Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not at all.
They’d seriously underestimated these two guys. It’s already pissing Tim off just thinking about it. He’s the planner! He’s the prepared one! How did he fuck everything up this badly!
“Three o’clock, Red Robin.” Robin’s warning cuts like a gunshot, and Tim rolls on instinct, feeling the heat of fire graze his shoulder as he ducks to the left.
The warehouse they’d found themselves in is rectangular. Most of the machinery is set up on the north side, providing ample cover, while the east has four loading decks for big trucks. The place is so extensive that it even has a south-side balcony curved around half of the perimeter. Tim has taken refuge under one of the support beams on the high deck, using the steel beam as heavy cover.
His teammates, Nightwing and Robin, have taken up their own hiding spots on the northern ground floor. Old textile machinery provides ample cover for the time being. These past ten minutes have been a game of find cover, wait for fire, counterattack, reveal position, rinse and repeat. At least there are ample places to duck into.
From the information they’d gathered, they’d assumed these guys were the standard, run-of-the-mill, junior casters who have one fireball up their sleeve before they collapse. That’s not been the case so far.
Their techniques are sloppy, their efficiency less than optimized, their focus shaky— but their output is beyond impressive.
The taller has a love for fire, and the other a passion for deflecting their projectiles back at them. Their rate of fire has been a constant for well over ten minutes now. Something isn’t adding up.
Their inexperience should have them wreaking major damage insanely quickly before being totally shot. The proper way to handle them is to let them wear themselves out, run them down until they can hardly lift a finger.
No one is wearing down.
In the chaos, the casters have cleared a space for themselves on the east-side floor, firing in all directions as a makeshift no-birds-land.
This was supposed to be quick in and out, wrapping these guys up in neat bows for the GCPD. Their small reign of terror in Gotham’s banks would be short-lived if only any of them could get close enough to land a proper hit.
Things are heating up in here, literally. The sorcerer’s fireballs are licking the rafters and clashing into wooden walls without thought. Gone are targeted bursts; the fiery arcs are growing wider, covering more of the floor before they explode, casting out small projectiles in every direction.
Every so often, a green glint catches before fire extends, and Tim squints. It’s as if the spell is warping mid-cast before being pulled back to its original intention. These guys are simultaneously brilliant and useless at their craft.
This could get bad, really fast. His stomach drops as he spies one crashing into the wooden supports; fire licks the already charred surface. Tim can’t help but cringe as it splinters entirely. From his guess, there are other supports it can rely on for now, but for how long? “Roof is compromised, I think we might have to call it.”
“Nonsense!” Robin growls, diving between boxes to dodge another detonation of spells.
“Robin, stand down.” Nightwing, always the mediator, calls. He takes to being team lead like a fish to water. Tim is thankful he can get the gremlin to listen to reason. Most of the time. Tim might’ve strangled him a long time ago otherwise. “Red has a point. Casters might be feeding off of each other’s energy to keep it up. Our tactics are kaput. Standby for O’s ID confirmation, then withdraw. Red, stay low. Stick to movement set 2G-9. Robin, ensure we have a clear ground-floor exit,” Nightwing orders.
Tim falls flat, seeking cover from one of the bridge supports, “Copy that.” It makes sense, he should’ve clocked that sooner. The shorter of the casters, whose been opting as support for when any bird actually managed to try an attack, has been casting nonstop. Tim assumed it was an invisible shield, but it could’ve been a boost or an enhancement of some kind.
The casters operate back to back; it’s entirely feasible they’re taking in energy from each other to consolidate resources.
“Acknowledged,” Robin grunts.
Another blue burst erupts from the shorter, and Tim flinches back as a throwing disc lodges itself where his chest had been only moments before.
Assholes. “Give up yet?” One caster cries, flicking their arm as another arc of fire is released from their grasp. “Charred feathers won’t be a good look for you, you know.”
A buzz from his left ear. Oracle’s communication takes priority over all team communication. “Visibility sucks, nothing on my end unless someone gets in for a closer look,” Oracle chimes in.
The spell smoke sits in the air heavily, only growing as the minutes crawl forward.
