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It’s a cool evening in Central City, Missouri. The leaves are burnt orange and wrinkled brown, crunching underfoot.
That’s okay. Anyone who might overhear the footsteps is far, far away.
Tim reaches the edge of the property. An abandoned industrial building, of which there are many in this city. He scales the outside like a panther up a tree—easy, light-footed, with deadly intent. There are no leaves on the roof, just chipped brick and graffiti and used needles.
He sets up on the east-facing wall, which overlooks the backyards of a row of apartments, stacked four units to a story and two stories high. Eight households per building, and ten buildings in a neat little row down the street. Only two of the streetlights are working. This is fine. Tim brought night vision.
There is no doubt in his mind that he’s staking out the right apartment. He is, as always, entirely meticulous. Tim Drake, Bloodknight, does not make mistakes. Still, as he pulls the rifle case off his shoulder, his mouth dries, and his heart thuds.
It has been a long time since he’s felt anything like this. Years. It’s difficult to breathe, and his head swims, and a strange distant numbness falls over his body. But his fingers don’t tremble. His fingers haven’t trembled since he took a dip in the Bright Green Jacuzzi of Eternal Life, which is a side effect he never even thought to consider.
Two twin clicks of the case snaps opening. Tim pulls out an Mk13—American, and slightly outdated, but both of these facts are positives, really. The bullets are American-made too. When they… when they find the bodies… they’ll think.
They’ll think it was some random American anti-meta zealot. This is worth the downgrade from the far superior League guns he trained with—Dami would recognize those in a heartbeat. The rifle stand snaps into place. The suppressor screws on at the muzzle. Tim checks the chamber, the trigger, the sights.
He sees, through the scope, a little boy’s bedroom. It’s a little sparse, but Tim catches a small, bright red backpack, and a math workbook on the white IKEA desk, and a twin bed with lightning bolts on the sheets.
It takes some patience, but it is a school night, so it’s not too long before his targets enter his line of fire. The boy is young, painfully so. Maybe nine, with a shock of red hair and bright eyes and milky skin. He wears a shirt that’s far too big for him as pajamas—his father’s, maybe, though Tim doubts it. Rudolph West is still alive, after all, just without custody of his only son.
Following Wally into the room is a man, slight and not even cresting 5’4”, wearing a threadbare hoodie and sweats. He looks… different.
Well, for starters, he looks grown. The last time Tim saw Bart Allen they were both too young to legally drive (not that Tim ever let that stop him), and he hasn’t gotten much taller, but his appearance has matured in spades. He’s lost roundness in his cheeks, there are bags under his eyes, and his hair is laying mostly down, fluffy and shiny and not drowned in product like it once was.
Bart says something to Wally, who opens his mouth for Bart to inspect. He makes a show of it, appraising the appearance of Wally’s teeth and leaning in to smell. He makes a face, and Tim can read are you sure? on his lips. Wally nods eagerly, and Bart laughs. Something ugly and wretched twists in Tim’s gut.
Wally lays in bed, wriggling under the covers and grinning up at Bart, who pulls the covers up to his chin. With a flurry of faster-than-light movement, Bart’s hands tuck the blanket in until Wally is completely burrito-ed. Wally positively wails with laughter, and Bart cracks a fond, helpless smile.
There is more conversation, which Tim is not privy to, and then Bart leans forward to press a kiss to Wally’s forehead. Tim catches an exchange of I love you’s, and the light turns off, and Tim can see nothing but the reflection of the building he’s currently laying on top of. He taps the side of his domino and switches to heat vision. The only thing between Wally and the round chambered in Tim’s gun is a single plaster wall.
Tim finds the shot. It’s painfully easy. He closes his eyes, steadies his breath, and puts his finger on the trigger.
The air moves next to him.
When Tim looks over, he’s there—still in his dingy sweats and off-white socks.
“You’re not going to put on shoes?” Tim asks, before realizing that it’s the first thing he’s said to Bart Allen in nearly nine years. “There’s… needles,” he finishes lamely.
“You’re pointing a sniper rifle at the boy I love more than anything on the planet, and you’re worried about me stepping on a needle?” Bart raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
Tim sighs and sets the butt of the gun down, resting it on the roof. He rolls off his stomach and onto his back, looking up at Bart. “Hey, Imp.”
