Chapter Text
Gathering evidence is easy. Applying any amount of critical thinking skills to a case is easy. Compiling everything into one cohesive plan that can become actionable takes a certain level of skill, but it’s easy.
Getting along with your coworkers is fucking difficult, especially when they’re family.
Family is somehow the best and worst thing to happen to the Bats. Tim equates the relationships he holds with the entire family to being in purgatory; nobody gets what they want but then again, it isn’t the worst thing they could all be damned to. And there are too many fucking people in one place waiting around for the next big thing to happen.
This— this stupid purgatory feeling, is exactly how Tim feels right now, in the middle of his argument.
“You can’t be serious,” Tim exclaims, slamming one end of his bo staff on the floor of the Batcave. If it weren’t for his domino mask, he thinks his eyes would be popping out of their sockets from frustration, “This is my case! I’ve been on this trail for months at this point— and you just want to hand it over to him?!”
“Yes,” Batman says coldly, unfazed by the tantrum happening in front of him. He’s used to not giving people what they want. “You need to learn when to hand a case to someone else. Not everything you start needs to be completed by you.”
Tim huffs and, admittedly, stomps his foot lightly because he’s feeling petulant. Maturity is bullshit when something is objectively unfair. “He can’t. Even if I debriefed him, the case is too nuanced to change ownership randomly. I’ve done too much work to simply hand this off—“
“That is exactly why he needs to take this on now,” Batman says, turning away from Red Robin and looking at the hologram computer screen in front of him, “You’ve done the bulk of the work. He will finish it. You two need to learn to work as a team, even separately. There is nothing more to discuss.”
The icy tone Bruce uses is one that Tim is all too familiar with. Each Robin was gifted a different, unique version of Batman’s lectures— Tim was granted the cool, sharp variant that always cut through his heart like an ice pick and made him feel more numb than angry. Every Robin got the lectures but every Robin processed them differently, and that was the difficult part of the relationship with Batman. Being yourself.
“Fine,” Tim whispers to Bruce’s back. This wasn’t a battle worth fighting, not when that was the tone used to close the argument on Bruce’s end.
There’s a pause as Tim waits for something. Anything. The air hangs heavily between them as Tim’s eyes bore into the back of Batman’s cowl.
The only noise that fills the gap between them is the soft clicking of the keyboard Batman types on. No acknowledgment, no compromises. Just continuing with the task at hand.
Tim hates to admit it, but he does the same shit when he’s pissed off and finished with a conversation, so he knows the best thing to do is to leave that goddamn cave and get as far away from the problem as possible.
Turning on his feet and crunching the concrete bits under the toe of his shoe with a little extra unnecessary force, Tim begins to walk towards the elevator that would bring him to the upper-level parking garage. Maybe he’ll take the Batmobile for a spin, just to spite Bruce.
Who was he kidding? The best he could muster was to go home and install some sort of tracking code into the encrypted folders of the case. So what if he wanted to keep an eye on his work? His schedule was about to be wide open now that this case wasn’t going to be bogging him down every night. Might as well do something productive.
Tim glances over his shoulder one last time at Batman, secretly hoping Bruce is watching him go and waiting for him to turn so that they can have one final, moviesque quip before Tim ascends.
Batman is unmoved and still typing furiously at the keyboard, now with four hologram screens pulled up, each displaying multiple documents along with a handful of windows of security camera footage. Without even looking closely at the footage Tim knows it’s the same stuff he combed through last night before submitting it to his case file.
Sighing, Tim drops his head in defeat and steps into the elevator, the doors soundlessly closing behind him.
“Fuck!” Tim yells to himself as the elevator takes him away, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The elevator crawls to a stop, along with Tim’s anger. It doesn’t usually stick around for long but if it’s the wrong place and at the wrong time, it can be deadly. Maybe it’s him suppressing his own emotions but it’s better than stewing in them. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to think about it.
Grabbing his helmet with more force than necessary, he throws it on and speedwalks to his bike, hopping on it without trouble. He’s certain Alfred will be sending him a text soon asking him to not peel out of the garage so loudly at such an ungodly hour.
