Archive of Our Own

Tim gets his first clue about the whole thing when he’s pulling a last-minute front desk shift for Dick at his aerials studio and the student he’s checking in leans a little closer and says, “By the way… you wouldn’t happen to be Dick’s boyfriend, would you?”

Tim’s hand freezes over the tablet as his mind races through the implications—Dick has a boyfriend, Dick has a boyfriend that Tim doesn’t know about, Dick has a boyfriend that his studio’s clients know about but have never met, Dick has a boyfriend no one’s ever met.

Tim smiles and pretends to scan for the student’s name in the class list. “I’m not. You haven’t met him yet?”

“Not yet,” the student says, with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Sorry if that was weird to ask—Dick just talks about him so often, so I was just curious.”

“He comes by the studio sometimes, right?”

“Usually only when Dick needs help with the rigging, so I guess I’ve just been unlucky with the timing,” the student says. “But I heard he also came to the showcase last year before I started taking classes, so maybe I’ll see him this year.”

“Sounds like you have a good chance.” Tim taps the few buttons on the screen to finish the check-in process. “You’re all set. Have a good class.”

The student heads into the studio, but Tim fixates on the idea of Dick’s boyfriend for the rest of his shift, and for the entire drive to Gotham. The student implied this has been going on for a while—and the mysterious boyfriend’s presence at Dick’s student showcase last year is concrete evidence that something has been going on for a while. Tim suddenly regrets that none of them from Gotham had been able to make it—he regretted it at the time, of course, but he regrets it extra now.

Dick wouldn’t intentionally hide the fact that he has a boyfriend from them all, would he? He doesn’t keep secrets—not like that. Could it be that he’s just waiting for them to find out on their own?

Dick does that sometimes—not wait, exactly, but just not mention stuff about his personal life unless it comes up in some other context. He’s always been kind of private like that; in fact, Tim has to admit that he doesn’t know all the details about Dick’s past romantic partners, either—especially the civilians. Bruce probably keeps closer track of them all.

He wonders if Bruce knows about this one.

Tim finds himself sneaking glances at Bruce once he’s in the Batcave. On one hand, if anyone would know about what’s going on in Dick’s life, it’d be Bruce, right? On the other, Dick had gone off on him a few years ago on privacy and boundaries and I’m an adult, Bruce, you can’t keep doing this so Bruce’s resources for keeping tabs on him probably aren’t what they once were.

But still. He’s the Batman.

“Something you need to say?” Bruce says without looking up from his microscope.

Tim sits a little straighter. “Uh. I wouldn’t say need to.”

“Tim,” Bruce says in his I-don’t-have-time-for-bullshit voice (which Bruce would probably just call his serious voice, but Tim knows what he actually means).

Tim clears his throat. “Just, uh. I heard that Dick might be… seeing? Someone? For at least a year? And was wondering if you knew anything about that?”

Bruce’s silence lasts a full second too long, which Tim understands means that Bruce also had no idea about any of this, which means that if Dick was intentionally keeping it a secret then Tim had just told the one person he probably shouldn’t have told and now Dick’s going to secretly hate him while pretending not to hate him forever. It’s fine (it’s not fine).

“Dick’s personal life is his own,” Bruce says finally, and Tim’s shoulders ease a little at the tacit agreement that they definitely will not be talking about any of this with Dick.

“Right, yeah, totally,” Tim says. “If it’s true, we should definitely wait for him to tell us about it himself and not try to investigate it because that would be an egregious violation of his privacy.”

“Correct,” Bruce says.

“Great, good talk,” Tim says, and resolves not to think about it any further.

For the record, Tim mostly listens to Bruce and his own conscience.

It’s just that his conscience also reminds him that Dick is a very trusting person who always believes in the best in people even if they’re terrible awful garbage people (see: Deathstroke) so really Tim would be doing him a favor by making sure there’s nothing shady in Dick’s boyfriend’s past because Dick would absolutely respect his boyfriend’s privacy too much to go digging, so it’s actually Tim’s responsibility as a self-appointed nosy little brother to go find all the skeletons in the boyfriend’s closet before Dick can become one.

Dick would agree with this logic if Tim told him, he’s sure. But for the sake of respecting Dick’s wishes to respect his boyfriend’s privacy, Tim won’t tell him.

So with that in mind, he sets himself very clear boundaries: while the identity of the boyfriend and details about his background and current and past activities are all fair game, anything about the boyfriend’s relationship with Dick—including how they met, when they first started dating, how often they go out together, what kinds of dates they’ve been on, and so on—are strictly off-limits. This way he can look out for Dick while respecting his privacy: win-win.

A simple starting point is Dick’s apartment. Dick’s friendly, but he’s still a private person—he doesn’t have a lot of people over unless he’s close to them.

Tim only has an exterior hallway camera to work with—Dick had refused any kind of surveillance inside his actual apartment—but at least that gives him a decent view of everyone who’s ever turned up at Dick’s front door. Running the footage from the past three months through the facial recognition system turns up a couple repeat visitors. One is Dick’s coworker from his aerials studio, who Tim eliminates quickly—if the boyfriend were another instructor, then Dick’s students would have had a lot of chances to meet him. That narrows down the list of most likely candidates to one.

Alex Mills, a bartender—a classically trained musician bartender with a bachelor’s in music, apparently, but still currently a bartender. He works for a club a few blocks down from Dick’s apartment—started there five years ago, after a few stints as a freelance pianist didn’t go anywhere. Tim digs as deep into his past as he can go, but aside from some bad grades in school and a few parking tickets, he doesn’t find anything to worry about. He considers asking Barbara to dig deeper, but it’s probably wrong to ask Dick’s ex for help digging into Dick’s current, right? Right.

That leaves him with one other option—so, a week after their initial conversation, Tim inches over to Bruce while they’re in the Batcave at the end of the night and says, “So… ever hear anything about someone named Alex Mills?”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “We agreed not to look into this.”

“We did,” Tim says, and does Bruce the favor of not pointing out that Bruce wouldn’t know the name unless he also went digging himself.

Bruce stares at him a moment longer, then turns away and says, almost begrudgingly, “Alex Mills is clean.”

“And why are we talking about Alex Mills?” Barbara’s voice rings in his ear, and Tim winces as he realizes he’d forgotten to disable his comm mic before starting the conversation.

“Heyyy O,” he says as Bruce shoots him an unimpressed look.

“If Dick’s in trouble, I want to know about it,” Barbara says.

“Who says we’re talking about Dick?” Tim says.

“I’m assuming you’re referring to Alex Mills, bartender at the Gilded City in Blüdhaven,” Barbara says. “Which is a club that Dick’s gone to regularly for intel ever since he moved there. Which means you’re talking about Dick.”

“Intel?” Bruce says. He’s turned on his own mic as well, his voice ringing in Tim’s ear a fraction of a second after he says it aloud.

“Gilded City is a… neutral gathering ground, for illegal activity,” Barbara says. “As long as nothing happens on-premises, the owner’s willing to overlook everything else she sees and hears. She even has private rooms for more sensitive deals.”