There is no humor in Bart’s expression—but there is, perhaps, a little lingering fondness. “Hey yourself, Robbie.”
“I haven’t been Robin in almost a decade.”
“And I’m sure you know I haven’t been Impulse in nearly that long, too.” Bart, for some reason, takes a seat with his back to Tim, feet dangling over the edge of the building.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take the Max Mercury name,” Tim says, “Or just Mercury.”
“I was going to,” Bart shrugs, “After Max died. I wanted to live up to his legacy so bad. And then Barry… and the world needed a Flash more than they needed a Mercury. I’ve been told it’s a matter of brand recognition.”
Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and doesn’t speak.
“Is it just Wally? Or is it me, too?” Bart asks, fidgeting with his hands.
There’s a slip of paper weighing down Tim’s pocket. He takes it out and wordlessly hands it over to Bart. It’s coded, but you can tell there are two names on it. Bart will understand. “Ah. Both of us, then. What was the plan for me after you shot Wally?”
The plan was an electrostatic field Tim had already set up around the perimeter of the roof. No effect on regular humans except making your hair stand up, but it would cause a speedster’s heart to stop. Tim knew Bart would hear the shot and find him after. He hadn’t expected him to find him so quickly. He hadn’t expected his own weakness.
“He wouldn’t have felt it,” Tim gasps, agonized, “He wouldn’t have felt a thing, Imp, I swear—”
A flurry of movement, and Bart’s hand is on his back, helping him sit up, and his other is clutching Tim’s hand like a lifeline. “Tim,” Bart says, and Tim wasn’t ready to hear his name like that, out of the mouth of someone he loved so much. Bart’s hand rubs absentminded circles into Tim’s back. “You didn’t kill him.”
“I can’t—I can’t,” Tim says, “I can’t do it.”
“You can,” Bart reasons, “I’m sure you have some sort of gadget that’ll kill me hidden somewhere on you. You can drop me right now and shoot Wally and probably make it home for the eleven o’clock news.”
Tim can’t take it. He scrambles for his domino, for the mask over his mouth and nose, baring his face to Bart. Bart’s hands come up to cup his cheeks, thumbs stroking over Tim’s cheekbones.
“I can’t,” Tim confesses. He’s killed so many people. Good people. He killed Commissioner Gordon. He has even, in the course of his League training, killed children before. But he knows, even if he’d had ten years to pull that trigger, his finger wouldn’t have done it.
“Why?” Bart pries, some exhausted hope dawning in his expression. It makes him look younger. It makes him look young.
“He—he loves you,” Tim says, chest hitching on a sob, “He loves you so much.”
I love you too, Tim doesn’t say, and I miss you, and I’m so alone.
Bart doesn’t say anything else, just scoots in closer and moves his hands to the back of Tim’s head, drawing him in so Tim’s face is resting in the crook of Bart’s neck, and Bart can embrace him. Tim shudders and trembles, clutching back, fingers clawing at Bart’s hoodie.
“I’m sorry,” Tim gasps, “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re alive,” Bart says, “That’s all I ever wanted. We can—we can figure everything else out, okay? Whatever happens, we can—”
Tim shakes his head. Bart doesn’t get it. How could he? “They’re going to kill you anyway.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Bart says, and Tim can hear the grin in his voice. It’s just a little glimpse of the Bart that Tim remembers, the Looney Tunes Roadrunner who smiled like death couldn’t touch him.
“They’re going to—” Tim almost can’t get the words out, “As an example. For me. They’re the League of Assassins, Imp, they’re very good at making sure people end up dead.”
Tim doesn’t mention what the League will do to him for this. Probably something that will require another dip in the Lazarus Pit.
“Wally and I will stay at Mount Justice,” Bart says, “Like we used to. It’ll be like one big sleepover.”
Tim breaks off from the hug and scrubs at his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “And you’ll stay there forever?” Tim rasps, “I can’t stop working with the League, Bart.”
Bart is silent for a long time. “If Wally had anyone else, I would let you do it.”
“What?” Tim’s head whips up, alarmed. Bart has turned away, is staring at the apartment, curled in on himself.
“If it would save Wally, if Wally had somewhere else to stay,” Bart says, voice a horrible croak, “I would lay down and let you kill me. Any way you wanted. I know you’d be good for it.”
It’s the most terrifying thing anyone has ever said to him. Tim doesn’t know what to say.
