Chapter Text
Tim didn’t regret stabbing Batman.
Maybe if Bruce had been his father, like he’d been to Dick and Jason he would have, but Tim knew—had known all along—that he was different. He wasn’t wanted. And that hurt, yeah, but less than it would have hurt if he’d expected anything different. But Tim hadn’t gone to Wayne Manor that night to blackmail Bruce Wayne into making Tim his son. He’d blackmailed Batman into making him Robin.
See, Tim wasn’t loved, and he didn’t love many people. But Tim loved Gotham. And Gotham needed Batman, needed a Batman who didn’t kill, who teetered precariously on that line. Who had Robin to pull him back from going over it.
So he’d swallowed the petty bitterness lingering in his mouth when he limped home from training and collapsed in the empty Drake Manor. He’d accepted Bruce’s rage when Tim dragged him out of his depression bed and forced him to eat and drink and bathe. He never expected gratitude and he never received it.
When Tim had eased Bruce back into the shape of a semi-functional human being in a bat costume, Dick started to come back around. It was nerve-wracking at first, monitoring the situation to ensure Nightwing didn’t undo his hard work but, besides a few blowups and regressions that left Tim bruised and exhausted, things got better. Damian showing up was awful and frustrating and painful in a way Tim couldn’t quite put into words, but he got over it. He’d never been safe in the Manor, although attempted murder was an escalation, so he didn’t lose too much.
That didn’t explain the uptick in anxiety—Tim might not seek out mental health treatment, but he’d educated himself when the PTSD and insomnia had gotten bad enough to affect his work—but there was nothing productive to be found by pursuing the issue further. Damian was here to stay and Bruce and Dick had made it very clear that Tim was to absorb his hatred and violence without complaint.
But Jason—Jason. Tim couldn’t shield the family from that revelation. Maybe he could have if he hadn’t been reeling himself. Jason Todd was alive. Robin, Tim’s Robin. And Tim’s Robin was magic, was Gotham to the core, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Tim Drake didn’t love many things, but he loved Gotham. He loved her Robin.
When Jason slit his throat, Tim was okay with that. He’d fought, of course. Batman had drilled the reflex too deeply for Tim to undo in the moment. It was worth it, that fight, because if he’d died earlier, he wouldn’t have seen Jason Todd remove his helmet, seen the way his Robin had grown up—and Tim mourned the years he couldn’t capture with his camera. There was panic, of course, and pain when he was dying, but he wasn’t angry. It was actually a bit of a relief. Robin was here. Tim could rest.
And then he blacked out and he woke up, and Tim panicked again because Jason was gone.
He’d mostly ignored his friends’ objections when he dragged himself out of the infirmary to the main computer, trying to track Jason down before he could disappear again. The Titans seemed under the impression that fear drove Tim to do this, that he couldn’t rest and recover until he felt safe, and Tim let them because it let him do what he needed to do. Eventually, he tracked the man down to his haunt in Crime Alley, and Tim sagged. He wasn’t gone. He’d just left Tim behind.
Which was fine; it’s what he was supposed to do even, although this probably meant more work for Tim because if Jason didn’t kill his Replacement then maybe he wasn’t planning to become Robin again which meant Tim was going to have to convince him.
And then Kon intervened and lifted him bodily away from the computer and put him back to bed.
Tim couldn’t even object because it turned out that being beaten within an inch of your life and having your throat slit was rather painful, and he’d also passed out. Go figure.
The next months were grueling, rehabilitation (for him and Jason), for Tim to physically recover and to unravel the plot of what happened when Jason was dead and then drip-feed it to the family so they could care for him. Tim’s throat scarred, and his leg healed. The flashbacks were a drop in an ocean of shit, and Tim managed to hide them. At night, he traced the line at his throat and contemplated if it had been just a half inch deeper.
Jason slowly came out of the Pit Rage. He forged a tentative truce with the Bats, and Tim gave up the idea that he’d become Robin again. It was overtly clear the mantle didn’t suit him anymore. Still, Tim could hold down the fort. He was the stopgap after all—shapeless, formless, void. Tim could be Robin until there was somewhere else he was more useful.
And then Bruce died.
People lost their damn minds. And Tim just couldn’t because it was all completely unnecessary. Bruce. Wasn’t. Fucking. Dead. And nobody believed him. Nobody believed him. Him, the only one who could lie to Bruce, who figured out their identities when he was nine, who took on being CEO and the vast majority of casework for the Bats without complaint because he was better. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was a bonafide fucking genius, and they thought he was crazy. They thought he was grief stricken and desperate, and Tim wasn’t sure if he was more disgusted that they thought he was that emotional or that stupid.
Janet Drake’s son did not allow emotion to interfere with his work.