Tim frowns. “I didn’t see anything like that when I looked into it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Barbara says. “Business-wise, everything’s on the up-and-up and the paperwork’s all in order. And it’s a pretty exclusive establishment—invite-only for membership, and they’re strict about guests. I only know about it because Dick wanted an extra set of eyes and ears the first time he went in to investigate.”

“Only the first time?” Bruce says.

“The whole place is a Faraday cage,” Barbara says. “No signals in or out. As far as I know, his cover’s solid and he hasn’t run into any problems. But if something seems suspicious about Mills outside of his workplace—”

“There’s nothing suspicious,” Bruce says. “Dick is fine.”

“So we’re just making a habit of investigating not-suspicious people now?”

Bruce pinches the base of his nose briefly, then lets go. He’s not looking at Tim, but Tim can feel the ghost of a glare anyway and inches away.

“We have reason to believe Dick has entered into a romantic relationship with Alex Mills,” Bruce says finally.

“Huh,” Barbara says, the drumming of her fingertips audible through her mic. “You know… I can see that. Dick’s mentioned him more than a few times—they were pretty much friends from the first night. And I did think that Dick was taking a big risk with how often he was going there, but it makes sense if it was for reasons other than gathering intel.”

“Do not investigate or surveil further,” Bruce says, warning in his voice. “Dick hasn’t informed us of this himself, so we should respect his privacy and avoid the topic unless and until it becomes relevant.”

“You know there’s a good chance he won’t say anything, right?” Barbara says. “I mean, this isn’t exactly a family he’d expect to accept his criminal-adjacent bartender boyfriend with open arms.”

“Bruce made a baby with Talia al Ghul,” Tim points out. “And almost married Catwoman.”

“Bruce is also a giant hypocrite, so that doesn’t really mean much.”

Bruce sighs and pinches his nose again. “If the topic comes up, I will make it clear to Dick that we all accept his choice of romantic partner, whoever it may be. In the meantime, no one is to discuss any of this with him. Understood?”

“Got it,” Tim says. Honestly, he doesn’t want Dick to realize he’s the reason everyone else is finding out about his boyfriend, so it’s in his best interest that they wait

“Why do I already have a feeling this is going to end terribly?” Barbara says.

“Barbara.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” Barbara says. “But, in my opinion, you should just tell him you already know before he finds out on his own. You should know by now that keeping secrets has never worked out well for any of us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bruce says, but judging by his expression, Tim’s sure he doesn’t plan on taking Barbara’s advice at all.

Tim doesn’t either. Some secrets you just have to keep—and, if Dick found out, Tim’s pretty sure he’d understand that, too.

In the end, the conversation comes up sooner than Tim expects—but also, not a moment too soon.

He’d already been getting nervous about how the information was spreading, first to Cass (probably from Barbara) and then to Steph (probably from Cass) and then to Damian (probably from Bruce?) and Tim was chewing his fingernails all the way through waiting for someone to accidentally slip up any day now and throw him under the bus while they’re at it.

But actually, it’s Dick who brings it up first—kind of.

They—Tim, Dick, Cass, Bruce, and Damian—are having dinner in the middle of December when Dick mentions that he’s going off-world with some of the Titans for a mission.

“You’ll be back in time for Christmas, though?” Damian says, in that demand-phrased-like-a-question tone that he probably learned from Bruce.

Dick visibly decides to shove a spoonful of stew into his mouth at the question, and they all exchange surreptitious glances as Dick takes a suspiciously long time to chew and swallow.

It’s finally time.

Finally, Dick puts his spoon down and says, slowly, “Actually, I think I’ll miss Christmas this year, but I’ll be here afterward, and we can celebrate the new year together. That’ll be fun, right?”

Damian asked the question, but Dick’s gaze strays to Bruce as he answers and then stays there. Tim turns and stares at Bruce, too; Bruce seems to take the scrutinizing as his cue to also slowly eat a spoonful of stew.

Finally, Bruce sets his spoon down, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “If this is due to any romantic entanglements you may or may not have—”

Dick freezes, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, and Tim thinks, oh shit it really was supposed to be a secret.

“—have you, perhaps, considered bringing him home with you?”

“I—” Dick’s mouth flaps open and closed soundlessly for a few seconds. Then he says, weakly, “This doesn’t sound hypothetical.”

“No,” Bruce agrees.

“So, you… know?” Dick says, sounding almost bewildered. He looks around the rest of the table, probably taking in the general lack of surprise. “You all know? And you’re okay with it?”

Tim pastes on an encouraging smile. Cass gives him a thumbs up. Damian looks neutral, which is probably the best they could hope for out of him.

“As I’ve been reminded, I’ve no right to throw stones when it comes to choice of romantic partner,” Bruce says, which is a bit harsh—being a bartender at a shady club is a lot of steps below a burglar or the next-in-line head of the League of Assassins—but it makes Dick laugh a little, so it’s fine.

“Honestly,” Dick says, “I didn’t think that would stop you.”

“I trust your judgment,” Bruce says. “We all do. And as long as you’re happy, then ultimately that’s all that matters.”

“Oh,” Dick says, a bit like he still can’t believe it, and Tim wishes Bruce hadn’t been so unyielding in other ways that Dick felt like no one would support him in having a barely-problematic boyfriend. “And you’re really okay with me bringing him here for the holidays?”

Damian crosses his arms. “He would have had to come eventually if you’re to continue seeing him.”

“I guess so,” Dick says, but from his tone, Tim knows for certain that Dick hadn’t really planned on ever introducing them if he could help it.

“Dick,” Bruce says, one part chastising and one part hurt.

Dick winces. “Can you really blame me for thinking that would be easier for everyone?”

“You are part of this family,” Bruce says, “which means that your partner is as well, no matter who he is or what he does. And if anyone takes issue with that, then they’ll have to take it up with me first.”

“Oh.” Horrifyingly, Dick actually looks like he might cry. He launches himself out of his chair to wrap his arms around Bruce’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Bruce. That means so much to me, you don’t even know.”

Bruce hugs him back, but over Dick’s shoulder, he’s giving them all a serious look, the message clear:

They have to give Dick’s boyfriend the warmest welcome he’s ever received in his life.

“—and remember, there will be absolutely no vigilante activity of any kind within the manor during the Christmas Eve gala,” Bruce says as he clicks to the last slide of his three-hundred-slide presentation detailing the plan and the fifty contingency plans for ensuring that one Alex Mills will have an impeccable opinion of the Waynes and Gotham, because if they end up being responsible for ending Dick’s relationship, then Dick would never forgive any of them.

(All right, that’s an exaggeration—Dick would forgive them. Dick probably wouldn’t even blame them. Dick would probably blame himself, actually, and that’s an even worse outcome than Dick blaming the rest of them.

In summary, they need to make sure Dick gets out of this with his relationship intact, or else.)

“Before the gala, make sure to review the manor’s failsafe mechanisms,” Bruce says. “If all of our preparations aren’t enough, make use of the traps to take the fight to the grounds, and at least two people should be staying behind to ensure neither Dick nor Mills notices anything amiss. Are there any questions?”