“But it’s just me,” Bart says eventually, “Barry’s dead. Iris is dead. His dad’s a piece of shit. If I kick it, he’ll just go back to that house. Otherwise—yeah.”
Tim realizes with a start that Bart is crying. Silent, fat tears roll down his cheeks. He sniffs and takes a heaving breath before continuing, “It’s just been me for the last four years, Tim. He doesn’t have anyone else.”
Four years ago, Tim was assassinating industrial figureheads in Guangdong Province, China. Four years ago, Bart was seventeen.
He thinks he’s a failure, Kon had said. “And now there’s this… this perfect solution—” Bart’s voice takes on that just-too-fast quality, like his brain is moving faster than his mouth, “—and in any other circumstance I would—I would be able to save Wally, but I can’t even do that—”
“It’s not a perfect solution,” Tim interrupts, as soon as the words catch up to his brain, “Jesus fucking Christ, Bart, how could you say that?”
“You’re the one up here with the sniper rifle!” Bart points out, “You were just fine with killing me five minutes ago!”
“Of course I wasn’t fine!” Tim shouts, standing and pacing, “Of course I didn’t want to do it, I love you. Kon loves you. Cissie loves you. I haven’t even spoken to Wally, but even I can see that that little boy would be devastated if you died, regardless of if someone else was around to take care of him!”
“Kon and Cissie have other people—”
“Kon didn’t talk about other people when he cornered me and chewed me out for making you feel like shit while I was the leader of Young Justice,” Tim steamrolls right over Bart, “And Imp, I’m so sorry. You have no idea how much I hate that I made you feel that way.”
Bart, so fast the air around him crackles, rushes Tim in a bone-crushing hug. “I missed you so fucking much, Tim,” Bart says, face buried in Tim’s chestplate, “I miss you so much, please—come home. Come home to us, Tim, Wally would love you.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Wally loves everybody,” Bart laughs, pulling away from the hug just enough to look Tim in the eye, “Please, Tim. Let me make you a hot cocoa. You need it.”
Tim has never been able to tell Bart no, not once in his life, and apparently he’s not going to start now. He sighs in defeat, and Bart whisks him away, lightning-fast, leaving him in a tiny kitchen. The linoleum counters are peeling up at the edges, and the paintjob of the entire place leaves much to be desired, and one of the cabinets is being held in place by duct tape. The stove light casts a dim orange glow over the entire scene. Another few gusts of wind, and Bart is standing at the sink, filling an electric kettle with water.
“I know it’s not the fancy shit Alfred makes,” Bart says, dumping two packets of Swiss Miss into a couple mugs, “But we don’t—I… um,” he flushes, “I couldn’t afford milk this week.”
“Where do you work?” Tim asks, like this is normal. Like he’s just a regular guy catching up with a friend after a long time away. Like he’s just some guy standing in his friend’s kitchen, like his friend is just some guy who isn’t doing so hot at the moment.
“I—uh—have kind of a hard time holding down traditional, um, employment,” Bart confesses, “Right now I’m working concessions part time at the Chiefs stadium and doing cashier work at Aldi, but I think they might be gearing up to fire me because I’m really flaky and I keep saying rude stuff to customers even though I don’t mean to.”
And if Tim were just some guy, he could fix this. There’s a League equivalent of a Black AmEx card sitting in a bag in a safehouse that Tim will return to later tonight, if talking to Bart doesn’t make him pitch himself into the Missouri River. He could set Bart up with an account with a few hundred thousand dollars in it, and at their current standard of living they could live off that indefinitely. He hates that Bart is going through this.
“What about the League?”
“I’m not a member,” Bart says, “My application got rejected twice. Can’t get that sweet Watchtower dough if I’m still on a visitor’s pass.”
What happens if Wally gets sick? Tim wants to ask, what happens if he needs glasses or a hearing aid? What happens if your rent goes up?
Maybe he would have asked, before the League. When he was a spoiled rich boy, and when he became a spoiled rich boy with a tragic backstory. But that was something the League taught him—poverty. Many of the League members were born in the lowest echelons of society. They grew up under military regimes, under industrial pollution, under colonialism, and sold themselves to the League for the life purpose and the free food. Tim didn’t blame them. The first lesson you learn in the League of Assassins is that you—yes, you—will do anything given sufficient motivation. You can make anyone do anything given time, patience, and human anatomical knowledge.
