce outside gardening was laughable and there was a strong possibility that he didn't even own one. The weekly lawn scaping crew brought their own utilities every time, so why would Bruce ever have need for one?

But then again, Bruce was a complicated man and perhaps there were some secrets that he preferred to leave quite literally buried.

Finally, after a near half hour of searching, Tim came across a utility closet near the north end's exit. It looked like it hadn't been accessed anytime recently, and Tim had to physically jostle the door to get it to unstick. But when it finally did open, Tim's eyes immediately landed on the object of his search.

"There you are," he mumbled as his hands closed around the aged wooden handle. The thing was rusted and splinters bit into his palm, but it would do the trick. Shovel in hand, Tim turned around to make his way to the garage.

"Going somewhere, Master Tim?"

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Alfred standing directly behind him. The older man was cool and collected as ever, but his eyebrows raised at the sight of the shovel in Tim's hands. He looked like he had a million questions but was waiting for Tim's initial answer.

"Uh," Tim's mind scrambled for a reasonable explanation. There was none.

"I'm, uh," Tim hated how hesitant he sounded. Out of everyone, lying to Alfred was the hardest. So, in the end he opted for an evasive truth. "I'll just be out for a couple of hours," he looked up at the old butler sheepishly, "Don't tell on me Alfred?"

The older man just stared him down, his eyes flickering between the shovel and Tim's eyes. Tim had to steady himself so he wouldn't look away. Alfred could be surprisingly intimidating.

"If," the old man said slowly, British accent dripping over every word, "you give me nothing to tell… then when I am inevitably asked, I will have nothing to say."

The tension in Tim's shoulders released, "Thanks Alfred," he smiled, "I'll be back soon."

Eventually, Tim found his way to the garage. The white epoxy floor and walls nearly blinded him as he opened the door. The walls towered above, hanging bright florescent lights that shined over the flashy sportscars. Bruce was not one for turning down a nice car when it entered the market, and the garage now housed some of the most expensive sportscars worldwide.

Years ago, Bruce had told Tim that he was welcome to drive any one he'd like whenever he wanted. Unlike some of his other sidekicks, he said that Tim was so responsible that he didn't even have to worry. Bruce technically hadn't said that first part, but it was strongly implied. "Just don't tell Dick I said that," Bruce had said with a laugh and a conspiratorial wink.

Tim never did take him up on that offer. He'd felt bad when Dick used to take him out, off mission, and automatically assumed they'd be taking the relegated off-duty "Robin car" … a 2008 Subaru Outback. Tim had named it the "Blue-baru," because of its navy-blue paint job, Dick had commented that it was more like a "Bruise-baru" because it was such an eyesore.

They both hated that car, and as soon as he could afford it, Dick had invested in a stunning silver Porsche which was now the second love of his life. But not Tim… every time Tim returned to Wayne Manor, this was the car that he inevitably chose to commute in, even despite his wealth of other options.

Options like the Ferrari 458 Speciale, that Tim definitely did not drool over when Bruce first brought it home. Tim glanced at the car, his sneakers squeaking on the epoxy as he passed by. Damn, it was a really nice car. All sleek red and smooth angles, with a white and blue stripe down the middle. It was by no means the most expensive car in the garage, not by a long shot. But it was just so pretty.

He could take it, Bruce wouldn't mind. Tim's mind raced with justifications as he paused by the car and reached out a hand for it. Tim had spent the last six plus years earning that trust. He trained hard with the Young Justice team when he'd been on it. He sacrificed his spot that team for Bruce when Batman had left the Justice League. Now he was with Outsiders, and not even in a leadership role, having been passed over for someone who hadn't betrayed the trust of the team for Batman's undercover operation.

He'd worked so hard over the years, sacrificed so much. He deserved to let loose a little. He could take the car. He should take the car…

Tim took the Bruise-baru.


If someone would have told Tim when he was leaving for his mission with the Outsiders, that 24 hours later he would be sitting in front of a gravestone in an empty graveyard, he wouldn't have believed it… but that was exactly what he was doing.

The night was chilly. Goosebumps had long taken over the Tim's exposed wrists and ankles. March was noticeably colder in New Jersey than it had been in California, and Tim was slightly underdressed. Wind blew through the massive oak trees, which were only just starting grow leaves. The grass was still wet from an earlier rain shower—the dampness soaked through his jeans.

Before him, a massive gravestone loomed. It read,

Jason Todd

1997-2013

Hero, Friend, Son

Jason would have hated it, and not for the first time Tim wondered what exactly he was doing here, when he'd be better off letting things quite literally rest in peace. He placed his elbows on his crossed legs and rested his chin on folded hands. He just couldn't shake that nagging feeling that had been plaguing him all day. It was usually a good indication that he was onto something… and Tim was rarely ever wrong.

Catch you later, Timbers.