Steph raises her hand as Tim sneaks a peek at his phone that had been vibrating during Bruce’s lecture. “Please don’t make me trail Killer Croc for two weeks. I am so sick of the sewers after the last case.”

“We don’t have any time to waste, so assignments were made based on who has the most expertise on the particular rogue,” Bruce says, which means Steph totally got Croc because she knows the sewers like the back of her hand after that last case. “Anything else?”

“Um,” Tim says, raising his hand as he stares down at his phone screen. “We might need to update the plan to account for Deathstroke.”

Bruce frowns. “Deathstroke hasn’t been seen in Gotham in years.”

“No, I know, but—I got a message from Dick, right before he took off,” Tim says, skimming the messages again to make sure he’s reading them right:

btw if slade shows up before i get back, can you make sure he’s taken care of for me?

i’m sure it’ll be fine, but i’d appreciate if you kept an eye out for him just to make extra sure there isn’t any trouble

i’m trusting you with this!!

ty, see you soon!

“It sounds like Deathstroke might be planning something in Gotham,” Tim says. “Or maybe in Blüdhaven? I don’t think Dick knows for sure, but he asked us to keep an eye out.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “That man is always trying to cause trouble for Grayson. Someone should have eliminated him a long time ago.”

Cass reads the messages over Tim’s shoulder. “It’s worth looking into,” she agrees.

Bruce’s frown deepens. “Fine,” he says. “Tim, look into his activities and see what you can find. The rest of us will begin with our planned initial investigations—Cass, this means you’ll be solo for now.”

“No problem,” Cass says. She pats Tim’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Tim says. Hopefully he won’t need it.

Being on Deathstroke duty means Tim won’t get to go out with the rest of them, but he’s never had a problem being on computer duty—especially if it means he gets to use the Batcomputer. After everyone else clears out, he gets himself comfy on the chair, stretches out his fingers and wrists, and gets to work.

The first thing he notices is that, even though Deathstroke hasn’t been sighted in Gotham, there are reports of him in Blüdhaven spread out over the past few years—some fights with Nightwing, but those had lessened in the past couple of years in favor of unconfirmed sightings here and there.

He’s biding his time—planning for something big.

Tim digs a little longer, but eventually, it becomes clear that Deathstroke’s too good to leave traces of what exactly he’s planning, so Tim turns his attention to Deathstroke’s recent activity instead, digging up aliases and investigating each one carefully to make sure he doesn’t miss a single thing. On the eighth alias he finds, he hits pay dirt.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs, pulling up the flight details for the plane ticket purchased just an hour ago.

“Found him?” Barbara says. She’s doing her own virtual investigation on Freeze, and they’d just been sitting on the computers clacking away in companionable silence.

“Booked a flight from Côte d'Ivoire to JFK in three days—and a train ticket into Gotham after that,” Tim says. “Dunno about you, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t suddenly decide this would be a great place for a winter vacation.”

“Damn. Gotta say, I kind of thought Dick was being paranoid. I had some searches running in the background, but I haven’t found any contracts Deathstroke could’ve taken up. I wonder how Dick knew?”

“I mean, out of all of us, he’s the Deathstroke expert, right?” Tim says as he types in the commands to access the backdoor to the flight booking systems. “He probably has some kind of sixth sense for when the guy’s up to something.”

Barbara hums. “You’d think he’d spend the holidays with his own kids instead of trying to piss Dick off.”

“I don’t know Ravager or Jericho at all, but I’m pretty sure they’re fine with this,” Tim says, and pauses. “Well, not about him going after Dick, specifically. But from what Dick says, every time Deathstroke tries to actually dad his kids, stuff always goes super wrong. The world would probably end if he tried to have a family holiday.”

“Sadly, I don’t think you’re wrong,” Barbara says. “You canceling the flight?”

“Yep.” Tim types in the command to schedule the script. “Flights are overbooked all the time on the holidays so it shouldn’t be that suspicious if he gets kicked, right? Setting it to fire one and a half hours before his flight takes off, aaaand—” He dramatically slams his middle finger down on the return key. “Done.”

“You should also put all the aliases you’ve found on the no-fly list,” Barbara says. “You know, like a good citizen would do.”

Tim grins as he pulls up the registry. “Well,” he says, “if it’s what a good citizen would do…”

Slade Wilson is already on the list—has been, for ages—as well as a handful of the aliases. Whistling, Tim adds in the rest. He’s sure it won’t keep Deathstroke away forever, but they don’t have to keep Deathstroke away forever—just long enough. It takes time to construct an alias—and even longer to construct one that Barbara’s information network won’t be aware of and immediately squash, now that they’ve got their eyes on him. Combined with blacklisting him from all the private airfields on the East Coast, he’s going to have a damn hard time getting into the state.

There’s no way Deathstroke is going to ruin this holiday for Dick—not if Tim has anything to say about it.

Five days before the Christmas Eve gala, Dick’s apartment gets broken into.

Tim’s alarm goes off immediately when it happens, and he curses when he catches Slade Wilson’s face on the hallway cameras moments before the break-in. He runs to the Cave for his bike while keeping an eye on the feed. Deathstroke stands outside the door for a moment, messing around with the doorknob, before he throws his shoulder at the door, forcing it in. Dick’s audible alarm also starts going off immediately, but it doesn’t stop Deathstroke from barging into the apartment.

“You said it was under control,” Bruce says when Tim enters the Cave. The same hallway feed is playing on the Batcomputer screen.

Tim winces. “I thought it was. Do you know how he got here?”

“I’m working on tracking his vehicle,” Bruce says, “but if he’s on a mission, you know he won’t give up so easily.”

“I know,” Tim says, and he does. It’s just that after playing whack-a-mole with three new aliases, finding and canceling Deathstroke’s international SIM card, and hiring a pilot to strand him in the middle of nowhere, Australia, Tim had gotten overconfident that Deathstroke had given up. “I’m on my way out now— I’ll figure out what he’s up to.”

“Keep me posted this time,” Bruce says. “We can’t afford mistakes right now.”

Bruce is right—Tim had gotten too complacent playing keep-away. He should’ve realized that it would’ve just made Deathstroke pissed instead—and worse, that Deathstroke would assume Dick was behind it and take it out on him.

He can only hope Dick’s gear is hidden well.

Tim breaks the speed limit by a lot on his way over to Blüdhaven, but Deathstroke’s already gone by the time Tim makes it to the apartment, even though the alarm’s still blaring. The security panel’s open, like Deathstroke had tried to turn it off and failed—not surprising, because even if he’d managed to figure out a code for it, they rotated every month, and Bruce had rotated them all again just a few days ago out of an abundance of caution. Tim punches in the new code to shut off the alarm, then makes his way through the apartment.

It doesn’t look at all like it’s been ransacked, which should make it easier to spot if something’s out of place—but nothing seems out of place, either. Tim goes through the whole place (including Dick’s secret caches) three times just to be sure, and runs multiple sweeps for surveillance devices to confirm Deathstroke hadn’t left any unwanted gifts behind. Nothing.

