Muse

**

And it’s like taking a full breath after gasping for so long.

The Gotham air is the same (“Welcome Home,” the city seems to say), but after everything, after the struggle to find B, to fight Ra’s and his worst enemies, to take out the League enough to stay on the trail, to keep Wayne Enterprises in the proverbial family (even if that isn’t him, not anymore, maybe hadn’t ever been), he’d tried to send his mentor right back to Gotham. Only a simple “things changed,” to explain the new suit, the lack of oversight, the lack of a team, of a safety net. How he knew everything about WE, about international criminals, how ee different now. 

He let himself have one night, just one, a cheap motel with two beds where he sat up all night and just – watched. Bruce slept deeper than Tim can ever remember, not even a twitch until 6am.

What he expects is to report as much as possible. What he doesn’t expect is the ensuing argument–

“You aren’t staying here. I don’t care who Robin is now.” B isn’t even going up the walkway of the plane Red very thoughtfully brought especially to get him back to Gotham ASAP.

“I. Bruce, look–”

“I’m not going without you, Tim. That’s final.”

“I already told you I’m an emancipated minor, right? You aren’t responsible for me anymore.”

“Sure. That means I’m absolutely not leaving you now.”

And it had been so long since he found himself thrown over B’s shoulder like he was still that Robin, that he couldn’t bring himself to fight it.

He’ll never know if months of sleep debt hit him in that plane ride, or if B slipped him something, but either is pretty valid.

Waking up in his former room in the Manor is not the Good Morning, Red he was hoping for.

The room was cleaned of everything him over a year ago when he was stripped of the tunic. He’s disoriented after getting sleep, actual sleep, that it takes long moments to process the room, the bed spread, the curtains, the replacements (ironic, isn’t it?) on the shelves, on the walls, in the niches where he used to hide.

Something like hysteria bubbles up at the back of his throat, close enough to the surface he has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep it all in.

(And the last time he lost control of himself, he’d broken everything in this room. Smashed priceless artifacts and art, tore all of it to the ground, tore himself up in small pieces, scattered in the carpet, so lost in his anger and grief and betrayal.)

“Master Tim?”

By the sound of it, it isn’t the first time Alfred called for him.

His eyes go to the window, already a foot on the floor.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you, young man,” is audible and still utterly patient.

(Insanely, Tim wonders where the cameras are before his sense kicks in because, really, it’s just Alfred being Alfred.)

“I’m coming in, Master Tim.” And, it’s for everyone’s best interest Alfred is holding a tray with coffee when the door opens and his normal expression softens.

**

Dick is on him the second Alfred opens the door, even daring the butler’s wrath.

“I owe you an apology. Tim, can we talk?”

“No. No, I don’t want an apology, I don’t want to talk. You should be with Damian and Bruce, not with me.”

The cup of coffee gives him enough energy to stalk around the room for things he needs – phone, wallet, utility belt, you know, the necessities.

But Dick is right on his heels the whole time, not letting up on the whole panicky, need to get out vibe.

“Now that I know Bruce is back, we will absolutely have time to talk about everything, believe me, but no, Tim. Right now, I really need to be with you.”

“Nope, sorry. Your Robin is another castle.” 

He makes it to the top of the stairs, but Dick literally body checks him, knocking them both into the room just by the landing.

“Stop that. I know, I know it was hard losing the R, Tim–”

He literally spins his hips to throw Dick off of him, sad when the current Batman rebounds like a boss and lands it to block the door.

“–but I! It wasn’t supposed to be that way, I swear. Before you took off, I had another plan, okay?”

“What makes you think,” Tim’s on his feet, staring at Dick through his too-long hair, copper in the back of his mouth that isn’t blood for once, “I care about any of that a year later?”

“You do care,” Dick hasn’t moved from his stance in front of the door. “It’s been years and I still care how B did it to me with Jason.”

Tim’s spine snaps straight.

“Give me a chance to make it up to you, to really apologize.” Dick begs, those blue, blue eyes so stupidly sincere.

**

Tim never imagined this is what an apology would look like.

“It’s only until B and Dami bond,” the very different B in the same suit soothes as they stand on the roof of the Wallstone apartments. “But, we can have some fun in the meantime, right?”

And it’s hard, knowing Dick kept his last suit that was the red, gold, and green from his best days, before his life went to shit. That Dick hoarded it like a treasure for this moment is too much to process when they’re going to fire grapples and storm the city.

Tim hums, his elbows feeling the breeze, his hair ruffling, his heart beating hard against the familiar tunic that somehow feels a little too tight now.

The gloved hand grips his bicep, turns him to look at the cowl. “I’m not asking you to forgive everything with this,” the current B soothes in a voice that does not match the outfit. “But, just for tonight, I want you to try and trust me, okay? Do you think you can do that, Robin?”

And as much as he wants to let his wobbly knees lose their strength, to sink down on the rooftop he’s grown up on, to sob out two years worth of pain, to let all the grief and fear and loss and I can never go back finally break free, looking up and knowing it was Dick being the mask, Dick giving him this chance, Dick trying to apologize, Dick desperate to get him back, he can’t say no.

Instead, he takes a small step, a minute turn to put them face-to-face in this new, strange dynamic.

“I guess,” and his voice is thick in his throat, difficult to get past the lump, “we’ll have to find out whether or not you’ll really catch me, won’t we?”

It’s just as painful to watch his parents fall the second time as it was the first. 

Nightwing, hidden in the shadows of Haley’s Big Top, is holding on to the rigging at the very top of the tent. It takes every amount of control to stay where he is rather than let go of the rigging and drop through the air to save Mary and John Grayson from their awful fate. But, rather than look at the expensive timeband under his gauntlet, he instinctually knows changing the events of today would have an unpredictable backlash – one even the Flash couldn’t spin back, another Flashpoint, another break in the chain of events that made all of them who they would be.

And even if he stayed in the past to be able to see them, to hear them speak, to hide in the crowd in street clothes with strategic cotton candy covering his face, even if his eyes grew hot and wet hearing his mother laugh, watching his father put a hand on his younger self’s shoulder, remembering the last climb up his father’s back to hang off his shoulders. Even if it was all almost too much, they aren’t the reason he was thrown back in the past.

The moment he’s actually here to watch – is when a young boy comes to pose for a picture and sit on his lap before The Flying Grayson’s last performance with Haley’s Circus. The moment he meets Tim Drake for the first time.

And there in his street clothes, he sees the second their eyes connect, when little Timmy takes his hand, and the two of them gasp –the moment the connection happens.

It’s there in the way his younger self’s eyebrows furrow and little Timmy’s mouth drops open. The moment their soulbond reaches out and partially activates.

It makes sense neither of them would truly understand the implications, not as young as both of them are. Soulbonds aren’t supposed to activate until both parties are of age, but with the memory of his parents’ death so prominent in his memory, Dick Grayson had to know the truth.

So when Nightwing watches the tragedy, older and wiser and more intune with his heart, mind, and soul, he keeps his attention on tiny Tim Drake pushing a handkerchief in his younger self’s hand before he’s dragged away by his parents, leaving younger Dick alone to face the GCPD and the Batman that swooped in just a little too late.

He lingers until the Big Top is empty and the bodies of his parents are taken away, as his younger self goes with the people he’d known all his life up to that point, taken away to be coddled in a trailer, traumatized and grieving. He finally lets himself down from the top of the tent to the stands where people jumped to their feet, horrified, only an hour before. His steps silent in the aftermath along the bleachers until he picks up the discarded hand-drawn picture, crayon red and green and gold, the picture little Timmy had drawn to give him after the show.