The drive back to his favorite safehouse is farther than his usual apartment and much farther than the manor. Driving when it’s this dark outside is one of Tim’s favorite things to do— with the help of the night, most of the grime and gross bits of Gotham aren’t visible, and it looks like any other respectable city. The buzzing of the neon lights and the puddles of dirty rainwater looks more like a purposeful aesthetic rather than a nuisance at night. However Tim felt about Gotham, it was still his home. He knows deep down it’s the place he’ll always come back to.
The streets are mostly deserted because of the time. A few people seem to be unfortunate enough to be walking home from their nightshift, and a few are purposefully meandering about looking for trouble. Tim pretends like he doesn’t see the questionable actions and continues on through the night until he’s arrived at his condo.
His condo’s building stands out like a sore thumb from the rest of the townhouses on his street. Here, there’s no one walking around. During the daytime there are few people walking around as well, seeing as how this little section of Gotham only houses small families who commute into the city for work and leisure. It’s a weird mimicking of what Tim thinks an actual suburban neighborhood might be like.
“Home sweet home,” he whispers sarcastically as he removes his helmet. He kicks down the kickstand of his bike. He’s not worried about his bike being nicked during the night in this part of town so he doesn’t take any extra precautions to secure it.
All he wants right now is to throw some instant cocoa in a cup, microwave bomb the shit out of it, and pass out on the couch. Maybe he’ll make two cups if he’s feeling adventurous.
He’s trying to remember the last time he has restocked his instant cocoa when he finally makes his way up the five flights of stairs and to his door. The debate in his mind is if he should be running to the bodega down the street for some milk or if he should use water, which is gross in a way that makes him nostalgic for his childhood. Milk would be the better option but walking all those stairs wasn’t the most pleasant of ways to end his night. Water seems like the most likely choice, out of sheer laziness. If he even has any cocoa.
Tim pauses. He’s completely still, gripping his doorknob tightly, looking at it like it’s a foreign object. The door opened without him needing to use the key, and the extra security lock on the inside didn’t click at his fingerprint. He looks around and immediately takes in his surroundings, his brain going haywire from the intrusion.
Glancing through the crack of the door, he sees someone standing in the darkness of his condo, with only the light from the refrigerator illuminating them. They’re opening and closing all the drawers of the fridge, clearly frustrated with the lack of nutrients.
“Are you fucking serious…” they hiss, still unaware of Tim’s presence.
By the time the person shuts the fridge door, Tim has silently snuck in, his footsteps making no noise as he slips into the apartment. He presses against the wall that the door is hinged on, completely shrouded by the darkness. There are a million different approaches Tim’s brain is rolodexing through, with each of them involving some level of hand-to-hand combat. Combat seems like a great way for him to get out some frustration he’s holding onto from tonight. From his entire life, honestly, but he’s not in the headspace to unpack all of that right now.
“How the fuck do you survive when all you eat is this Lunchables shit?”
All of the strategies Tim was thinking of immediately fly out of the window once he registers the voice. His heartbeat suddenly returns to a normal pace. “Dude,” Tim groans, his posture loosening as he rolls his head back, “How many times have I told you not to sneak into my places?”
Tim slams the palm of his hand against the three light switches near him. Each switch lights up a different area of the kitchen; one is for the backlight behind the granite backsplash that lines the entirety of the kitchen walls, another is for the pendant lights that hang above the kitchen island, and the final one is for the main overhead lights in the ceiling. It’s extravagant and Tim likes it.
Jason winces at the sudden illumination. “Jesus! At least warn a guy before you go turning on your fucking high-beam kitchen lights.”
“They’re standard LEDs, they aren’t that bright,” Tim rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, annoyance radiating through his body, “Maybe— I don’t know, warn a guy before you go sneaking into his condo.”
Jason merely shrugs and shakes a Lunchable in the air, as if he was trying to show it off like some kind of prize. “Well, when you’ve been snooping around in the dark, they can blind you. So jot that down.”