Tim groaned audibly, the sound startling against the ominous silence of the cemetery as he stared down the old gravestone. The marble surface had been recently cleaned; the white marble glowed from the moon's light. Alfred probably; Tim had a feeling that the old butler would take caring for his charges in death just as seriously as he had cared for them in life. Or maybe even Bruce; Tim knew he came to visit this gravestone more than he let on.

The same couldn't be said for Tim. He hadn't been here since the funeral. Which was why his presence here now was so physically uncomfortable for him.

There was something about the way that Red Mask had fought that was eating at him. Mask had read Tim like an open book during their tense exchange. Every blow of Tim's had been met with a swift and punishing counterattack. Every punch he'd thrown, blocked. Every kick, deflected. Fighting with Mask had felt like training with Dick. Familiar.

Tim hadn't wanted to tell Dick what he was worried about during the debriefing, but now finally alone with his thoughts, he let his mind page through the catalogue of the day's events. His neck tingled as his suspicion worsened.

When Roy Harper, the then-Speedy, was kidnapped and kept in a cryochamber way back in 2010, it had cost him one arm for The Light to birth a new Red Arrow, now Will Harper. The light had already shown that they were categorically not opposed to kidnapping children and using them to create clones with the goal of infiltrating the Justice League. That cruelty had fortunately died down given the rise of the meta teen era, which The Light found to be a much cheaper option through child trafficking and other nefarious means.

But when Jason died in 2013, that had been in the heyday of the cloning era that the Justice League worked tirelessly to shut down. And what if the Justice League had missed one? One that they never thought to search for because he was already dead?

Hence, why Tim brought the shovel. He knew that The Light needed a considerable donor sample for their creations. What they needed to take would be sizable—an arm, a leg… Tim hoped to god it wasn't a head. But either way, even with nearing seven years decomposition, missing one of those things would be obvious. Right?

Tim steeled himself as he stood up, brushing the grass from his jeans. "What are you afraid of Timmy?" he muttered to himself, "Not like you haven't seen a skeleton before." Or worse than that.

Taking a deep breath, Tim reached down for his shovel. The splinters from the aged wood bit into his hands as he tightened them into fists. Where did one even start when digging up a grave? The head or the feet?

Just as he was about to start the first dig into his grim task, a branch snapped behind him. Tim spun around, shovel held at the ready, half expecting Red Mask to be standing right behind him… only to be met with the startled gaze of a doe eyed teenager.

The two stared at each other silently for a moment—Tim, with a shovel in hand, and the girl with a flashlight, aimed directly into Tim's eyes.

"Uh, sorry…" the girl's voice trembled, "We were just…" her voice trailed off as she gestured behind her.

Tim's eyes focused on the small group of girls behind her. A few of them had bottles of wine in hand. Another was carrying what looked like a picnic basket. Just a group of teen girls getting their kicks going to a graveyard on a Saturday night for a spooky soiree. You know, things normal teens did for excitement.

Tim only had to take one look at their petrified faces to realize how bad this must look. He had a shovel for fuck sakes. They probably thought he had a body stashed in some trash bag nearby. Lowering the shovel, he did his best to shoot them a disarming smile. Unfortunately, the effort seemed to have the opposite effect. The girls flinched and took a step back.

"We'll just— we'll just get out of your way. We have… people expecting us." The first girl holding the flashlight lowered it as she took multiple steps back. Behind her, Tim was pretty sure another girl was pretending to talk to her mom on the phone. Her stilted voice rang loudly over the silent gravestones.

The girls took slow steps at first, but eventually all turned tail and sprinted back in the direction of their cars. No doubt, come school on Monday, they would all be talking about how they were very nearly murdered by a spooky creep with a freaking shovel in a graveyard over the weekend.

When the cemetery was once again silent, and Tim was sure he was alone this time, he tossed the shovel to the side and flopped back into the grass.

"What the hell am I doing?" he sighed as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Honestly, what had he been thinking? It was one thing to have a suspicion, but it was a whole other thing to go full-on grave robber based on a hunch. It was wild stretch and irrational. And Tim didn't do irrational.

He let out a deep breath as he let his hands fall to his sides. It was still cold out and getting colder now that all the lingering clouds had dispersed, allowing the earth's heat to escape into the stars. The cool breeze brushed his cheeks.

Suspicion or not. Tim resolved that he was going to go about this the right way. No wild conclusions of old nemeses back from the dead. No clone theories. No grave robbing. No being shady and not giving his superiors a comprehensive debrief when they asked for it. None of it.

Tim's friends jokingly referred to him as the detective, and by the book that was exactly what he would be.


A Pennyworth for your thoughts? Hey there friends! I hope you enjoyed the latest update for TBATH. I would absolutely love to know what your thoughts and reactions are, so please leave a review. I swear it would make my day! And just thank you for sticking around. I've been having so much fun giving Tim the much needed attention he deserves on YJ, and I hope you are too!