He folds it carefully along the seams, slides it in a hidden compartment of his suit for safe keeping.

The vigilante takes one last, longing look around, and finally taps the timeband under his gauntlet, ready but then again, not ready, to return home.

**

Rather than go back to his apartment, he immediately goes to his safehouse in the warehouse sector of the Haven.

The false-front shipping container beats out Jay Bird’s fake porn store any day of the week.

Once inside, he activates the secondary floor and the elevator silently slides down, down, down into a subterranean basement. The three levels have everything a capeless crime fighter would need in a city as twisted as the Haven, but Nightwing bypasses the kitchen, bedrooms, gym, lab, and meeting room for the second level containment area.

The special palm reader, face scan, password encoded lock finally recognizes him and the lead-lined double doors slide open.

Since he’s aware how capable Tim Drake is and always has been, he’d made sure to lock him in a room without vents, lights, or any other avenues he could use to escape.

The lights outside the room kick on, pointed at the teenage boy sitting with his back against the wall, cradling his injured side even with his wrists restrained to a hook embedded in the cement floor.

Nightwing gently pulls the drawing from his suit and unfolds it delicately, like it’s something priceless, before showing it to the boy on the floor.

Tim doesn’t even look at him, still huddling in the corner of the room.

“I had to go back and see for myself,” is the explanation before Dick Grayson pulls off the domino, to look at his actual soulmate with bare face and earnest eyes.

Tim doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn, doesn’t move.

“I’m going to get a shower and make us some noodles. If you promise not to attack, I’ll let you out, then we can eat, we can talk about it. We can talk about…everything, okay? We’ll work it all out.”

Tim’s shoulders hunched up, his face turned away.

“You have to talk to me at some point. You can’t just keep being angry at me, Tim.” Gently, he rises up,  moves around the containment unit to be in Tim’s sightline.

Something mumbled that Dick strains to hear, leans closer to the enclosure. “C’mon, you can talk to me. I’m here, aren’t I?”

And only his instincts as a vigilante keeps him from jumping when Tim snaps.

The younger crime fighter leaps as far as his restrained wrists would let him, his eyes blazing with anger, jaw tight.

“Talk?! You want to talk?! After everything you’ve done?” Tim’s yelling and Dick stands to take his anger all at once.

“I know it’s disappointing,” Dick starts softly.

“How many people did you flirt with undercover while your soulmate limped home every night carrying your name?” Tim’s snarl is ferocious, his teeth white in the dimness of the holding cell. How many people did you fuck while I was waiting for you to recognize me?”

Dick blinks back at him, stunned, his chest starting to ache.

“How many nights did I wear your insignia while B and Alfred let me go broken and bleeding to an empty house because I knew, I knew, someday you’d realize who I am to you.”

“Timmy,” and Dick gasps in a painful breath, the soft link between them tremulous at best.

“How many people put their hands on you when you’re mine, Dick? How many of them stare at you when you were made for me?” The sharp snap, the restraints breaking free so Tim can slam his fists into the reinforced plexiglass. “I’ve known since that day. I’ve always known! I had to watch you with Kory and Babs and Wally! Not to even mention everyone out of the life you’ve been with!”

“Tim, I-I never…I didn’t think I had –” “And I had to watch you, Dick. I had to watch you with all of them. You never hesitated. You never thought of your soulmate, out there that needed you.”

And it strikes him in a place he doesn’t recognize. It might be the emotions from Tim, it might be shame when he didn’t really do anything wrong.

“But, it’s fine,” Tim leans up, blood on the plexiglass where his knuckles tore under the strain. “It’s going to be fine because now I’m old enough for the bond to take and you know who I am.”

Calming, Tim expertly picks the lock on the restraints.

“Timmy, we-we’re going to talk about all of this okay? Soulbonds are…a lot. And, you’ve barely dated. I want to make sure you don’t regret this, you know?”

The soft sound of the restraints falling covers up the sleight of hand when Tim produces a small tablet from somewhere and presses a button. The doors to the containment room lock down and the lights flicker off, a red emergency light in the corner casting a gruesome hue over the plexiglass wall.

Seconds later, smoke is filling the room while the holding cell is on a completely different HVAC line.

“Tim!” Dick frantically goes for the rebreather as the knockout gas hits him in the face, but it’s–

–gone.

Jason Todd almost runs right inta his back when Dickie-boy stops inna middle of the fucking sidewalk. They’re in the daytime usual, hanging out ‘cause they both need ta visit some Omega stores here onna nice side a’ the business district. 

Dickie’s been whining fer some new nesting supplies, and Jason has a preference when it comes ta scents, ‘specially when he starts ta go down.

(He ain’t gonna never admit the musk he finds smells close ta their big ole’ Pack Alpha, what still has problems comin’ back sometimes. Seems like Timmy knows why Jay’s heat safe house smells th’ way it do.)

So’s both a’ ‘em went ‘round ta a few stores and came out with some nice supplements for their upcoming lay-ins.

“Oi, Goldie,” it’s impossible to tell if Jay is irritable because they had to deal with some assholes onna way or if it’s just pre-Heat startin’ ta set in. Either way, he grips the older Robin by the elbow to get a lil’ get ta steppin’ motion.

“You’re really serious about this?” Is all Jay catches as Dickie gets with the fucking program an’ starts walking again, but the scent suddenly rollin’ offa him is a whole buncha angry. Seems like any asshole Alphas what think they might wanna piece’ll probably think twice.

“Oh, I’m going to handle it. Just as soon as I get back, I’m going to make a plan,” and the edge of growl, out here inna open makes it allll seem just a lil’ more important ta Jay’s immediate attention. “He’s not up for anyone. He’s ours, Gar. Do me a favor and get the word out. I’m going to make sure it’s extremely clear, but some notice will probably make it less scandalous.”

A pause an’ the Rolls they took from B is almost in view.

“This from you? You can’t even buy some shame, Beasty, so don’t lecture me on model behavior here. Apparently, some things need to be made absolutely clear in the community.”

Jay hits the clicker and the trunk rises, listening with half an ear as he tosses his bags in and Dick’s spine is rod straight as he does the same. Five minutes ago, ya couldn’t pry the new blankets from ‘im with a crowbar.

Jay takes a second to lean against the Rolls, lights a cigarette to smoke before they get in (only ‘case Alfie don’t like the smell a’ smoke onna leather, an’ yeah, yeah Jay can’t tell ‘im fuck that). His eyes, flecked with green, scan over his Pack Omega, nearly vibratin’ outta his skin with whatever’s comin’ from Titan’s Tower.

“Anyway, I appreciate the heads-up. We’ll handle it, Gar.” And Dick abruptly ends the call, eyes all narrow n’ lookin’ like he’s ready ta fight the whole lotta Rogue Gallery fuck-nuts.

Sue ‘im. Dickie looks hot when he’s all pissy. Just is what it is.

“Sounds like we godda problem in paradise, yeah?” He maneuvers around Dick ta get t’ the driver’s side first. He don’t want an angry Dickie trying ta drive ‘em back ta the Manor – no thanks.

“We do, but I’m going to pull a Pack O on this one, Jay Bird. Once we’ve had a discussion, I’m going to bring him back in time for our Heats. After that, we’re all going to have a nice understanding, don’t worry.”

And oh no, he ain’t worried no how. Might be a tad hopeful Dickie can finally talk some sense inta their reluctant Alpha. It’s ‘bout time he came back ta Gotham fer good.

**

When Red Robin gets the alert Nightwing is out of the city (this close to his Heat??), his entire brain pan process immediately shuts down.