“I’m sorry,” Tim offers uselessly. The kettle begins to boil, so Bart fills both mugs.
“I’ll manage,” Bart says, with a smile so exhausted Tim can hardly believe it belongs to his friend.
When Bart hands Tim a mug, Tim spots the Bat symbol on the side and snorts. “You’re insane, you know that, Imp?” the mug warms his fingers through his gloves, “You invited a League assassin into your house.”
“I invited my friend into my home,” Bart corrects, “And I think I got rid of most of your weapons, anyway.”
Tim startles, patting himself down. Damn, Bart did get a good seventy percent of them. “Some of those were antique.”
“Well, now they’re antique and in a river,” Bart says, “Along with your sniper rifle.”
And, oh, Tim had forgotten how infuriating Bart could be sometimes. He missed it so much. “It’s going to cost so much money to replace those, Bart.”
“Poor thing,” Bart simpers, “Maybe you should kill me successfully next time.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Tim says, more honest than he means for it to be.
Bart winces, sobers. “Yeah, I’m sorry.”
Tim takes a scalding drink of his watered-down cocoa just for something to do.
“So, you talked to Kon,” Bart says when the silence becomes too much for him.
“He kidnapped me on a job and goaded me into punching him, yes,” Tim acknowledges.
Bart laughs, muffling it with a hand. “God, that’s just like him, isn’t it?”
“I should have known he’d do something like that sooner or later,” Tim says mildly, “It’s a good thing he can’t get acne. He doesn’t know how to leave anything alone.”
“Not when it’s you, no,” Bart agrees.
Tim does not fidget. The habit has long since been trained out—not by the League, not even by Batman. Focused stillness is one of the things that kept Tim safe when he was nothing but a little kid following his idols around with a camera. “How… is he?”
“Honestly? I’ve been worried about Kon for years,” Bart admits with a gusty sigh, “He’s been running himself into the ground for Young Justice. The core team is so small, and we can’t keep our extra members. Which—it’s not anyone’s fault, we just have a lot of people who go in and out, like Cissie used to. But the Titans, the Justice League… nobody takes us seriously. I’m positive it’s why they don’t want me on the roster. Well, that and the fact that Redbird still hates me for failing to save you.”
“She said that?”
“Not in so many words,” Bart says, “But she, uh—I don’t blame her.”
“Bart, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?” Tim says, softer and kinder than anything he’s said in eight years, “I died because Harm wanted me dead. It was my own fault for underestimating him. My arrogance, that’s what killed me.”
“I keep thinking about—” Bart sniffles again, “—What if I only get six more years with Wally? What if I lose him tomorrow? What if the state decides I can’t take care of him, and—” Bart cuts himself off, taking a drink from his mug. His hands are trembling. “It wasn’t your fault either, Tim. You were a child.”
Here’s Bart, giving Tim unconditional love, and acceptance, and forgiveness like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Tim can’t stomach another second of it. “Tell me about Wally.”
“God, Tim, he’s so smart,” Bart says, with a watery grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a kid with so much potential. He could do anything—he can be anything. He—he replicated the experiment that gave Barry his powers, and he’s only nine. And he’s so kind. He loves everyone, he wants to be everyone’s friend, you know? He deserves,” Bart pushes a hand into his cheek, harsh, to ground himself, “He deserves better than me.”
Tim carefully sets his mug on the counter and unwraps his gloves, before opening his arms to Bart. Bart’s mug comes down with considerably more force and he dives into Tim’s arms gratefully, face to Tim’s chest.
“Please don’t go,” Bart whispers into Tim’s uniform.
“I’m sorry, Imp,” Tim says, “You know I have to. You and Wally are in enough danger as it is.”
“I just got you back,” Bart says, “It’s not fair.”
“I want to stay,” Tim confesses, like a sin, “I missed you. If I could—I—I want—”
This has been such a wonderful dream. Better than anything Tim could have ever imagined—Bart wasn’t angry, Bart wasn’t scared of him, Bart still loved him. But it’s not real. This isn’t real life. Tim doesn’t even know what real life looks like, anymore. Real life was supposed to include Wally’s brains on the ceiling and Bart’s twitching body on a concrete roof.
“Bart?” a tired, child’s voice whispers from a nearby doorway, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, Wally, yeah!” Bart says, pulling away from Tim and wiping his eyes, “Come say hi, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Wally approaches, shy, as if—as if Tim is intimidating. As if Tim is scary.