“I’m really not sure what he could have been doing here,” Tim says once he’s recapped the situation to Bruce. He sighs as he finishes installing the new doorknob he’d run out and gotten—with a deadbolt, this time, so Deathstroke’s going to have to work extra hard if he wants in. “I really wish Dick would’ve let us put cameras.”

“He values his privacy, and we need to respect that,” Bruce says, like he’s reminding himself, too. “Are you sure Deathstroke isn’t still in the building? I’ve checked the traffic cameras—his car doesn’t seem to have left the area.”

“Send me the plate?” Tim says as he heads downstairs.

Deathstroke’s car is parked on the street a little ways down from the building, and the hood’s cool—which means his car hasn’t been driven in a while, which means he must have gone on foot. To not be captured on any traffic cameras means he must still be somewhere in the few blocks surrounding Dick’s apartment. In the few blocks surrounding Dick’s apartment is—

“So,” Tim says casually, “what do you think the chances are that Deathstroke would be a member of Gilded City?”

Bruce is silent for a second. “High,” he says grimly.

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that.”

Tim ducks into an alley and pulls out his emergency disguise pack. It’s not much, but he hasn’t actually tangled with Deathstroke personally, which means the blond wig, makeup, acting skills, and mildly stressed aura should hopefully be enough to keep Deathstroke from recognizing him on sight.

“Next question,” he says as he’s putting everything on, “what do you think the chances are that Deathstroke would go after Dick’s boyfriend personally?”

“It doesn’t seem like his MO,” Bruce says, then pauses. “Though it’s hard to say with any certainty. His conflicts with Dick have gotten personal, in the past.”

“I was also afraid you’d say that.” Tim pulls on the blazer and the wide-legged pants to hide his frame, then straightens out the jacket and tousles his hair. “All right, I’m going in.”

“Be careful,” Bruce says. “Remember, we won’t be able to communicate once you’re in. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“I won’t.”

His first challenge is going to be getting in—he could maybe try to name-drop Alex Mills, but that feels like crossing a line when they haven’t even met yet, and the whole point of this is to try to make sure Dick’s boyfriend has a good impression of the family.

Which means the back door it is (metaphorically speaking, of course).

The vent is a tight squeeze, but manageable, and conveniently lets out into a broom closet. Tim straightens out his clothing, then struts out like he owns the place, straight to the bar. The bartender is a woman with dark blue hair. Mills isn’t anywhere to be seen—and neither is Deathstroke.

Cold horror rushes through Tim. He hadn’t really thought through the implications of Deathstroke going after Mills, but what if he’s too late? What if Deathstroke had come to kill him? It doesn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination—death is literally in his name, and he’s also pretty regularly called the Terminator—but… Deathstroke wouldn’t actually have come to kill Dick’s boyfriend, would he? Hold him hostage and maybe torture him a little to keep Dick in line, sure, but killing him just because he’s dating Dick would be so fucked up, even for Deathstroke.

There’s no way he would. Mills must still be alive, and Tim must still be able to save him, and stop Deathstroke. He has to, for Dick.

Because Dick trusted him with this, and Tim refuses to fail him.

Tim leans onto the bar and flags the bartender over and fixes her with a charming smile, channeling his best Dick charisma. “Hey, d’you know if Alex is working tonight?”

She raises an eyebrow. “He’s here every night. So am I. And I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Tim’s mind races through his options—would it be better to pretend she’d somehow missed him before, or to admit to being a total newbie? What would raise less questions?

“It’s my first time,” he says. Better to not take the chance with someone who’s worked here so long—she might quiz him on things he can’t even hope to know the answers to.

“Oh, welcome,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t completely reach her eyes. “I’d be happy to get you your first drink. Can I see your card?”

Oh god, she’s quizzing him anyway. Tim scrambles for an excuse as to why he doesn’t have a card that would double as an out if it turns out the card isn’t actually a real thing here.

“He’s with me,” someone says before Tim can come up with something reasonable, and Tim doesn’t have to turn around to see that Deathstroke is standing right behind him, but he does anyway, just to see Slade Wilson’s judgmentally raised eyebrow over what must be a glass eye.

Yeah, he totally knows who Tim is.

“We were just leaving,” Deathstroke says as he gestures for Tim to get up. “Mills, remember what I said.”

“He’s not going to be happy with you,” Alex Mills says. He’s standing beside them, arms crossed, and he also doesn’t look very happy with Deathstroke.

Deathstroke smiles with his teeth. “Why don’t you let me worry about that. See you in the new year.”

Mills sighs and drops his crossed arms. “Happy holidays,” he says, and turns to the other bartender. “Mila, I need a drink.”

Deathstroke claps a hand around Tim’s shoulder and more or less drags him out of the club and down the street—and at least Bruce will be able to hear them, now, even if he can’t speak without risking Deathstroke’s enhanced hearing picking up on it.

“Stupid move, going there by yourself,” Deathstroke says, almost conversationally, as they walk back toward his car. “If you wanted to talk, there are easier ways.”

“Dick went there by himself,” Tim points out as he tries to decide how much of a bad idea it would be to try to take down Deathstroke by himself right now in a blonde wig and limited gear.

Very bad idea, is what he concludes.

“And I also told him it was a stupid move,” Deathstroke says. “No one slips in under the radar there. Why do you think I’m paying for the damn membership in the first place?”

Tim does not want to hear about Deathstroke’s questionable activities at Gilded City—well, actually, he does, but not right now. He has more important things to figure out right now.

“What do you want with him?”

“Oh, I see what this is.” The look Deathstroke shoots him is very much amused. “Listen, kid. I’m not gonna hurt your brother, all right? Not permanently, anyway.” His smile twists into a bit of a smirk, like he’s laughing at a private joke that Tim very much does not find funny. Jerk.

“Not permanently is still kind of worrying,” Tim says. “Just saying.”

“Nothing he can’t handle,” Deathstroke says dismissively. “If I was going to kill him, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

“Also not super reassuring,” Tim says. “Again, just saying.”

“I get what you’re trying to do,” Deathstroke says as they come to a stop beside his car, “but your brother’s a big boy. If he’s got a problem with me, then he can take it up with me himself.”

“And if he asked me to deal with you for him?” Tim says, raising his chin.

Deathstroke’s eyes narrow. “Then I’d call him a coward. And we both know that, whatever else he might be, that’s one thing he isn’t.”

Back in the Cave, Tim relays the short conversation he’d heard between Mills and Deathstroke to Bruce, and hands over the data collected from the tracker he’d placed on Deathstroke’s car.

Bruce nods, files it all away, and says, “I need you to resume your investigation into Riddler. Deathstroke is not the priority at the moment.”

Tim gapes at him. “What? He pretty much admitted to me that he’s here for Dick!”

“And we’ll handle him in due time,” Bruce says. “But, for now, we have credible evidence that Joker and Riddler are independently plotting something coinciding with Christmas Eve. We need to determine what and shut them both down as soon as possible.”

“We also have credible evidence that Deathstroke is planning something that involves Dick and Alex Mills—”

“And we will handle him in due time,” Bruce repeats.

“But—”

“My decision is final.”