He’s already in the re-made BatWing, flying stealth back to a temporary Perch he made in Gotham –

(not that he plans to keep it long-term, it’s more a landing pad for when the Bats called for him, which has been more frequent in the last three months than the last three years)

– when one of his always-running algorithms pinged with someone in the Haven live streaming a pretty righteous fight.

Between Nightwing and Deathstroke of all people.

Every instinct he has as an Alpha, even the new, more powerful instincts he attributes to being a stand-in Pack Alpha helping Omegas through their potentially fatal Heats, seems to come to the fore. The vigilante known as Red Robin takes a back seat to the Alpha male immediately changing course, twenty minutes out from the fight, and fixing his attention on the footage he managed to capture before the live went off the air.

He watches every move Deathstroke makes close to Nightwing, looks intensely at the back-and-forth banter, checks his own utility belt absently to make sure he is absolutely stocked.

In the twenty minutes it takes for the plane to hit the right airspace, he’s watched the footage no less than twenty times, paced the length of the Wing, and is ready to rip out Slade’s throat with his teeth.

It takes less than a few minutes for the vigilante brain to come up with a plan, and the Alpha male jumps from the open door just as nightfall hits.

**

“Oh, now Dick,” Slade is pacing his way around a span of garage doors in a small storage facility, “you forgot your suppressants, didn’t you?” He uses the tip of his sword to drag across the tin, absolutely giving himself away.

If there’s anything Slade Wilson enjoys, it’s a challenge.

“It’s understandable, you know,” he calls conversationally, “with how close you are, maybe you need an Alpha? That’s why you picked a fight me tonight, isn’t it?”

The soft sound of reinforced boots skims over metal and Slade smiles behind the mask.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” and his voice drops, lowers to an Alpha croon. “You don’t have to do all this to get my attention. I would be happy to take care of you.”

A swish on his right side.

“Of course, I know how much O’s love the chase. I do, too. But…you aren’t fooling anyone. I can smell you. You know that, don’t you?”

Something closer to the ground, a zaaf moving closer. And oh, this is going to be much easier than he thought.

“I have a place in the city, perfect for you. We can play as much as you want, hm? My knot can be all yours. Come out, and let Alpha help you.”

The night turns in his favor when Nightwing appears over the top of the storage building, already red in the face under his mask, sweat starting to slide down his neck.

“That’s a good Omega. You know what a good Alpha smells like, don’t you?” Slade’s mask tilts up to look at him, a stunning specimen in that skin-tight suit, smelling like sin and sex, and something wild, almost feral.

 “I do,” Nightwing purrs from his perch over Slade’s head. “I know what a really good Alpha smells like.” Nightwing jerks his chin over, “when he’s not on suppressants, it smells like him.”

And when Slade turns, Red Robin is there to bring out every fighting style he’s ever learned in a brutal hand-to-hand brawl.

It takes him no time to disarm Slade with barely a flick of his wrist to send the belt of ammunition flying and the sword blocked by the bo, spinning it to lift the hilt right out of Slade’s hand. The furious lotus palm from Shiva, knuckle-break from Clyde, full leg extensions and speed from fighting King Snake, all of it puts Slade down to a knee.

The laugh is really a nail in his coffin. Slade just doesn’t know it yet.

“Really, kid? Ra’s players don’t hold a candle to me.” With all his enhancements, Slade rises to full height, cracks his neck and folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t play by Bat rules. I will kill you without losing a wink of sleep, little bird.”

“Only one crazy assassin gets to call me that,” Red Robin comes back, bo over both shoulders, hands hanging from it lazily.

“Aw, give Shiva my love next time you see her. Well, if you ever see her again.”

“She’s got more important assholes to worry about.”

“This is cute. You fight crime with your little team like this? Banter away and hope it’s distracting enough to get a few good punches in?”

“Hate to say it,” Red Robin closes one hand and opens it again, this time with a small remote control, “but it worked on you.”

The button activates and the loose lasso he’d tied around Slade during the fast and furious hand-to-hand, tightens immediately. The legendary assassin doesn’t even have a second to yell before he’s violently yanked through the air and slammed into several buildings by the speeding BatWing above.

Eminent threat handled, Red turns to the sweating vigilante still lounging overhead, and even through the quick-time suppressants he’d swallowed the minute he watched the footage couldn’t keep his scent from spiking.

He catches Nightwing visibly react to his Alpha aura, his scent, especially now that the deep growl that exists so far down comes further and further to the surface, the growl that tells him mine, mine, mine. No one else can have them, my Pack, my Omegas, my ma–

That is never going to happen, his less feral side cuts into that thought, forces him to back down, his hackles to slowly lower.

“T-Timmy,” N slumps over on the roof and Red Robin is leaping up before he thinks twice. He already has one arm over his shoulder, ready to lift the Omega.

“We need to get you out of here. I’ll come back for Slade–”

When N pulls a surprise on him and throws Red down, straddling his hips, a snarl as he leans down to put them face-to-face.

“Oh, we’re going to get out of here, but not until you tell me exactly what you said to the Power Company, Timmy.” “Wh-what? What I said to who now?”

And N has no problem shoving his hips down over the reinforced cup to grind right against the Alpha, make sure his scent is close to Timmy’s face.

“Didn’t you tell them you’re just a Service Alpha? Just helping out?” And N’s voice gets low, dangerous, his grip on Red’s wrist just this side of painful. “Like we don’t mean anything to you?”

“Dick–”

“That’s all we are? Not your Pack? Everything you’ve done with us, to us, was just being a good Alpha? Helping out Omegas in need?”

“I…Dick, B asked me to take care of you, no one ever said…Years, Dick, I spent years–”

“Do you even know how long we were waiting for you?” N is right in his face, snarling and angry, his scent spiking with hurt and betrayal. “Every year, Tim. Every year until you were old enough to come back and be our Alpha. Do you even know what Jay and I went through without an Alpha for our Heats unless we had to? What Cass and Alfred went through as our Betas? How hard B tried to let you make your own decisions but year after year he just kept hoping?”

At a loss, his brain pan torn between Tim Drake, Red Robin, and Alpha desperate to be Pack Alpha. He draws in a breath of Dick’s scent and just croons. The deep noise reverberates in his chest, something he can never remember making before tonight.

The sound hits Nightwing in the right place to weaken his grip and the lock of his elbows, arms no longer straining. It gives Red Robin the opportunity to shift his grip and lurch up to catch Dick around the mid-back, hold him close while the noise, the croon, makes every tense muscle in the Omega simply relax.

An Alpha’s croon is meant to mean safety and warmth and love and Pack, to mean, come to me, I’ll take care of you.

And it’s one of his Omegas that lies limply in his arms, hot face buried in his neck. Red reaches up quickly to pull off the scent-block patch so Dick can nuzzle close to his scent gland.

Another click of the remote and the plane heads back to them, an unconscious, dangling assassin hanging from the rope. A flick of the wrist and a whirlybird cuts through the rope holding Slade in the air, the sadly short drop accentuated with a whump. The sound of sirens signals it’s time for them to get ghost–

–and try to get back to the heat-safe room in Gotham before Dick goes fully under.

He pulls Dick’s power thighs around his hips and stands with his Omega clinging to him, fires a grapple up at the BatWing. The line reels them in quickly, up through the floor and into the cockpit.

Red manages to get the seat back far enough he doesn’t have to relinquish his hold, just keeps up the croon and strokes a hand down Dick’s back. He takes a wrist and wrestles off gloves and gauntlets, pulls at the sleeve until the scent glad in Dick’s wrist is bare. He lifts the wrist to the other side of his neck and rubs their scent glands together, chest vibrating with the combination of their scents.