Tim tries to smile. “Hey, Wally. I’m Tim. Bart’s an old friend of mine.”
“Why was he crying?” Wally asks, suspicious, “Bart, what’s going on?”
“Ah, it’s, um,” Bart says, searching for some child-friendly half-truth, “It’s been a really long time since I’ve seen Tim. I missed him a lot.”
“Oh,” Wally says, as if it’s just that simple, “Do you want a hug?”
“I think Tim might need one more,” Bart says, a bit conspiratorial. Tim is about to brush it off—he does not need Wally that close to him, no thank you, not when he’d been milliseconds away from blowing his head off, but there’s a nauseatingly familiar gust of wind, and twiggy arms are suddenly around his waist. Wally is even smaller than Bart, and when Tim’s hand accidentally brushes Wally’s hair, it’s soft. Up close like this, Tim can smell his green apple scented shampoo, see the band of freckles across his forehead, feel the slight static field that always surrounds speedsters.
Tim almost killed him. Tim’s flagrant disobedience might get him killed yet.
Tim swallows against a horrible feeling in his throat. “I’m going to fix this,” he promises Bart, “I’m going to—I’ll—I’ll talk to Redbird.”
Bart’s eyes go wide. “You will?”
“Redbird is cool,” Wally says, pulling away, “Are you scared of her? You don’t have to be. She just pretends to be mean so people don’t bother her.”
Instead of acknowledging any of that, Tim crouches down so he’s looking up at Wally. “Hey, buddy,” Tim says, “There might be some bad guys coming after you and Bart soon, so I need you to keep an eye out, okay? That’s why I need to go talk to Redbird. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you both safe.”
“Okay,” Wally says, easily, “I keep an eye out for Captain Cold and Mirror Master all the time.”
“Not quite like them,” Tim says, “They might look kind of like me, but dressed all in black, and without so much armor. They might also look like a regular person, so if you see someone acting weird I need you to point it out to Bart. He’ll take care of it, or he’ll call someone who can take care of it.”
“… alright,” Wally says, with an implied you big weirdo at the end.
“Let’s not scare the kid,” Bart says, nudging Tim’s shoulder, “You’ve got school tomorrow, pipsqueak, back to the chambers with you.”
“I shant go!” Wally cries out, in a horrible accent, before wrapping Tim in another hug, this time with his arms around Tim’s neck. “It was really good to meet you, Tim. Bart needs more friends.”
Tim’s chest hurts. He might actually be dying again. “I’ll take that into consideration. Be good and get to bed.”
Wally only pouts minimally as he walks back towards his room. When the door shuts, Tim sighs, rubs his hands over his face, and stands. “I do need to go. I’m on a bit of a time crunch, now, since I guess this counts as my official resignation.”
“Hey,” Bart says, reaching up to take Tim’s face into his hands, “Do what you gotta do. I’ll keep Wally safe. Just… promise me you’ll try to keep yourself safe, too? I can’t lose you again.”
“I will,” Tim lies, so soft and open that Bart beams in response.
Tim gets another hug in the kitchen, and then another one at the door. He’s been hugged more in the last 30 minutes than the past eight years combined.
“Come back,” Bart says, muffled by Tim’s shoulder, “Or tell me where you are, so I can come to you. I don’t care, just don’t let this be the last time we see each other, please?”
“I’ll always come back to you, Imp,” Tim says, “C’mon, now. We’re Young, Just Us.”
“Robbie,” Bart says, trembling in Tim’s arms, “Robbie, don’t go.”
“I’m sorry,” Tim apologizes, kissing the crown of Bart’s head for a long moment, “I have to.”
Bart nods, squeezes Tim, and then lets go. Tim doesn’t have his grapple line—it would be silly to try and grapple in Central City, anyway, with its stubby urban sprawl—so he disappears by vaulting the railing at the end of the breezeway and dropping to the ground below. It’s a short walk to his bike, and a short drive to his hotel room, and a long flight back to Gotham.
The long flight is good. Tim needs the time to think about some things. His most important conclusion is this: the assassin known as Bloodknight does not make mistakes. When he defects from the League of Assassins, he does it with both eyes wide open and his hands reaching for something the League has always failed to give him—hot cocoa in a dark kitchen with someone who loves him.