Batman was not dead. He was lost in the timestream. And Tim could have proven it if Dick hadn’t overreacted, giving Damian Robin—and that hurt, that hurt Tim far more than he would ever admit because Robin was his to pass down, he’d fought, he’d bled to make Robin his, to be magic like his Robin, like Jason was magic—turning the Justice League against him, trying to get Tim locked up in Arkham.
So Tim had to go it alone. And after a few weeks, he discovered that it was almost a relief. That, despite the lack of resources, it was easier to just do these things himself without having to cajole and manipulate, without having to explain every little detail that should have been obvious but somehow wasn’t. It was hard and grueling but Tim felt a bit lighter.
Eventually, he’d hit a wall. There was nothing more he could do on his own, but unlikely allies were kind of Tim’s thing.
The League. Pru, Owen, Z. Ra’s silky voice calling him Detective. Offers to become Heir to the Demon and flashbacks to Paris with the Daughter of Acheron.
But none of that mattered because Tim got Batman back. And everyone moved forward like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t called Tim crazy or kicked him out. Hadn’t stripped him of his cape and left him.
Tim swallowed it like he always did. Ignored how he started to grow heavy again under the weight of keeping everything running. And then he’d realized that Damian was Robin. Which of course he’d known, but it clicked that that meant Tim wasn’t Robin. And Tim had always had a plan for what he was going to do when he wasn’t Robin anymore.
Because Robin couldn’t kill.
But Tim Drake certainly could. And the Joker had been on his list since he took away Tim’s Robin, Tim’s magic.
All this to say, Tim didn’t regret stabbing Batman. He’d hurt Jason. He’d had it coming.
…
“How on earth did you do that?”
Tim blinked at Kon, feeling like the world was drenched in syrup since Batman and Nightwing left. Jason was warm against his side.
“Do what?” The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, fuzzy and thick.
Kon made a vague, almost hysterical gesture with his hands. “The—when you were fighting with Batman! How did you move like that?”
Honestly, the fight was pretty vague in Tim’s mind. Adrenalin and instinct. “Harley Quinn is an undocumented metahuman.”
Kon’s brow furrowed at the non sequitur, and Jason tensed at his side.
“What?” That was Jason.
“You are too,” Tim said, tilted his head to look at Jason’s shocked expression.
“Uhhh…no I’m not?”
Tim nodded vaguely, eyes wandering to a spot on the ceiling. “The Lazarus Pit enhanced your healing, reflexes, and strength while creating a rage-based obsession. The Joker’s toxin increases speed and strength while destabilizing the mind and damaging emotional regulation and pain receptors. Without increased healing or durability, it also makes recipients more susceptible to self-injury.”
“Joker’s toxin…” Jason jerked as the implication hit him. “Like the stuff he used on you?”
Tim nodded, hearing Kon’s sharp inhale. This conversation must be stressing Tim out, he realized. Giggles were beginning to rise in his chest.
“Shit, babybird,” Tim blinked, and Jason had him hauled into his lap, ignoring Roy’s threat that if he popped the stitches Roy had just done, he’d be on his own. “And the fancy moves? Where’d you learn those?”
Oh yeah. Jason had spent time with the League too.
“I was with the League for a few months while Bruce was missing.” Tim was getting really tired, and a giggle slipped out without his realizing. “Ra’s called me Detective.” Tim yawned, burying his face in Jason’s uninjured shoulder. “Hadta stop a bunch of assassin-killing assassins,” he mumbled. “Ra’s helped with Bruce but don’ wanna be heir. Blew up his base.” He giggled again.
Shock—fear—curiosity—anger—bled from Jason’s scent, but he just pet Tim’s hair. Tim thought he felt a brief brush of lips against his forehead but he couldn’t be sure. “Alright, babybird. Why don’t you have a nap, huh? We’ll talk more later.”
Tim hummed. That was an excellent idea. It seemed barely a moment went by before he slumped into unconsciousness.
…
Maybe Jason wasn’t ready to parent a teenager. Thankfully, Tim had fallen asleep practically immediately, giving Jason time to sort through the series of bombshells he’d dropped as casually as a grocery order. What did he mean, Ra’s al Ghul wanted to make him Heir? He blew up the League of Assassins? Did that mean Joker wasn’t Tim’s first kill? Not that he was one to judge, Jason just wanted to know what he was dealing with here.
He also needed to call Leslie Thompson asap. He should have done it already. There was no excuse. Jason’s heart hurt at the thought that Tim was almost certainly right about the side effects of Joker’s toxin. It wasn’t the laughing toxin he gave civilians but the stuff he injected into himself, Harley, and now Tim. If Tim couldn’t regulate his strength or emotions, if he hurt himself because of the fucked up pain tolerance, then he’d have to give up vigilantism. Field work at the very least. And while Jason wasn’t opposed to that given that Tim was a child, he didn’t want to take something so important away from him.