“There,” breathed in his Omega’s ear, “this means I’m your Alpha, doesn’t it?”

Blearily, Dick manages to raise his head just enough to stare into the whiteouts. “Not yet,” he slurs out, completely lax with the powerful croon, “but we’ll work on it. Whole Pack…gonna make you ours.”

Tim hums and adjusts Dick on his lap to be able to fire the secondary set of thrusters, “I will absolutely look forward to it. For now, Alpha is going to find Jay and take care of you both. Luckily I brought you new nesting blankets.”

When he tries to get down with a little detecting, his team has a bad habit of not leaving him the fuck alone. Kon hovers while he’s gathering evidence, Bart pretty much runs all over it, Cassie never wears gloves and touches everything. Raven and Gar leave it to him because they know all about the Robins. Even Miguel has a bad habit of tainting evidence just by leaning over while he’s eating something and getting crumbs or sauce in the samples.

So, little by little, Red has been trying to get his team on board with good detective practices.

Case in point: he’s got Kon with him tonight, a fake boyfriend to take in front of Gotham’s elite so they can hopefully dig up some dirt and have tasty hors d'oeuvres at the same time.

The hair stands up on the back of his neck several times in the first hour, his inner vigilante sense kicking in because he knows someone was watching him.

He leans into Kon, the arm around his back tightening as he leans closer to breath against Kon’s ear. “Pick up anything?”

Kon pushes his glasses up while leaning down to nuzzle at Tim’s ear. “A few blank spots, nothing substantial.”

“There shouldn’t be any lead down here.”

“Your office another story, Mr. CEO?”

“You know it. Keep your guard up. Some of these debutants are ruthless.”

“Glad I have you to lead me through this, Red.”

The two of them make rounds with Kon playing the sweet bumbling college student dating successful CEO Tim Drake, and the pressure of being watched follows them.

It gets more weird as the night wears on. 

Tim’s favorite finger foods come out on the next round, none of which were on the menus he approved two weeks ago. The TV screens around the ballroom with scrolling photos of Wayne Enterprises friends and family switch to just pictures of the CEO in his office, in R&D, doing paperwork, standing up to present at a board meeting. Cans of grape Zesti could be found on the beverage tables. An unsuspecting tablet sitting close to Tim’s hip just appears, catching their eye when a short code appears for just a moment and is gone. The perfect puzzle for a detective.

Tim finally gets the message and sweeps the tablet up, makes some excuses, and leaves Kon in the hallway while he slips into his office.

It takes about five minutes to unlock the tablet, longer than he thought it would, but still.

Tim sighs gently, waiting for something fucked up to pop up on the screen, a video from Ra’s or the General, hell, even Lonnie at this juncture.

(The criminals obsessed with him really should say something about his style of crime fighting, but Tim isn’t even going to focus on that now.)

Instead, the tables flashes with his own insignia and Tim gasps—

Because he can’t move.

Whatever hypnotic suggestion was programmed into the tablet is effective when he doesn’t have the domino with whiteout or the suit. He can’t move, talk, or yell, his office is enmeshed in lead, and Kon wouldn’t know any better.

Everything makes sense when the gloved hand sliding over the back of his neck pauses, squeezes tight.

Fucking Ra’s.

“You’ve been very, very bad, Mr. Drake,” warm breath against his ear. Everything in Tim freezes, gets cold, when he realizes who actually sprung the trap.

The hand moves down his back, down his spine, over the nice suit coat, grips at his hip.

“Bringing the clone?” Renegade pulls Tim’s hips back into the front of his body. “You wanted to get my attention that badly, did you?”

Tim can’t even swallow the acrid taste in his mouth as Renegade’s mouth brushes against his neck, tightens the grip on his hips.

“I know what you were trying to do,” the villain chuckles lightly against skin, sending chills down his spine. “Bring your little boyfriend out in society, maybe catch a criminal tonight, hm?”

Those hands move, slide around the front of Tim’s body, touch him with breathy moans. “Too bad, I’m the one that caught you instead.”

One hand cups him between the legs, the other slides up his chest.

“Did you like my gifts? I made sure you had all your favorites tonight.”

The gloved hand grips his chin, turns his face to meet the whiteouts, “I’ve got them all at home waiting for you, my little Robin.” And Renegade smiles, wide and white, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the frozen CEO’s mouth. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you never go anywhere alone again.”

When Superboy finally gets enough waiting outside for Red Rob to figure out the tablet, he pushes the door to the office open, ready to throw off the disguise and do a little punch-smack-grab rather than investigate-research-review—

—the office is completely empty.

The new criminals in town are on the down low killing off the minor gangs or pulling everyone on the wrong side of the law under their evil empire.

The Bats are all hands on deck to find every lead they can on the baddies taking over their city. Any criminal they catch won’t say a word, even to the Bat himself. No amount of threatening, dangling off rooftops, knuckle-cracking beat-downs will make anyone talk. Oracle even put word around town that the Batman is willing to put in a good word with the GCPD for anyone that would roll over on the new crime syndicate in town.

Matches met with some contacts in the local Goonion, tried to get some in with the new heat in town. All they have is whispers, nothing solid to give them a lead.

The body count keeps going up, and the Bats are all sleep-deprived, stressed, and snappish.

Alfred is the one to finally put his foot down. He sends Master Bruce out of town to check on Batman Incorporated, Master Damian out to hunt down his Nobody friend, Mistress Cassandra back to Hong Kong, Master Luke to hunt down some former thugs that had long moved on to Capitol City, Mistress Stephanie to work with Mistress Barbara to shift through digital evidence, and Master Jason off to look for his team to work a case out of town.

With only Master Dick and Master Tim, the household winds down, and he sends the two of them off to patrol the city. They may run down the sparse leads, but a slight respite from this case may prove to be what everyone in the family may need.

But when the night takes a turn, Nightwing and Red Robin find themselves running after someone in a creepy looking owl mask.

The absolute maze they’ve stumbled into does not at all bode well for an easy night in Gotham.

Time passes and the water from the fountain looks enticing for some reason.

N snags Red’s arm tightly, pulling him away from almost sticking a hand into the strange-looking water. “Don’t,” N warns in a growl, pulling the tiring Red Robin around by the wrist.

More than once, they’ve caught sight of more masks in the peripheral.

“We’re being drugged somehow,” Red Robin stands with his back to N’s, woozy and starting to recognize why it’s harder to think, hard to figure a way out. It’s too late but he slaps the rebreather over his nose and mouth. “Put yours on! There might be something in the air.”

N’s back is tense against his, face turned, not following the order. “Don’t worry, Red. We’re getting out of here.”

“You finally lured one of them here. Excellent work!”

The creeps in the masks line a hidden balcony above them in some weird ta-da, bad guys! moment. The next step is usually the monologue that ironically gives them plenty of time to make a plan.

Welp, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be wrong.

“That will be enough of this run-around,” the center mask squawks, “it’s time to reveal our little secret weapon.” 

The lean-in doesn’t bode well, and Red taps a finger on N’s gauntlet.

“Time to do your duty, Talon.”

Red looks for whoever this ass hat is talking about, expecting the next big bad to come out from the shadows.

“You said not him,” Nightwing calls out. “You said he would be safe.”

“What?” Red spins, a hand over his face when he realizes whatever is in the air is hitting him harder, even with the rebreather. “Big Wing?”

“Oh, come now,” lead mask guy waves a hand, “none of them can go free, now can they?”

“You said,” Nightwing growls again.

“Well,” another mask leans over the balcony, “we lied. Do what you were made to do, Talon! Kill him, right here, right now.”