“If you stopped breaking into my place then you wouldn’t run the risk of being blinded. So jot that down.”
“Whatever,” Jason scoffs as he kicks out one of the barstools. He whips it around with his ankle somehow and dramatically throws himself into the seat, causing it to tip over onto two of its feet before it slams back down into the hardwood floor. Jackass. “Seriously, how do you eat this shit all the time? It’s meant for demons like the one that runs around in the Robin costume.”
For a moment Tim had forgotten about his argument with Batman, about how he was handing Tim’s work off to Damian. His hard work. He had been so present in the moment that the entire reason he was at this specific safe house had left his mind.
Walking to the fridge, Tim grunts, “Don’t remind me of the little shit.”
“Uh oh,” Jason sarcastically chuckles as he opens the Lunchable in one clean tear, “Wanna tell Daddy what happened?”
“Ew, don’t call yourself that,” Tim makes a face at Jason before turning to open the fridge. The sight is pretty abysmal, with nothing but some condiments and canned cold brew to greet him. God, he needs to go shopping. Or InstaCart some nonperishable shit here. He remembers the cocoa with water or milk debate he had in his head a few minutes ago and realizes something.
Tim turns, “You took the last Lunchable? Seriously?”
“Hmm,” Jason chews whatever is in his mouth and looks at the ceiling, pretending like he’s thinking hard about his response, “Nope.”
Tim squints, “How does that make sense?”
One of the mini tortilla rounds is dunked into the sorry excuse for salsa. Jason pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows before saying, “I brought it here.”
Tim stands there, dumbstruck. What does that mean? “I’m sorry?” he asks.
“For what? Assuming I was stealing from you? All’s forgiven in God’s kingdom.”
“No— well, yes, for that as well— but I meant more like… what do you mean, you brought it here?”
Jason finishes the chips in the main section of the Lunchable, “You know, they never give a good chip-to-salsa-to-cheese ratio. I think it’s just a Gotham thing but I always feel like they skimp out on the chips.”
“Jason,” Tim says cooly. He’s tired of the deflection and he knows Jason does this when there is something else on his mind that he doesn’t want to talk about.
Plus, why was he here in the first place? Ever since Tim took a knife to the calf for Jason six months ago, the man has been coming around a lot more often. At first, it was just every now and again in alleyways when Tim was unsuspecting of it, then it eventually grew to be at a frequency where Tim could rely on the other to show up. If Red Robin was somewhere, Red Hood was close behind. Even if Jason thought he was being stealthy, Tim knew he was there. It was starting to become weird.
“Fine, fine,” Jason sighs, “I brought you one, too. I figured you might get jealous.”
Tim stares at Jason from across the kitchen. After a moment of awkward silence, Tim lets out a hearty laugh that was a mixture of genuine amusement and pure confusion. Mostly amusement.
“Okay, sure,” Tim chuckles in a mocking tone, “Jason Todd, bringing little ol’ Timmy some Lunchables. Classic brotherly behavior.”
“What?” Jason asks, sounding genuinely offended, “This is why I can’t stand you Bats. I try to do something nice and you mock me. Fine, I’ll take your Lunchable and eat it myself, brat.”
To be frank, Tim actually is surprised at the gesture. Jason has never come off as the type to care about Tim. Jason’s been following him around at night, sure, but that didn’t exactly mean anything. In all fairness, Tim had started rerouting his own patrol routes to bleed over into Jason’s unofficial territory after the knife fight. So maybe Jason following him around was more so due to Tim’s unannounced encroachment into Jason’s territory rather than because the man cared about him and his safety.
His brain refuses to acknowledge the amount of time Jason was recently spending outside of his territory.
“You’re serious?” Tim asks, trying to hide the shock in both his face and his voice. It’s then he realizes his domino is still on— he hadn’t removed it before leaving the cave, too distracted by how angry he had felt. Couldn’t even think to ditch his costume before heading out into the night. Sloppy work.