He would though. If he had to.
“You knew about this?”
Jason looked up at Roy’s question.
Kon’s hunched his shoulders. “Not everything. Tim doesn’t tell anyone everything.”
“Is Ra’s still after him?” Jason kept his voice low.
The teen met his eyes, trying diligently to chew a hole through his lip. Then he nodded.
Roy swore.
“It’s not as bad as it used to be,” Kon said. “These days, Ra’s just kind of…stalks him? Tim says it’s like a game. Ra’s sends assassins to leave little notes or bugs on his car or around his apartment and Tim destroys them or send the assassins back to Ra’s with messages. Once they played a game of chess like that, just sending assassins back and forth with their moves.”
Jason’s molars were trying to turn themselves to dust. “Ra’s al Ghul is stalking my pup?”
Kon gulped at the expression on Jason’s face. “Only…lightly? I don’t like it either!” he said hurriedly as Jason’s expression turned murderous. “But last time I interfered, Tim was pissed, and I got the impression I just made it worse. Ra’s,” he grimaced, “likes Tim. He doesn’t seem to want him hurt or dead. He wants to make sure Tim is always thinking of him.”
Jason’s stomach dropped, and Roy made a wounded noise next to him. “He’s sixteen.” Inane, but somehow all he could manage.
Kon’s eyes widened. “Oh! No, not like that. He’s not the one—” the teen’s jaw snapped, expression suddenly blank.
Surprisingly, the aura of rage that filled the room wasn’t Jason’s. Well, wasn’t only Jason’s.
“Who?” Roy growled, and damn Jason forgot how terrifying the man could be when he wasn’t acting like a teddy bear or an infant.
Kon shook his head, jaw tight. “I can’t.”
Jason sucked in a breath to demand, when Tim shifted in his arms, whining at the over-tight grip Jason had on him. The three froze, eyes on the injured omega in question. When Tim settled, Jason eased carefully back against the couch.
Roy met his gaze, fury swimming in those blue eyes. Jason forced himself to shake his head. They wouldn’t pursue this now. Tim was safe and healing. When he was in a better position, Jason would figure out who the fuck touched his pup, and then there’d be hell to pay.
…
Kon liked Tim’s new pack, which was why he really wished he could stop pissing them off. But what happened in Paris—what little even Kon knew—was for Tim to share. He wouldn’t betray that trust.
It didn’t stop his chin from tilting against his will at the scent of rage—demand—protect—keep out—or the puppy whine that tore from his throat. The adults in the room froze, and Kon flushed in humiliation.
“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes on the ground. “I didn’t—”
An insistent omega chuff interrupted him, and Kon’s head shot up to see Roy reaching for him, hesitating long enough for Kon to pull away if he wanted. Kon was frozen in place. He wasn’t pack. Why—?
Roy chuffed again, and Kon couldn’t help himself. He scrambled forward, barely noticing the answering whine he made as the older man tucked him into his arms.
“Shh, you’re okay pup,” Roy murmured, swaying with the teen in his arms. They were almost the same height, but somehow the man made Kon feel small in a way he couldn’t recall ever having been. “No one’s mad at you.” When Kon’s breath hitched, Roy shushed him again, scenting him gently as he slowly led the boy over to the couch where Jason and Tim were.
Kon almost resisted. He couldn’t keep doing this—he wasn’t pack, he couldn’t keep intruding on their bonding moments. This was about Tim. Kon didn’t get to have this. He didn’t get pack bonds and cuddles and warm noises and soothing scents. He had labs and lectures and a duty to protect people, and he was good at it. It was just after everyone else went home that Kon was a little lost.
Somehow, Roy had corralled him onto the couch while he was lost in his head. “Wanna talk about it?” the man murmured.
Kon shook his head, letting the man’s shirt absorb the tears he couldn’t seem to control and the childish quiver of his lip. Roy chuffed and somehow the floodgates opened and Kon was babbling “—I’m sorry, I don’t know why—I don’t do this, and Tim—”
“Tim’s fine,” Roy said, gently detangling his hair with one hand. “You’re feeling something though and maybe if you tell us about it, we can work it out.”
Kon shook his head, suddenly frantic. They didn’t understand. “No, you can’t. I’m not supposed to—he won’t let you—” Kon took a gulp of air and almost swayed at the potent calming pheromones he inhaled. “I’m not—” he mumbled, suddenly drowsy. Kon lifted his head from Roy’s shirt, finding patient blue eyes fixed on him. “I’m not supposed to need,” he managed, eyelids drooping.
Red eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern. “Need what?”
Kon blinked, sending fresh tears down his cheeks. “Anything.”