“Talon?” Red Robin takes a shaky step away from Nightwing’s tense shoulder, brain slowly putting together what the hell he heard.

But something, something shifts and Red Robin fumbles at his utility belt for some kind of antidote along with the portable bo that would probably be welcome right about now.

But even as he’s reaching, flipping the staff out to full-length, Nightwing, the vigilante he’s fought beside, bled beside, cried on, carried home, been carried by, seen the worst atrocities imaginable with, his mentor and friend and even his former Batman, someone he thought he knew better than he knew himself —

— makes an inhuman noise and lunges into the air.

Red Robin yells as the screams start and N is tearing through the masks, more feral than Red has ever seen him before. It’s terrifying enough to take the strength from his knees and he’s sinking down onto the tile floor of the maze, dizzy as blood arcs into the shadows and the screams gradually die down.

Through hazy vision on the verge of unconsciousness, he sees N land it back down, dripping black blood. In both hands, wickedly curved blades instead of his usual escrima sticks, face painted sickeningly with death.

The whiteouts on the domino are up and Dick’s eyes are black, not-not blue.

(Anymore.)

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Timmy,” is gentle with each step closer he takes, and the terror at those footsteps, blood on those familiar boots, slides down Tim’s spine, and he can’t even move to try and get away.

“No…Not-not you. Dick…not you.”

“Yeah, it was me all along, Timmy.” And he’s crouching down so he can flip the whiteouts up on Tim’s mask, can bend down so he’s looking directly in Tim’s fading gaze. “I hated it. Everything they did, everything they made me do. I hated all of it…but, they said you would be safe if I followed orders.”

There’s blood on the fingerstripes. The knives slide in hidden side panels of the Nightwing suit, places Tim’s never seen or noticed before.

“You’ve always been mine, Timmy. They promised I could have you when it was all over and Gotham was back under their control.” And the edge to Dick’s tone, the residual anger in the back of his mouth, ready to spill out. “I only had to kill the others, but you? I would get to keep you. Just like we’ve always been. You never would have known differently if they had just kept their promise.”

“Dick…don’t hurt…please, don’t hurt…”

But gravity is tossed around and Dick lifts him effortlessly, suit and all. “Ssshhh, ssshhh, it’s okay. It’s okay now. We’re leaving.” 

Being held up like this, being carried away from this insane maze, from this night straight out of his nightmares, being helpless to get away, to fight back, and Red Robin can’t even look away from those black, black eyes.

“I’m going to take you somewhere safe, somewhere we can be together, okay? I’ll make sure you’re safe, and then I’m going to go for the rest of them. It won’t be hard, Timmy, I promise. They’ll pay for trying to hurt you. I might have to make sure the others don’t interfere, but as long as we’re together, none of them matter, okay?”

And in a terrifying turn of events, Dick’s grip shifts, bringing him closer, bringing them face-to-face. “I’ve always wanted to be with you. Not like this, but, in the end, beggars can’t be choosers. And I know I can make you happy, right? Without the others, you won’t have to be Red Robin and I won’t have to be Nightwing. We can’t just be us. Won’t that be nice?”

And Tim doesn’t hear anything else Dick might say, passing out cold in the Talon’s embrace. He doesn’t hear the shot of the grapple, or know he’s going to wake up tied to a bed in an unfamiliar apartment, with Dick Grayson, former Robin, former Nightwing, cleaned of blood and waiting —

In a city like Gotham, it’s hard to make a living, and sometimes, people have to make choices.

He’s no different, really.

In order to get a real bead on the slew of missing persons, he spends time in between other vigilante-type activities and being in charge of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate, doing the back end research to find some kind of link. 

The victims are from completely different backgrounds, have no family or friends in common, and live in completely different parts of the city. Two go to different universities, one is in his last year of high school, three more are in the job force in separate industries. Nothing is correlating, and the math isn’t mathing.

Once he gets a few days away from San Fran and the usual array of escaped convicts and crazy asshats, he has time to run down the digital footprint of each victim and look for something else the GCPD might be missing.

He finds it —

— on Cambabyboi.com

(He already has the ick before he even clicked on the Talk to me, Daddy link.)

Turns out, all his missing persons had profiles on the website and had specials for anyone wanting a “private party.”

Some slight hacking and he tracks an IP address that contacted two of the missing persons privately. He gets in one profile to check the DMs and payments, finds the profile he thinks he’s looking for.

The trail goes cold when he doesn’t get anything else from the IP, the user already scrubbed and gone. He gets into two of the other Cam Boi profiles, finds similar messages and payments, but it’s not enough to get him names and locations.

So, instead of bringing it to the Bats for a deeper dive, he rents a room in a shitty boarding house down by the Narrows. Crap bed, random furnishing and decorations, a few posters, tapestry as a curtain, but nice sheets, and even better —

Some savory items he’s always thought of trying, but never had the motivation to actually buy.

Some fake streaks in his hair, contacts to change his eye color, some tricks B taught him to make his jaw look more pronounced and his cheeks fuller. A playful cat mask and ears as a schtick. The coup de grâce really comes when he breaks out some very personal, private lingerie he’s only worn for himself.

He’s got a few weeks to fish, and see if he happens to get a bite.

**

In the Haven, Detective Grayson is having a bad week.

The file folder on his desk should have been moved already, but something in him can’t let it go.

The college student found dead, a self-inflicted GSW — fairly open-and-shut in this line of work (not to be confused with the other line of work) — is missing something, something key. Something everyone else isn’t seeing.

Which means, he switches out suits to do a little more work.

Babs does him a solid and finds just about everything she can on the victim, including an online side gig that might be a little racy for his fellowship and pending post-grad internship. 

He is and isn’t surprised the victim is making sex videos for money, but he is surprised at the comments and amount of money his followers are paying him for special tricks.

He watches more videos than he realistically wants to, jotting down user names that seem to come up regularly over the span of a few weeks.

He ends up looking for other camsters the common users from the vic’s videos hunt down.

One in particular catches more than his notice.

The cam boy is probably early twenties, pale and defined, goes by the Cat Lad moniker. Detective Grayson watches the first video and gets a ping on one of the users from his vic’s list of favorite Daddies. He almost misses the interactions because of how the cam boi lays on his back and spreads his legs for the audience, bites his bottom lip, lowers his gaze behind the mask.

The next video is more intense. More comments and followers, more requests the cam boi shyly reads out loud in nondescript t-shirt and jeans. He slowly takes his clothes off this time, back to the camera, looking over a shoulder when he shyly drops the jeans and —

Lace and silk, red against pale skin—

Detective Grayson knows, knows, he’s too deep into this case to pull back.

The next few videos have similar users stalking the chat, so he’s got a line to follow and for the moment, the case doesn’t seem to be open-and-shut as everyone originally thought. 

Cat Lad goes live on Thursdays, talks about working at a small cafe, about how he’s going to move somewhere better some day. He’s shy and stunning, laughs softly at some of the comments, is always dressed at the beginning of the videos. He’s prime for someone looking to take advantage.

(Just like the vic.)

It’s not until week two that Grayson can admit this is going beyond getting justice for someone because if anything happens to Cat Lad, he’s going to put on a skin-tight suit and kick the crap out of some criminals with a righteous passion.

At week three, Grayson has the list of possible suspects forwarded to Babs to track down and can take the hour to just sit back in his apartment so he can watch.

It’s not until he catches the slight indent on the abdomen, something he’d missed multiple times before. Something familiar about a mark Cat Lad definitely meant to hide.