Jason doesn’t look up from his own Lunchable tray as he shrugs and reaches into his jacket. Sure enough, he pulls out another Lunchable. To make matters worse, it’s Tim’s favorite kind.
“Shit,” Tim sighs, truly feeling bad for accusing Jason of swiping food from his fridge, “I’m sorry. Again. Thanks.”
“‘S’okay,” Jason mumbles as he slides the shitty little meal across the island to Tim. The scratchy noise it creates as it slides to Tim makes his brain feel bad but he doesn’t mention it.
The food in it is definitely less than substantial, especially after a night of patrol, but it’s exactly what he needs to deal with the emotional stress he has suffered. He doesn’t care if he’s being dramatic, this chocolate pizza abomination was about to fix all of his problems. Well, maybe not all of them.
Tim easily peels the cover off in one sweep, similar to Jason but with much less force. There was an art in learning how to open these things quietly in Titans Tower. The more silent you were, the more likely you got to enjoy your entire meal in peace. It seems that skill is still ingrained in him.
The kitchen is silent as Tim spreads the chocolate sauce over the fake pizza dough. It isn’t awkward by any means, either. Tim appreciates how Jason can stand silence; even when he can’t sit still, he can be quiet, and Tim likes that about him.
It isn’t until Tim finishes the pizza— now adorned with every single chocolate chip in the package— that he finally breaks the silence.
“Batman passed off my workload to Robin,” Tim says dully, focusing on his other pizza. He starts decorating the pizza with tomato sauce and fat clumps of cheese. Some of the cheese must have melded together while being in Jason’s jacket.
Jason doesn’t respond and Tim isn’t even sure if he’s looking at him. He’s too busy focusing on the dumb pizza to look up. Jesus, he was hungry.
“I don’t even know why. Wouldn’t tell me. Just said ‘You need to learn when to hand things off’—” Tim does a terrible impression of Bruce while reciting his words, “—and left it at that. It’s so random and it’s bullshit.”
“It isn’t random,” Jason says.
Tim arches an eyebrow and glances up at Jason. The other isn’t looking at him; he’s turned so that Tim can only get a side profile view of him, and even at that angle Tim can tell Jason is holding back from saying more.
Dropping his shoulders and looking up properly, Tim places his pizza on top of the Lunchables container and leans forward a bit. His hands are gripping the edge of the island as he asks, “Care to expand on that, Hood?”
Jason slams his fist down and gives a disgruntled sigh. The action doesn’t surprise Tim, which is both a relief and a bit worrisome. Now Tim is becoming used to Jason’s outbursts and behaviors. Patterns in body language and reactions have never alluded Tim but it’s impossible for Tim to ignore the fact that he’s starting to find solace in them.
“Just— fucking, ugh,” Jason huffs, “I told— no, I asked Bruce to bench you.”
That is not the elaboration Tim was expecting. “Excuse me,” Tim hisses, “What the fuck does that mean?!” He can feel the anger boiling up inside him again, this time even worse than before.
“Don’t use that fucking tone with me—”
“You told Batman to bench me and you’re telling me to watch my tone?!”
“Fucking— ugh!” Jason exclaims. He lifts himself from the barstool and walks away from the island, away from Tim, deeper into the condo. He lifts his arms and places his hands on his head, grabbing hard onto his hair. “This was not how the conversation was supposed to go!”
Tim stares in disbelief. He has no idea what Jason was talking about. What the fuck was going on.
Rounding the island, Tim walks closer to Jason. It doesn’t scare Tim that Jason is practically a foot taller than him and nearly double his size. He was ready to throw Jason out of his place, both literally and metaphorically, but not without an explanation.
“So you ruin all my work just to mess with me? You get Batman to bench me for a laugh? Then you bring me a Lunchable as condolence? Why would—”
Jason turns sharply towards Tim and has his hand out, pointing it in Tim’s face. He’s in the process of saying something as Tim instinctually reacts to the sudden movement, sweeping his leg low near Jason’s ankle and grabbing his outstretched arm all in one flawless motion. Without processing what he’s doing, Tim turns his back into Jason’s body and uses the momentum he’s gained to flip Jason into a summersault. The other man is too large for Tim to have the opportunity to add any extra strength to slam him into the floor, so he works with what he’s able to. Plus, Jason’s also caught up to what exactly Tim is doing. It’s a classic Robin move that’s taught early in their training.