“Seriously?” Tim says, even as Bruce ignores him and leaves. He turns to Damian and Cass, who’ve been watching the conversation in silence. “Seriously?”

“He cares for Dick,” Cass says. “He wouldn’t make the decision unless he knew it wouldn’t put Dick in danger.”

“For once, I agree with Drake,” Damian says, crossing his arms, and Tim makes a face. “Deathstroke is a loose cannon, especially when Grayson is concerned. It would be best to remove him from the equation.”

“We have other priorities,” Cass says. “Bruce is right. Joker and Riddler are more of a direct threat.”

“I never said we needed to remove him ourselves,” Damian says. “Red Hood is a fellow criminal, acceptably capable given guidance, and currently unoccupied with Father’s mission.”

Cass frowns slightly. “Would he help?”

“He might,” Tim says. Jason’s hard to predict; a lot of times, what he does depends on how pissed he is at Bruce currently, and whether or not he wants to piss Bruce off more. This particular request involves going behind Bruce’s back, which is usually a plus. But it’s also for the sake of helping Dick, who Jason tends to see as an extension of Bruce, so. Hard to say.

“It’s decided, then,” Damian says, even though it really isn’t.

But Tim reluctantly agrees with the plan, so he says to Cass, “It’s worth trying. I know what Bruce said, but wouldn’t it be better if we could stop Joker, Riddler, and Deathstroke all at the same time?”

Cass purses her lips, but says, “I’ll keep Bruce distracted. Thirty minutes.”

Tim exchanges a quick glance with Damian; then they’re off without a word. As much as they still butt heads, at least they get along well enough that they can work together when it’s for Dick’s sake.

Jason has a lot of operations in and around Crime Alley, but his favorite—and the one where they’re most likely to find him on any given night—is a dive bar across the street from a video rental store that has no business still being in business and that Tim highly suspects is a money laundering front.

“Well well, look who we have here,” Jason says, leaning forward on the bar as he watches them walk in. “Two little boys under the legal drinking age. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. Wouldn’t want to be caught doing anything illegal.”

“Ha ha,” Tim says, very aware that Jason’s dive bar has a shit ton of illegal activity happening in it at any given moment. Pouring them a drink would be the least of his worries. “We need you to shoot Deathstroke.”

Jason stares. Blinks. Straightens. “Why don’t you step into my office,” he says, with a grand sweep of his hand toward the back of the bar.

They follow him into a small, minimally-furnished room with a desk and a black office chair with cracked leather behind it. There are no other seats in the room. Jason sits on the chair, leans back, and crosses his ankles on the table. “I’m listening.”

Damian scowls. “Deathstroke is making a nuisance of himself. We need him incapacitated until the new year.”

“You know it’ll take a lot more than one shot to keep him down that long, right?” Jason says. “Also, why the hell do you want me to be the one to piss off the Terminator? Why not have Dick chase him off?”

“Dick’s on a mission,” Tim says, “and we need Deathstroke gone before he gets back or else—”

“He’ll ruin Christmas for poor Dickie?” Jason says, mocking.

Damian growls. “This is important, Todd. Both Grayson and his boyfriend are at risk—”

“Hold up, Dick has a boyfriend?”

“That is not the important information here,” Damian snaps.

“No, no, I think it is.” Jason sits upright, planting his feet on the floor, and glares at them. “You want me to go shoot Deathstroke, and probably get shot myself, all so Dick and his boyfriend can have a happy little Christmas?”

“Not just so—”

“No,” Jason says.

“Jason—”

“If you want me to get myself on Deathstroke’s shit list for life, you’re gonna have to give me a way better reason.”

“Dick’s been on that list for years and he’s still alive,” Tim says.

“Ever consider the fact that, unlike Dickiebird and the rest of you goody-two-shoes, I might want to be on Deathstroke’s good side?”

Damian wrinkles his nose. “What would you ever need to be in his favor for?”

Jason shrugs. “A merc with his reputation can do things none of the rest of us can. If you wanna get things done, sometimes you gotta be willing to break the rules.”

“Which is why we’re coming to you,” Tim says. “Bruce wants us off the case, but we can’t just let Deathstroke run around the city.”

As Tim hoped, the mention of Bruce’s opposition captures Jason’s interest. Jason leans forward slightly, frowning. “Why’s Bruce not going after him?”

Tim shrugs and aims for the kill. “He’s more worried about the Joker, I guess.”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “Sure he is.”

Tim breathes evenly and doesn’t dare to glance at Damian while Jason stares them down.

Finally, Jason says, “Fine, I’ll help. But only because I can tell if I don’t you’re going to go off and do something stupid, and I don’t want Big Bird on my ass if something happens to either of you.”

“Oh, now you care if Dick’s happy?” Tim mutters.

Jason ignores him. “But I’m not shooting him, because that’s a shit plan.”

“That’s fine,” Tim says, chancing a quick, victorious smile at Damian. That was just their lead to get Jason’s attention—the actual Plan A is something different entirely. “We’ve got a few other ideas that might work for you.”

“Plan F?” Jason says into Tim’s private channel a few nights later. “Stands for flop.”

Tim frowns. Next to him, Cass gives him a concerned look, but he shakes his head, taps his earpiece, and gestures for her to go back to watching the Riddler’s henchmen. “Did you—”

“I pitched it exactly like we talked about,” Jason says. “I’m not a fucking amateur. He didn’t bite.”

“It’s basically free money!” Tim says. “What kind of merc doesn’t like free money?”

“Are you talking about Deathstroke?” Cass says.

“Are you on the field right now?” Jason says.

Tim sighs and patches Cass in. “Of course we’re on the field, it’s two days before Christmas Eve and B is convinced Joker and the Riddler are gonna blow up Gotham. And of course we’re talking about Deathstroke, because it’s two days before the Christmas Eve party and he’s still here and we still don’t know what he’s planning. Did he say anything about N?”

“All he said was that he’s on vacation and that some things are worth more than money, like I’m supposed to understand what the hell he means. And then—ugh. I swear he lectured me for trying to stir up shit around the holidays instead of spending time with my family,” Jason says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Deathstroke said that. To me. What the actual fuck.”

“If he cares for family, then maybe you should appeal to his,” Cass says.

Tim had resisted pulling the rest of the Wilsons into it, but now they’re running out of time. “You’re friendly with Ravager, right?” Tim says. “Think she can get him to lure Deathstroke away?”

“I could try,” Jason says, audibly considering the idea. “Don’t get your hopes up, though. She usually doesn’t like getting involved in shit about her old man unless she really has to.”

Riddler’s henchmen have finished loading up a truck and are starting on the next one when Jason comes back on the line.

“Yeah, no,” Jason says. “She sent five skull emojis and says, quote, your problem now, bitch. Go cry to Nightwing.” Jason pauses. “Y’know, she’s got a point. Nightwing’s rogue, Nightwing’s problem. It wouldn’t be the first time his hot date got interrupted. Why not just let him deal with it?”

“Because he asked us to,” Tim says. “He asked me to. What does it look like if he does so much for the rest of us all the time and I can’t even do the one thing he asked me to do for him?”