When he realizes he’s seen that scar before, when he realizes the pale hips, the pout of the lower lip, the curve of throat, and movement of hands is so achingly familiar, when he realizes who he’s watching sink down on a larger-than-average toy and ride himself to fruition is someone he knows intimately, someone that’s absolutely ensnared his audience by being more himself behind a mask than in his daytime usual —

“We can’t—“ but he has to gasp in air, can’t finish the sentence, the sentiment they both already know.

There’s a rip and a tear, hands pulling without reservation, the air isn’t cool, his skin isn’t sensitive to it after being hidden behind Kevlar and Nomex most of the night. There’s no goosebumps, no shudder, no hair-raising.

Just palms sliding up and over scars, just knees pushing his thighs apart, just trying to get in a full breath. But he can’t, they can’t.  Hovering over him, the blue, blue eyes staring him down to the bone, chest shuddering against his becomes warm and wet over his pulse point, hips moving in tandem, the skim of teeth too close to even process how many times they’ve done this.

“We have to,” rumbling and deep in his ear, broken and breathless. “We have to finish… we have to—“

But it’s his hand gripping, pulling, wanting the entire weight spread across his front.

“Not like this,” even if his hands move down the broad back, grip the zipper to shove it down more, to shove the suit down and away. “You’re….we’re…”

The sharp edge of teeth against his collarbone, tight forearms and biceps, hands strong enough to pull him back from the abyss over and over and over.

How is this any different?

Because it isn’t want. It’s all about need.

Still, he hikes a knee up, wraps a leg to pull them closer, arches up, hips stuttering.

“Not ideal,” and the abrupt shift in gravity, pulled up and in, a mess of half-torn clothing sitting in the nest of legs so they’re pressed together. “But this isn’t the worst way to break out of someone’s nefarious plan.”

And Tim throws his head back when Dick latches on to his throat, arms tighten so he can’t get away, even in the shadowy backdrop. All they can see with clarity is the firm but messy bed. All they’ve figured out is when the dream resets and they have to start again.

Who knows how long they’ve been out in the dilapidated toy factory, stuck in the dream of the Mad Hatter’s making. Who knows if the Bats found their bodies already. Who knows if they’ll finally use the box of condoms innocently by the pillow.

Utility belts and boots discarded, a random gauntlet falling over the side, gloves with finger stripes wet from being in his mouth.

And even if they have to do this to break free, his eyes get hot and wet, hiding it because he can’t know, he can never know.

“Dick—“ but it stutters to a halt, the wind rushing out of him when the leggings come off and his boxers don’t hide a thing.

A hum or a moan, he can’t tell.

“Keep talking, Detective. Help me figure this out. We’ll have to reset soon if we don’t.”

And how. How can he keep talking when that big palm sets right up against where he’s straining.

Not again, not again, not again. He won’t survive much more.

(But that’s Hatter’s point, isn’t it?)

“T-Time loop. The dream resets to the beginning every time we-we—“ he has to gasp, to arch his back, to lose himself in the hand disappearing inside the waist band.

“Before we what, Timmy?”

“Don’t make me say it,” but it feels good, better than his imagination could spit out on the worst, lonely nights looking for Bruce lost in time.

One hand shoves his boxers down and away, the other grips his jaw, turns him so he can’t look away, he can’t hide.

“Say it.”

“Dick, please-“

“Say. It. Timmy.”

Warm palm, calloused fingers wrap around him, and he swears loudly. 

(Each time they get more, get closer.)

“Before we…before you..!” And his hips jerk, his air rushes out because no fake reality should feel like this.

“Before I what?” And those eyes are too much, too intense, can see through all his deflection and misdirections, all his walls and masks.

“Before you…before you f—“

“Before I take what’s mine.”

And in this round through the dream, from the start at the Wallstone apartments hunting the Mad Hatter, trying to get Nightwing off his back, trying to just work the case and be done with it all, trying to keep moving when he thought he was on his own now, when he’s got Dick Grayson all up in his business with broad hands and bare skin — wanted like he’s always dreamed of.

(It’s a trick, it’s a trick, it’s a trick. Or so his brain pan thought up until now.)

“Don’t do that,” but he doesn’t have control over his hands to push away, to get up. “I don’t need lies. We’ll break out of this.”

Dick’s hand tightens, speeds up, other hand pins Tim down at the center of his chest, the pressure of that palm drives his air out.

“The only lie,” and the hand pauses, slides further down, finds him,  “"is that you think this is your dream.” 

The realization hits him like a punch so he doesn’t feel anything but the slide, the stretch, fingers where he needs them. 

But it all makes some twisted kind of sense in the Hatter’s kind of world. A world where you have to give up control, have to give in.

He hears the wrapper rip, and he’s tossed on his stomach, pulled up to his knees so Dick can lay over his back. “This is my dream, my fantasy world.” The slick slide is maddening, thighs weak with the movement. “I finally get to have what I want.”

They’ve already come further than any other loop, have already made progress to get out.

(His dream? Dick’s dream? Does it matter as long as they break free? The real world needs them, he can’t stay here forever —)

“You’re mine, Timmy. Give in. Let me have you.”

All the fighting, all the old hurts, and previous pains mean nothing in the moment, and Tim’s half-functioning brain pan reminds him this might be the actual way out.

He collapses on his arms, muscles lax, thighs widening. “Dick. Dick, don’t…don’t stop.”

He closes his eyes at that hand sliding up his spine, settling on the back of his neck, grounding.

“That’s right, baby. Let go. Just let go.”

**

The Batman drives a fist into the Mad Hatter’s face one last time, knocking the villain out cold.

Hood and Robin are already untying their unconscious partners, trying to wake up Nightwing and Red Robin from the disturbing machines in the hidden room of the hideout.

Red Robin seems to be coming to while Nightwing swipes an arm out and pulls Robin into a hug while only semi-conscious.

Zip ties keep Hatter out of trouble while a single button press alerts GCPD to send a unit to their location, but B is already striding across the cracked cement.

“How are they? N? Red Robin?”

In a blink, his mini-detective is already on his feet, swaying but seemingly secure.

B latches on to one arm anyway, “Red? You know where you are?”

“Yeah, yeah,” groggy and loose limbed, Red Robin blinks behind the whiteouts, carefully not looking in the direction of a half-aware Nightwing with octopus hold engaged. “Hatter’s machine induces some kind of…fever dream. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Fever dream? What was it about, Red?”

And since, well, he’s the Robin that gets away with lying to Batman, “not sure. It was… chaotic.”

“Control,” N seems to be aware enough to interject, turning to look up at B and Red without releasing Robin. “The dream was about letting go, giving in to someone else’s…control.”

And the Batman hums while N gets to his feet, staring Red Robin down from behind the whiteouts. The air between them gets heavy, a chill sliding up Red’s spine the longer N’s laser focused on him. His self-preservation instincts are about to kick in.

“Alright then, you two head back to the Cave. Call it a night and let Agent A look you over. We don’t want either of you to suffer any residual effects. We’ll wait for GCPD, make sure they dismantle the machine and get Hatter back to Arkham.”

Red takes a tiny, almost unnoticeable step back. “I’ll run a scan at the Perch, come by and see Agent A tomorrow before work. But, you should ask N about the injuries he got from Hatter’s goons. See you next crime.”

And in a breath, he’s got the grapple shot, pulling him up, up, up, through the broken skylight and into the night.

With an affectionate noogie, Nightwing releases Robin, ignoring the angry yelling. His escrima sticks are there on the table where he was hooked up, and he slides them home, already aiming the line in his gauntlet. 