Thrusting his feet and hips forward, Jason catapults himself off of Tim’s back and slams into the kitchen island, crashing into the barstools. He lands perfectly on his own feet and tries to catch one of the three barstools to no avail, cursing up a storm amongst the racket of the metal chairs clanging against the hardwood.
Seeing Jason struggle with the barstools shocks Tim out of his instincts and brings him back to reality. He immediately starts making his way toward Jason with his hands up in mock surrender.
“Shit, shit! Jason, shit, I’m so—”
“Don’t,” Jason says firmly. Tim stops in his tracks. “This was fucking stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Well, I also don’t know what the hell you were thinking,” Tim says, “When the hell have you ever wanted to work with me?”
“Don’t say shit like that. You know I respect your annoying ass, so just shut up for a second and let me gather my bearings.”
It takes everything in him not to respond to the backhanded comment. ‘Respect’ is something Tim has never thought to associate between him and Jason. They weren’t exactly friends, let alone a team— things just were between them. Tim had no way to explain their dynamic.
He watches as Jason picks up the fallen barstools and places them back in their proper spots. Running a hand through his hair, he exhales loudly out of his mouth and shakes his head, “Look. I need your help on a case. I’m sorry to bench you from the one you were currently on but I need you so much that I went to Daddy Bats of all people to get you.”
It’s obvious when Jason says it, of course it is, yet Tim hadn’t considered the fact that Jason went to Bruce seeking him. The realization in and of itself keeps Tim interested and tame enough to listen. Squinting his eyes, he doesn’t move or say anything. He waits.
“There’s this weird pattern of people going missing. No one high profile. It makes them easier to snatch up without a trace,” Jason says after noticing Tim’s silence. “Some of the usual fuckery.”
Tim wants to interject, to ask why he’s needed in such a standard case. People went missing all the time in Gotham— not that it was a good thing but it was a reality that they faced often. Usually, it was trafficking, or people who killed themselves to rid themselves or their families of insurmountable debts. Gotham wasn’t kind to anyone, no matter who you were. Bruce was proof enough of that fact.
Jason rolls his eyes when he sees Tim’s unimpressed face. Half sitting, half leaning against the seat of a barstool, Jason looks past Tim, out the sliding glass door that leads to Tim’s balcony, and says, “The thing is, these motherfuckers come back. All of them come back.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. Now that’s different.
“They don’t come back the same,” Jason continues. He’s still staring out at the lights of the city, sounding lost in his thoughts. Tim wonders what he’s seen. “Kinda makes sense they wouldn’t. But they come back all brainwashed and shit. It’s fucking impossible to talk to them because they want everyone they interact with to get indoctrinated into this cult things, and—”
“And you need me to go into it,” Tim cuts him off, hating where the conversation seems to be going. “This would be a pyrrhic battle. Jason, the chances of me possibly getting brainwashed are pretty high, no matter how much prep—”
“No. I’m not fucking stupid,” Jason angrily says. His focus finally breaks from the cityscape and his eyes land on Tim. The seriousness on his face makes a small shiver run up Tim’s spine. “I know how that shit works and how deprogramming isn’t guaranteed. Plus, you know Bruce would never send his best in like that.”
Being called Batman’s ‘best’ makes Tim feel uncomfortable. The shiver had already made him feel awkward enough, adding this falsehood on top of it only made things worse. It’s not true by a long shot.
There’s a pause as Jason looks expectantly at Tim. He cocks an eyebrow at Tim’s silence.
“Keep explaining,” Tim says, wanting to desperately move away from the subject being about his performance.
“Right,” Jason draws the word out, giving Tim a strange look over as he does. Tim fidgets with his domino and removes it too quickly, causing some of the glue to pull painfully on small invisible hairs. He holds in a hiss.