Jason is quiet for a second. “It’s not really his style to ask people to take care of his problems for him.”

“Well, maybe it should be,” Tim says. “And I don’t care if you’ve decided to give up. He asked me for a reason, and I’m not going to just let this go.”

“Jesus, fine, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Jason says. “I’ll keep digging around, see what I can find.”

“You do that,” Tim snaps, and closes the line while trying to ignore the look that Cass is giving him. “He asked me. And— I’m the one who told B about his boyfriend. I’m the only reason they’re going to be in Gotham in the first place, instead of hiding out somewhere quiet. I won’t let things go wrong because I messed up.”

Cass is silent for a moment. “Hood is right,” she says finally. “It isn’t like N, to put the burden on someone else. He may have asked for help, but he wouldn’t have wanted you to feel personally responsible for it all.”

Maybe not, but Dick doesn’t ask for help all that often. If Tim fails him, would he ever ask again?

“They’re splitting up,” Tim says, standing as the trucks start heading in different directions from the warehouse.

“I’ll take north,” Cass says as they drop off the edge of the building to get to their bikes. “Be careful.”

“You, too.”

Tim follows the truck at a careful distance, making sure to stay far enough behind and in a different lane so that it isn’t obvious they’re being tracked.

In the meantime, he keeps thinking about what Cass and Jason said.

It’s true that, unless he’s actually working on a team mission, Dick isn’t usually a delegating duties kind of guy. He’ll ask for advice sometimes, or maybe a hand here or there, but he won’t normally just dump his own issues into someone else’s lap.

But context matters, and the circumstances are different this time. Dick is literally in space—he can’t even message anyone on Earth, so how would he be able to deal with an issue in Gotham? He can’t. Dick knows he can’t. That’s why he’d asked Tim.

And it was Tim he’d reached out to—he didn’t message them all in their group chat. He didn’t message Bruce, or Damian, or Cass. He messaged Tim. Out of everyone, Dick trusted Tim to be able to do this for him.

That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

Tim’s forced to put a hold on his thoughts once he arrives at the location where the truck had stopped.

The henchmen don’t stay long; they make quick work unloading their crates before speeding off again, but not before Tim manages to shoot a tracking dart onto the truck. After confirming the tracker is working, he lets them get a head start and takes a quick moment to investigate the crates.

They’re standard wooden shipping crates, each closed with two simple padlocks that are child’s play to pick. He carefully pries open the lid, and hears a soft snick, right before he gets a face full of gas.

He just has enough time to think shit before he blacks out.

Tim wakes with a vehicle rocking underneath him.

He keeps his eyes closed as he takes stock of the situation. He’s upright, leaning with his right shoulder against the window—he’s in the passenger seat, which is nice. A lot better than rolling around in the trunk. He’s still in his suit, he thinks, but with something heavier on top, like a jacket. He’s not bound in any way, as far as he can feel, but he’s definitely got some new fun, aching bruises he doesn’t remember having before.

“I know you’re awake,” says a voice Tim definitely recognizes and wishes that he didn’t. No wonder he isn’t bound; he can’t fight Deathstroke off alone, anyway.

Tim cracks his eyes open reluctantly, not wanting to risk pissing off Deathstroke even more. Is it possible that Deathstroke is working with Riddler somehow, and the trap had been set for Tim? Maybe Deathstroke had caught on that Tim was behind Jason’s efforts, too. Maybe he’d found out that they’d contacted Ravager. Maybe Tim’s going to die—or worse, be used as bait as part of Deathstroke’s master plan against Dick.

Deathstroke doesn’t look especially evil or scheming as he sits there in civilian clothes, driving with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the stick. He barely gives Tim a look before he says, “How’s your head?”

“Fine.” Tim surreptitiously tries the door. Child-locked.

“You really don’t like me, do you?” Deathstroke says neutrally.

“Why would I?”

Deathstroke snorts. “Why would you, indeed. Look, kid, it’s obvious you want me out, but I already committed, and I care more about your brother than I do you. So tell you what—this’ll be a one-time deal. Just play nice for the next few days and you’ll never have to see me in this godforsaken city ever again.”

That’d be nice, if only Tim weren’t worried about what exactly it is that Deathstroke’s committed himself to, and how it involves Dick. They’d dug and dug but hadn’t found any contracts—none that Deathstroke had taken, and none on Dick Grayson or Nightwing—but they know better than to think that means that contract doesn’t exist.

He considers how bad of an idea it would be to try to hijack the steering wheel. Probably terrible right now, since they’re weaving through Gotham city streets, but it might be worth a shot when they’re in a more remote area.

“Where are we going?” Tim says, not really expecting an answer.

“Be one,” Deathstroke says.

“…with the Force?” Tim hazards. If Deathstroke is speaking in riddles, does that confirm that he’s working with Riddler, or does it just suggest that he’s finally going senile? Because Tim really didn’t think Deathstroke was one for riddles—or Star Wars references, for that matter.

Deathstroke looks at him with something like exasperation. “Make sure you check for a concussion once you’re back in your hidey-hole.” He pulls to a stop in an alley and unlocks the doors. “Out you go.”

Tim peers out the window, but doesn’t see anyone in the alley. And Deathstroke is making no move to get out of the car.

“You need help opening the door?” Deathstroke says, clearly mocking.

“Oh, you meant right now.” Tim unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, keeping a careful watch for anyone in the alley.

Deathstroke reaches over, slams the passenger door shut, and then speeds away. Tim ducks behind a dumpster and waits, watching, but no one else appears.

Slowly, he takes stock of himself. He’s wearing a black leather jacket on top of his suit. He doesn’t recognize it, but it seems too small to be Deathstroke’s—probably stolen and then put on Tim to make his suit less recognizable. All of his equipment is still on him, but Deathstroke must have used an EMP, because all his electronics are shot—no comms, no tracker. No one else will know where to find him.

Tim’s going to have to make his way back on his own.

His mask is off, so he quickly puts on a spare before heading out from behind the dumpster. But before he can get far, a car roars to a stop in front of the alley, headlights blinding—the Batmobile, Tim realizes, as the passenger door opens to reveal Batman in the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

Tim hurries into the car. “I—”

“Black Bat has apprehended the rest of Riddler’s men, thanks to your tracker,” Bruce says as he drives toward the manor. “Only one of the shipments was a ruse. It wasn’t your fault.”

That’s good to know, even if it wasn’t the thing at the top of Tim’s mind. “I’m glad. Mission accomplished, then?”

“Mission accomplished,” Bruce says. “How did you escape from Riddler?”

“I—” Wait, so it was Riddler who’d set the trap? Which means— “How’d you know where to find me?”

Bruce gives him a strange look. “We received a message through the emergency number for pickup at rendezvous point B1. We assumed you sent it.”

B1. That must have been what Deathstroke was saying, which means that Deathstroke knows both about the existence of B1 and exactly where it is, which means that Deathstroke somehow knows their rendezvous points. “Oh shit.”

“What,” Batman says in his voice that suggests he already knows he’s going to hate whatever it is that Tim is going to say next.