“Nothing serious, B. I’ll have Agent A take a look after I wrap some things up.” It’s deceptively calm as he takes to the air, flings himself through the broken glass to land it right on top the base of the antenna, scanning for the flap of a cape and sole of reinforced boots. 

He spots the dive off the bail bondsmen, the duck-and-cover around crumbling mortar, the inevitable run to the closest safe house where Timmy thinks he can realistically hide.

N smirks, but his eyes behind the mask are locked in to the disappearing figure running like hell is at his heels. “It’s time, Timmy. I’ve waited long enough to get what I want.”

Like a shot, he’s off. He’s given Red Robin a head start, not that it will help, but knowing how Tim feels under him, responds to him, wants him, the only thing Dick can do from here —

After turning down any attempt of his Sentinel to contact him (i.e. actually duck and dodging said stalkery behavior he is intimately familiar with), it all comes down to the basics less than a month after the disastrous discovery in a hotel room right after he'd played Wayne Enterprises CEO with the likes of Lex Luthor–

who will always and forever be King of the Douche Canoes, seriously

– the breakout at Black Gate is the most all hands on deck that's happened in Gotham in the last year.

Since several members of the Rogue Gallery teamed up to set the explosives, well, every Bat is expected to set-up in Gotham, and Red Robin, for as much as he's stayed the fuck out of their business in the last year, finds himself already in the city for a few meetings with Lucius about next quarter when the night sky outside Wayne Towers lights up with the very familiar symbol.

"Dammit," he breathes out, pretty much aware he could just ignore it. Considering Nightwing, the Red Hood, Batgirl, Black Bat, Robin, and B were all in the city tonight anyway.

(What's one more body between the people of Gotham and the baddies? Well, depends on the body, doesn't it?)

Lucius gives the usual suffering sigh he gives Brucie Wayne when the other mask falls away and leaves the vigilante behind.

"I guess we can pick this up tomorrow," the head of R&D tells him idly, scrolling through text alerts on his phone while Tim visibly reins himself back in to the new line of motherboards going into their medical cradles for military aid.

Tim just stays quiet for once because even though Lucius and Tam both know the big secrets, it's still not something they talk about unless a thorough sweep for bugs has happened in the last thirty minutes.

(Ninjas suck sometimes. #facts)

"It's fine. We still have a few more things we can cross off the list–" Tim starts, jaw tight when he turns away from the familiar symbol, when some things still fucking sting even though he's been doing his level-best to move the fuck forward.

Lucius hums at him and holds out his phone with a tight smile.

The quick update on Gotham's Track the Crime Spree app shows him exactly what's going down, and his truly epic facepalm is the loudest thing in the office.

**

The Batcomm he hacked is on mute, voices in his ear to keep up with the criminals spilling out of Blackgate and swarming the city. Not to mention some of the classics had a hand in making it happen.

The initial plan changes when the Bats start calling dibs on bad guys, throwing out their locations, heading toward the more-than-usual amount of mayhem.

He doesn't throw in on the convo, instead starts picking off the small fries that just happened to be more concerned with escaping and hiding than doing a fair amount of damage the second they hit Gotham proper.

(Really noobs)

He's running through alleyways, easy, fast, and furious to take down the low-level escapees with quick double zip ties for wrists and ankles, not even really working up a sweat.

He leaves the big times to the official night crew, deals with the small fries and enjoys the burn in his thighs as he runs.

Batgirl spots him, yelling out something before he's off again, not interested in some kind of reunion.

(And her low level shields make his back teeth ache with how vulnerable she is, how much she needs someone to strengthen them for her, how he could do it without working too hard... Dammit, the Guide in him is drawn to her with those pesky instincts he's been trying to get under control.)

His first big bad of the night comes in the form of–

Condiment King.

And just. 

This guy.

He really wishes he had the time to enjoy witty banter and a long, drawn-out fight with some heavy hits. Anything to stop him from the low-level buzz on the edge of his shields he knows is Nightwing. He zip ties Buddy Sandler to a light pole and his backpack of condiments to another, he gets one good one before it’s time to move on. 

“Well, I relish the win, but you and the rest are going back to jail. See ya next crime.”

Then he’s off, shooting a grapple, taking off into the night.

Mortimer Kadaver was already kidnapping a victim, and he gets a satisfying crunch when he breaks the guys nose after a look at the torture implements in the back seat of the stolen sedan. The citizen takes off without a look back, completely ignoring him to wait for the police.

He jumps on another stolen car, riding a few blocks at breakneck speed before he punches out the driver’s side window and steers the car himself.

(It’s fun when the low-level thugs don’t know what’s going on. “How are you not driving?!” “Tell the hand in the window to give me the wheel back!”)

He doesn’t get thrown when brains kicks in and the driving thug slams on the brakes, but it’s a close thing.

Instead, he’s trying not to smile when they tumble out the other side of the car on unsteady legs. It’s an easy KO when the city is literally going to shit over the comm in his ear.

Things get real when O calls everyone in on the West side where the bigger, badder B is apparently ready for a round 2 of the “break Batman’s back” challenge.

(It’s the worst possible time for that guy. The flash of memory, of being Dick’s Robin for the short stint, of working with him while Bruce had to train his body again to take on the mantle after Jean Paul had to admit defeat. The best times, the most painful memories. All of it swirling in his chest with the buzzing on the edge of his senses getting sharper, cutting into his shields. All the bullshit stories about True Pairs and here he is, tempting the bond with things like proximity and ass kicking.)

He hits the top of the water tower to check out the sitch, trying to stay out of sight, out of the way of the main family doing their things while Bane is hepped up on venom and swatting at Robin and Black Bat like flies.

No one has to say it while calling out strategy, but it’s a pretty obvious distraction play. Keep the Bats busy while the bulk of baddies get ghost. It’s classic Bane, really.

Since the venom is highly flammable and there’s a lot of vigilantes he doesn’t want to face, he does the next best thing - makes a plan.

It easy to drive KG Beast and the Baffler right up his grill without ever being seen by the Bats as the three big baddies smack into one another on the down swing of some stunning blows. 

A combination of smoke pellets, knockout gas, and bo to the back of the head puts them out for the count in a move even he didn’t think was crazy enough to work.

Slam dunk. It’s buy two and get one free day.

Even better, Black B and Rob were back far enough to miss him through the smoke even though his rebound was a top notch move even for a season vigilante.

Which is why it sucks when Polka-Dot Man actually gets the drop on him because honestly, that guy. He does deliver a stunning back kick to put the B-lister down, but it does make him see double for an important enough second.

“Daw, takin’ alla the fun outta my night, Pretender,” the Red Hood drawls from a rooftop above him, the glint off shiny .45s too bright in his spotty vision. “Nice a’ ya ta actually show the fuck up fer once.”

“Honestly,” he banters back while the woozy sensation fades to a low grade headache, “how many asses in spandex does one city need?”

He gets a chuckle rather than a bullet to the head, so that is most certainly a win.

The drawback of gaining attention of the Red Hood, however, is the lack of duck and dodge that really is part of his new pseud.

Hood literally throws him over a shoulder and dives off the Wallstone Apartments while Red is still reeling from the blow, bellowing out when a meaty arm clamps on the back of his kicking legs in a very subtle warning.

“Leggo!”

“My ass. Stop yer squirming, fucker.”

“How about we compromise. Let me go and you can kick someone else’s ass?”

“Nice try. Like I dunno who yer really running from?”

“I’m fighting crime, not running you asshole!”

“Sure, sure. Ya know what they say. De Nile ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

“I don’t even live here anymore!”

“Oh? Can’t wait ta tell B ya just said that, Timmer.”

“I’m not his responsibility, didn’t you get the memo?”