“Okay,” Jason says, still giving Tim a weird look, “Anyway. These people come back from wherever the fuck, all messed up in the head, and they talk nonstop about this wonderful place they’ve been that relieved them of all their worries, all their sins, that kind of shit.”
Again, it’s seemingly standard cult stuff in Tim’s book. The desire to argue that this isn’t worth his time is coursing through his body so violently that he almost feels ill holding himself back. There has to be something, something that’s making Jason seek out help. Enough of a ‘something’ to make Bruce force Tim to focus on this instead.
“What’s it got to do with me?” Tim finally asks when Jason doesn’t continue. The domino in his hand is victim to Tim’s anxiety and is being wrung tight like a washcloth with too much water. Some of the protective sealant on the eyepieces starts to crack from the twisting.
“Cause you’re good at this shit,” Jason waves his hands at Tim, “Holding in your emotions. Controlling them. I about killed four people the night I found out they were taking kids.”
Tim’s hands freeze at the mention of kids being kidnapped. He stares at Jason and tries to level his breathing— he can’t rush into the case just because children are involved, he needs to find as much information as possible before he—
“This is what I mean,” Jason says in a low tone, “This. I can see the gears turning in your head even though you’re upset. It’s not written on your face but I know you’re thinking of the next fifteen steps.”
Tim flushes. That’s something he can’t control, unfortunately.
He bows his head and runs his left hand through his hair, exhaling a deep sigh as he closes his eyes and processes the information as quickly as possible. No matter which way he thinks about it, he can’t see a way out of this case, especially now knowing kids are involved. Damn his moral compass.
“Alright, alright. Fine,” Tim sighs after a moment of silence. He slumps his shoulders and looks at Jason, “Tell me whatever info you’ve got. Seems like my focus needs to shift here.”
“Fuck yes,” Jason smiles. He jumps up from the barstool and stretches his arms above his head, groaning a bit as his shoulders pop, “Pack a bag, we’ve got a doozy of a trip ahead of us.”
“A bag?” Tim asks. Panic begins to crawl up Tim’s spine at the idea of going on a trip anywhere he’s unfamiliar with. “Why the hell do I need a bag?”
“Calm down, princess,” Jason snorts, waving at Tim like he’s an annoying pest flying in his air. Walking by Tim, he unholsters one of his grapple guns and slides open the french door to the balcony, “We’ll get the nicest hotel the town’s got. Full amenities and everything for your pampered ass.”
“Jason!” Tim says firmly. His voice isn’t loud enough to be considered yelling, but he’s right on the edge of starting a full-blown shouting match with Jason, “I didn’t know this was part of the deal!”
“I’ll be back in 45 minutes,” Jason says, leaving Tim’s panic unacknowledged, “Be ready. Pack for hot days and cold nights. Like, in the hundreds.”
“Are you—”
“Gorgeous place, by the way. I always knew you had good taste. Over and out,” Jason gives a cocky smirk and a finger salute, making Tim even more pissed off than he already was.
The sound of the grapple gun launching drowns out Tim’s protests. Jason’s running and jumping over the balcony’s railing before Tim can reach him, and he’s off into the night faster than any of the other bats can achieve.
Tim stomps his foot into the decorative carpet of his living room. It wasn’t fucking fair. This night wasn’t fair.
Sighing, Tim looks around his condo with the echo of the compliment ringing in his ears. It’s not the largest— condos in Gotham aren’t cheap, not that Tim worries about money, but he likes to remain modest with his safehouses. These places could go to real families and here he was, hoarding them around the city so he could, what, run away to them every time daddy Bats made him angry? And now, every time Jason pissed him off?
Knowing that Jason had been in this safehouse made him feel… He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. He had always protected this place and kept it completely, utterly detached from the rest of the family. It wasn’t selfish of him to want a place completely to himself. Now that isolation was tainted. Kind of.
“Asshole,” Tim sighed. He might as well get a bag packed instead of moping around.
This was going to be an interesting case, at least.