“I was hit with sleeping gas, I think,” Tim says. “I just woke up like five minutes ago in Deathstroke’s car. He must have sent the message.”

Bruce hums, frowning deeply.

It is, in Tim’s opinion, a pretty muted reaction.

“Is there something you’re not telling me about Deathstroke?” Tim says. “Because I feel like you should be a lot more worried about this than you are.”

“He wasn’t always our enemy,” Bruce says. “He’s known our identities for a long time now, and he and Dick have worked closely, in the past. There’s a chance that, whatever the reason is that he’s in Gotham now, it isn’t to cause trouble.” He pauses. “Well. Not trouble for us or the general public, I should say.”

“So, just trouble for Dick personally, is what you’re saying?” Tim says. Then a horrifying thought hits him. “Oh my god. You don’t think he’s got some kind of crush on Dick, do you? What if he’s been sabotaging Dick’s relationship behind the scenes? Do you think he’s going to try to object at the wedding?”

“This isn’t a wedding.”

“At the party,” Tim says. “You know what I mean. You don’t think he’d make a huge scene as some kind of way to try to break them up?”

“It’s not out of the question,” Bruce says with a grimace. “It’s not as though he has an invitation, but that’s never stopped him before. But if he currently isn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, we can hardly run him from Gotham ahead of the fact.”

“That’s why you wanted me to stop investigating,” Tim says. “You were sure he was here for Dick.”

“It did seem likely that his business was personal, yes.”

Tim chews on his lower lip. “But Dick asked me to get rid of Deathstroke for him before he got back. Doesn’t that imply Deathstroke might be up to something worse than just making a scene?”

“It’s possible that Dick wasn’t aware of Deathstroke’s true intentions, either,” Bruce says. “Their relationship has been… odd, historically. The best we can do for Dick now is to ensure that Deathstroke doesn’t step foot on manor grounds—or, that if he does, he’s removed quickly.”

“Right,” Tim says. “The manor’s private property, so even if we can’t keep him out of Gotham, we can keep him out of there.”

“Precisely,” Bruce says. “If we ensure Dick and his partner spend their holiday within the manor, and we ensure Deathstroke stays out, that should achieve the same ends. It does mean some of us will need to spend our holiday on watch duty, but—”

“We’ll do it,” Tim says. “For Dick, we’ll all do it.”

Bruce smiles, fleeting. Then he says, “Speaking of which— The Titans’ ship has been stranded, so I’ll be going tonight to retrieve them. We should return by the time the party begins, but if not— I’ll leave Deathstroke to you.”

“I won’t let you down,” Tim promises—and, most importantly, he won’t let Dick down, either.

“He’s not gonna show,” Jason grumbles, right before throwing back the rest of his glass of ginger ale—his third of the night.

“Give him time,” Tim says.

“We have been.”

“He probably won’t show until Dick does.” And Dick and Bruce are both late.

Jason groans. “At least show me who Dick’s boyfriend is, then.”

Tim scans the crowd, looking for Alex Mills. He’d seen Mills’s name on the guest list, but still doesn’t spot him in the crowd, even though it’s an hour into the party. “He also probably won’t show until Dick does.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Great. Always love spending Christmas Eve waiting around for Dickie to show.”

“He waits for you every year,” Cass says as she and Steph come up beside them. “I think this is fair.”

Jason makes an expression of constipated embarrassment, but all he says is, “I’m getting another drink,” before marching away.

Damian wrinkles his nose after him. “I don’t see why we need him here. Surely we can handle Dea—” Tim steps on his foot in a not-so-gentle reminder to not use assassins’ names in the middle of the Wayne manor ballroom. Damian wrinkles his nose harder. “Santa Claus on our own.”

“We need two people to stay back to distract Dick and his boyfriend,” Tim reminds him. “If that’s you and me, then it leaves only Steph and Cass to go see Santa Claus.”

“And I appreciate your faith in us and all,” Steph says, “but I think the more the merrier seriously applies when it comes to fighting—uh, seeing superpowered old guys.”

“Santa Claus shouldn’t be underestimated,” Cass says.

“I don’t see why I need to be a distraction,” Damian mutters.

“Because Dick will talk to you forever,” Tim says, distracted by a sudden glimpse of white hair. He stares until he can catch a glimpse of the face—yeah, that’s Deathstroke, all right. “He’s here.”

“So are Dick and Bruce,” Cass says, nodding over to where Bruce’s head is now also visible over the crowd.

They all exchange grim expressions.

“Go get Jason,” Tim says. “And stick to the plan. C’mon, Damian.”

By the time they make their way across the room, Dick has been accosted by Deathstroke. Dick’s back is to them, but he has his arms crossed over his chest in a clear sign of annoyance, and Deathstroke’s answering expression is amused.

“Tim,” Bruce says, waving him over, and Tim gestures for Damian to go ahead as he approaches Bruce. “About Wilson—”

“Brucie, you’re finally here!” a woman Tim recognizes as one of the newer Gotham Gazette journalists says, latching onto his arm and pulling him away. “There you are! We’ve all been waiting for you to arrive!”

Five minutes, Bruce signals as he’s dragged off.

That’s all the time Tim needs for his part of the plan.

Damian has already sufficiently captured Dick’s attention, and Deathstroke is watching them from a few paces away, the amusement fading from his face. Tim walks over, catching Deathstroke’s attention, and tips his head. Deathstroke glances over at Dick, who’s still engrossed in his conversation with Damian, before taking a step toward Tim.

That’s when Dick’s hand snaps out, grabbing Deathstroke’s upper arm in a vice grip. “Slade,” he says, in a tone full of warning.

Deathstroke just looks amused. “Relax, little bird. We’re just going to talk.”

Dick’s gaze flicks between both Deathstroke and Tim, suspicious, but then Damian shifts noticeably, and Dick relents. “Fine,” he says, letting go of Deathstroke’s arm, but his expression is still wary, and he shoots the occasional glance over as Tim leads Deathstroke over to the balcony.

“About the other day,” Tim says as he pushes open the doors and steps outside—to the safe half. “I realized I never said thanks.”

Deathstroke raises an eyebrow, but joins Tim on the balcony. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t have to like someone to appreciate when they did me a favor.”

Deathstroke snorts. “I think the Bat would disagree, but I guess you and your brother are similar in that way. Honestly, it was more of a favor to him than to you. Dick would have wanted me to take care of you all while he was gone, even if none of you would have appreciated it.”

“Take care of… us,” Tim repeats, as every interaction he’s had with Deathstroke starts replaying and recontextualizing through his mind at rapid speed. “Oh,” he says. “Shit.”

Deathstroke opens his mouth, right as someone below triggers the trap door, and he disappears through the balcony floor and into the gardens, where—if they’d stuck to the plan—Cass, Steph, and Jason will be waiting to jump him.

Double shit.

Tim isn’t Dick and isn’t very interested in jumping off the balcony without any of his gear, so he hurries back through the ballroom, trying to keep to the edge, but is caught by Dick’s hand around his arm.

“And where are you off to in such a rush?” Dick says, a mildly threatening smile on his face. “And where’s Slade?”