Wind in his hair over the bad section of bail bondsmen and sleazy villain insurance. The plan forms while Red Hood arches his back to throw them both high in the air before the second grapple *zings* and latches on.

“I said th’ same thing at one time. Ya already know bout that shit, an’ how B didn’t give one fuck ‘bout what I hadda say.”

“The difference is you’re actually part of the fucking family, Jason!”

“Mmhm. Keep onnit, Replacement. M’comm is gettin’ alla this, n’ ya know it.”

“So what? No one’s bothered giving a crap  so far!”

Did he get hit with a truth serum or is this just the concussion talking? 

(R - Randal, Randal the concussion is awful and he should really stop this messy truth shit no one needs to hear.)

“Come off’n it, Timmy. Like ya don’t already know B gotcha tracked within an incha yer life? Think he just gonna let the smart one run off wi’ Shiva fer fuck’s sake?”

Even with Randal being a pain in the ass, Red has a terrifying moment of panic. They know. They all know.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, sure. Tell that ta Dickie why dontcha? I ain’t seen ‘in that pissed off inna hot minute.”

“He already knows-“

“Does he really now? Why don’tcha tell ole’ Jace all ‘bout it, hm?”

His voice through the synths sounds very not inviting.

“Randall is a fucker and he needs to lay off,” which has Hood laughing even if he doesn’t know what Red means by any of it.

They land it with a jolt — right in the middle of a brawl.

Which is just about the speed he really needs right now anyway.

Black Bat swings by with a screaming escapee dangling from one hand by his ankle while she smiles under the stitched-up mask and gives him a happy wave. The comm in his ear hasn’t fallen out so he knows the others are spaced out, corralling the others with the help of GCPD.

So, the fight is on a little more than he originally thought.

But still, the burn feels better than the low-grade concussion and the pulsing heat of Sentinels (of his Sentinel), close by. He knows Jason’s shields are fractured, held together by pure stubborn will. He knows Steph is a few blocks down, whooping it up with her shields scarily open for her senses to reach far enough out to track stragglers. B is held together the best of them all, but Dami is developing his senses now and his control is sporadic at best.

Punching the shit out of thugs takes some of the weight off the knowledge, doesn’t completely distract him from his own instincts, but distracts his brain just enough.

Leg sweeps, palm to the nose, kick to the back of the knees, a spinning whirlwind of ass kicking, back-to-back with Hood, spit blood when he takes a hit, clench his teeth when he feels the strain on Nightwing close enough to make his skin burn with it.

His chest is heaving by the time the groaning pile of bodies is down for the count and the red and blue is lighting up the night on their way. He scrambles for a grapple gun while Black B and Hood are finishing up the zip ties. But when he points it the way he wants to go, his finger won’t squeeze the trigger.

“Clean-up’s goin’ all right,” Hood reports, nudging his shoulder with the hand still holding the .45. “Lookin’ like B’s gotch some a’ th’ bomb residue ‘case ya wanna get in on that, nerd.”

“Like you’re much better,” Red rasps out, grapple in his lowered hand trembling, the pounding in his head worse than any concussion.

He knows what this is, the only thing it can be.

“Mmhm. ‘Least I don’t need a fuckin’ engraved invitation ta come back ta the Cave.”

Red’s head whips around, the whiteouts on the mask narrow in a who the fuck are you talking to? kind of way.

Hood crosses his arms over his massive chest because the guy knows when he’s feeding someone a line.

Welp, since everyone already knows apparently.

Right in front of the helmet, Red Robin shoves the grapple back in his belt and deactivates the right gauntlet with his left hand. The helmet cocks to the side in question, but Red moves with fluid grace and speed, even with Randall riding his cape, and slaps his palm on the only bare skin available, on the side of the Red Hood’s neck.

His instincts jump immediately and reach out to the dangerous cracks and crumbles in the Red Hood’s shields, the painful red throbbing of shields crumbling.

He might hear a noise out of the synths, might imagine it because what does Jason Todd owe him really?

But it’s easy, just like putting together the pieces of evidence from a crime scene. The fractured plates protecting Hood are hot to work with, a sharp sting across his brain pan (something that could be from the Pit or be just natural Jason Todd, zombie Sentinel extrodinaire), eases down with the pieces coming together, strengthening, forming a stronger metaphysical shield to give Jason a measure of peace from his own overwhelming senses. It’s a  the relief of relaxing a clenched fist after the fight.

The reason Sentinels need Guides.

(Well, there’s more to it than just that, isn’t there? And Red’s brain can’t help but flinch back to those dreams, to a voice in his ear and hands on him — Guide mapping, his dream Sentinel whispered against skin.)

Red doesn’t manage to stop Hood from sinking to his knees in the aftermath, downed criminals, things on fire, GCPD almost on top them, and Black B nearly vibrating out of her mask next to them, hands hovering and afraid to touch.

Instead, he feels the reverberation of that deep noise coming straight out of the Red Hood’s chest. The relief under the constructed shield thick between them while they stand in the middle of the street.

That growling purr is almost enough, almost enough, to stop him from turning on his heel.

But the gloved hand snags the hem of his cape stops him in his tracks. his eyes blow wide behind the whiteouts and he sees a second of Hood's emblem before his literal savior, Cass, snaps him up and throws him over her shoulder before she takes off.

The night takes a turn for a "what the fuck?" when he and Black B take a few pauses to double team some of the baddies when the Red Hood loses them close to Robinson Park.

Things got more dicey when N spots them taking out Joyful Noise before the sonic blaster destroys yet another pointless sculpture. The comms erupt in a whole lot more noise in the shit show his "duck and cover crime fighting" night has devolved into.

(He's not going to focus on how his head is just a little sore instead of Randall being a right pain in the ass, isn't going to think about the implications here. He can't focus and keep moving through the baddies if he has a sane moment to wonder if it was that easy because he also...Jason-)

They manage to evade the Bats (mostly), ignoring the cajoling and usual back-and-forth once they realize Red Robin is part of crime time.

Cass does him an absolutely solid, driving them to his other, other underground bunker, letting him hang his head against her back while the air hitting them reeks of smoke, burning plastic, and gasoline. He doesn't get the underlying tinge of metal, blood, and fear -- that was from Jason's head while those shields were coming together nicely.

(When he's a full continent away, he'll have him moment of panic, but until then, Cass is totally not addressing the very obvious elephant in the bunker.)

She stays for post-patrol snacks, producing a family-sized box of Cheez-Its and some Alfred sandwiches that are somehow still cold.

They do the usual throwing off sweaty top layers, domino and mask, stare at two episodes of The Office with Zestis from the mini-fridge in the corner.

One-handed signs while they chew, hit a quick patch up job, and the night is finally over.

Cass checks the Batchat to make sure everyone made it out of the city after one hell of a night and gives no reply to the questions about Tim, much to everyone’s dismay.

The next shift of GCPD is coming on, so the city is secured for another day. She produces a backpack and changes into soft leggins, runners, and a hoodie he's pretty sure is Bruce's.

Tim does a good job on her knuckles, and she gives him a kiss on the forehead, makes him promise to stay away from screens and not to sleep for a few hours yet.

After she takes off, he breathes out a long, breath, collapses on the overstuffed couch a minute before going to the lower levels, thinking about catching up on paperwork before he's got to meet with Lucius again. A nice shower, some coffee, and he could do some work, take an actual moment --

("True Pairs, an honest Sentinel and Guide relationship, can include sharing such effects of injuries.")

He shakes the thought out, rolls his neck, and picks up his discarded utility belt, trying to find as many things to divert his attention to as possible.