“Uh,” Tim says.

“Tim,” Dick says, “please tell me you did not just drop my boyfriend through the balcony trapdoor.”

“Um,” Tim says.

Dick sighs and power-walks out of the ballroom, Tim hurrying after him.

“Dick—”

“Not right now,” Dick says, and practically leaps down the stairs in a way that’s only socially acceptable for Dick Grayson, former child acrobat, and not Tim Drake-Wayne, nepo baby.

By the time Tim catches up with him in the gardens, Dick’s already put himself in the middle of the action, one hand out toward Deathstroke and the other toward the cluster of Bats—which includes Damian, who’d probably gotten bored of playing distraction and left Tim to face Dick’s wrath alone. Cool.

“—find you doing this?” Dick is saying. “Seriously? Even you, Jason?”

Jason raises his hands in self-defense. “Okay, hold on a minute here. What I heard was that Deathstroke’s scheming to fuck up your life, so sue me for trying to help you out.”

“I seem to remember you insisting that this couldn’t possibly be a trap,” Deathstroke drawls to Dick, and Dick scowls at him before turning his attention back to Jason.

“That’s not true. Who the hell told you that?”

Jason’s gaze immediately darts to Tim.

Tim knew he’d get thrown under the bus.

“In my defense,” Tim says, “I literally didn’t know Deathstroke was your boyfriend until, like, a minute ago.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jason says.

“You said you all knew weeks ago,” Dick says, brows furrowed. “And Bruce knew. We were talking about Slade on the way back.”

Bruce is a liar and a traitor and—okay, in retrospect, he probably was trying to tip Tim off before he got dragged away, but maybe he should have just told Dick that they all misunderstood instead of trying to fake it off. Tim is going to put chili in his coffee.

“Bruce probably found out when you started talking about him,” Tim says. “We all thought your boyfriend was—” He can’t help glancing at Deathstroke when he says, “—someone else.”

Dick frowns between Tim and Deathstroke. “Who?”

“Alex Mills,” Cass says.

Deathstroke snorts while Dick stares at her, stunned.

“I don’t know who the fuck that is,” Jason says, “but can we get back to the part where Dick is apparently dating this old fart? Is this for real? Am I being pranked?”

That breaks Dick out of his stupor. He sighs and rubs his forehead. “And this is why I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Look, we weren’t even planning to come in the first place, all right? We’ll—”

“No,” Damian says, crossing his arms. “It was a simple misunderstanding. Now that things have been clarified, there’s no reason to object to Wilson’s presence.”

“Simple misunderstanding,” Deathstroke repeats. “You stranded me in the Australian outback.”

Dick’s accusing gaze lands directly on Tim, and he curls in on himself.

“I left him supplies,” Tim says. “It just would’ve been a very long walk.”

“Oh my god,” Dick says. “What the hell did you think I meant, when I asked you to take… care of…” Horror overtakes Dick’s expression as he must realize how Tim took his meaning. “Oh, Timmy, you thought I’d asked you to go fight off Deathstroke by yourself?”

“Not by myself,” Tim says, folding his arms over his chest. “But I just thought…”

Dick sighs, the annoyance and anger draining out of him all at once as he comes over and wraps his arms around Tim. “It’s my fault. I didn’t even realize how else it could sound. I just really thought you all knew already, and, well—out of everyone, I knew you’d be my best chance at actually making sure Slade got a warm welcome to Gotham. I didn’t want to leave it to Bruce.”

Tim laughs, a little weakly. Also a little wetly. “Yeah, that would’ve been awful.”

“Right?” Dick pulls back and smiles a little. “You made what you thought were the right calls. I’m not mad at you for that.”

“The Australian outback,” Deathstroke says again, but he doesn’t actually sound very angry about it.

Dick turns his smile onto Deathstroke, and steps back and takes his arm. “Aren’t you always saying you miss having a little more adventure in your life? You had fun, don’t lie.”

Deathstroke snorts. “How about we drop you in the desert next time and see how you like that.”

“Been there, done that, never again,” Dick sings.

“Jesus Christ, this is for real,” Jason says. “I’m out. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”

“You’re leaving already?” Dick says, sounding a little hurt. “At least come get your present before you go.”

Tim suddenly remember’s Cass’s comment—that Dick waits for Jason to join them every year—and he thinks Jason is remembering it too by the pinched expression on his face right before he says, “Fine, I’ll stay. But just for tonight.”

Dick beams, and Jason looks away.

“Should we go back upstairs?” Cass says, taking a step toward the garden path.

Dick hesitates. “So that’s it?” he says, glancing quickly at Deathstroke before looking back at them all. “You’re really okay with us? And me having Slade here?”

“Everything Father said still applies,” Damian says. “Your boyfriend is welcome, no matter how objectionable he may be.”

“What he means,” Tim says, ignoring Damian’s glare, “is that we love you, and if you love him, then that’s good enough for us.”

“I do,” Dick says, smiling warmly at Deathstroke. Deathstroke’s returning smile is soft, which is extremely weird, in Tim’s opinion—but is nice to see directed at Dick.

Dick looks back between the rest of them. “And I really appreciate it, guys—even more, now that I’m sure you all know who I’m talking about this time.”

With that, Cass leads the way back toward the ballroom. Tim hangs back, catching Deathstroke’s attention, and coughs when Dick raises a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“Promise it’s not a trap this time,” Tim says.

“I’m trusting you,” Dick says, not unkindly, and goes on ahead.

“I wanted to apologize,” Tim says quietly once he and Deathstroke are a few steps behind and have some semblance of privacy. “I mean, I’m sure it’s obvious now it was all a big misunderstanding, but just— I wanted to make sure you knew it wasn’t about you, really. We just thought you were planning something, and then when I saw you talking to Alex Mills…”

“You thought I was here to ruin his relationship?” Deathstroke says wryly.

“I just want Dick to be happy.”

“Sounds like we’ve got that in common,” Deathstroke says. “I told you Dick doesn’t need anyone to fight for him, but I’m sure he’s happy to know that he’s got you in his corner, in case he ever did.”

Tim smiles. “If you ever hurt him, though, I don’t care if he asks me for help or not. I’m gonna do way worse than stranding you in the outback.”

Deathstroke snorts. “I’ll hold you to that, kid.”

“You two had better be getting along back there,” Dick says, falling back in step with them. He’s smiling his mildly threatening smile again, and Tim wonders how much he’d heard—Dick’s hearing has always been scary good.

“We’re fine,” Deathstroke says, tugging Dick close with an arm around his waist. “You, on the other hand—”

“How was I supposed to know they completely misinterpreted the situation?”

“You’re detectives.”

“Which is why I thought they knew.”

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me later,” Deathstroke says, which is the exact moment Tim realizes that they’re less arguing and more flirting right in front of him.

No wonder Ravager doesn’t want them around.

“Kay I’m just gonna let you guys have your moment for a minute bye,” Tim says, speeding away from them, and he hears both of them laughing behind him—but instead of getting embarrassed, the sound makes him smile.

Dick’s going to have a happy holiday, after all.