“Smoke is getting dense, rebreathers, people,” Nightwing orders. “I’m heading in. Everyone, hold position, get ready to dive out of your respective windows.”
Tim clips on his rebreather, easing his anxiety momentarily as fresh air reaches his lungs. There’s nothing to do about visibility, but this is something easily controlled.
“You require cover-fire,” Robin insists.
“Flying solo for this one, no grouping up. Draw fire to the west, wait for every fourth burst to attack. That’s their refocus time.”
Tim nods, putting the info to memory. He shifts his feet, unthinking, but is surprised by the ominous groan the bridge emits. He pauses, focus redirected to the metal he’s standing on. As a test, he nudges one of the supports with his staff, face falling as three bolts dislodge. Turning to dust when they hit the floor below.
One of the sorcerers’ spells must’ve gone astray. Fuck.
There’s no time to grapple with the sudden sinking in his stomach, the immediate cotton that’s stuffed in his mouth. He turns heel and runs, hair raising as another arc of heat fires over his head. The Western exit door to the stairs is roughly 60 feet away, he’d been forced back in the fight. The only con being that the stairs don’t lead outside the warehouse; they only lead to the ground floor. Within direct sight of the casters.
“Priority one, balcony is about to fail.“ He doesn’t have a visual on the other two yet; he just has to trust they’ll be fine until his boots can hit actual ground.
“Copy. Get off of there, Red,” Nightwing acknowledges, switching tact, “Robin, cover-fire is your priority one until he’s beside you. Then withdraw—”
“—No, you’re not out of fire,” Robin argues, uncompromising as always.
“Robin.“
The bridge groans, creaking under the strain of holding itself up. Tim’s feet thunder down on it, and he cringes every time it wails. The door is almost within reach, the stairs nearly accessible.
“Surrender now, birdies, I promise to make your deaths swift.” The magic user croons, hurtling another spell. It’s exactly what Tim feared, the spell slams into the supports—
—and with a harsh shriek, the entire structure shudders. Bolts shearing off in sharp screams. The railing holding on dutifully even as the floor begins to tilt sideways.
“GET BACK!” Tim cries out, hoping against hope his team hears him over the screeching metal.
Tim loses his footing as the metal framework dips, crashing into the metal handrail shoulder-first before adjusting with a gasp. He twists, firing his grapple out of muscle memory, tensing for failure as he plummets downward.
The line catches. And his arm feels like it’s almost yanked out of socket as the line goes taught. He swings— just a moment before the bridge fully collapses in an explosion of shrapnel and dust.
He hauls himself on top of the rafter, gasping from strain. Lying on his stomach to prevent himself from being shaken off as the whole warehouse rumbles and cries out under the stress.
When it’s over, a thicker cloud of debris hangs over the mangled aftermath, illuminated by colorful bursts of light and the glint of metal. Tim peeks over his beam, now positioned centerstage above the warehouse floor.
Spells are still rocketing off while the magic users cackle, protected by a glowing shield. It pulses, before shattering like fine glass. The shorter drops it with a roll of their shoulders. Still standing, that won’t do, especially when Tim doesn’t have eyes on the others.
“Rolecall.” Nightwing’s voice snaps over comms, unable to curb the sharp edge from his voice. Rolecall, something B had started the moment his two-man crusade had occasionally started to include three or more. It’s something hardwired into every bat-aligned vigilante in Gotham.
Tim can’t see his team lead, but he presumably got out of the way, unscathed. He imagines the ID scan directive is a bust. His older brother will want nothing more than to get out of here as soon as possible.
He wipes the dust from his lenses. “Red Robin, standing. Found a perch in the rafters.” Tim uses the moment to peer down, finding the hunched figure of his older brother. He’s been pushed further North in the chaos, taking cover behind half-smashed machinery. There’s no Robin at his side.
The other reply, which should be near instantaneous, is silent. Tim feels his mouth go dry.
“Robin. Rolecall.” Nightwing calls again, that edge sharpening. Tim knows better than anyone that Dick can’t stand to see his baby Robin in danger. He doesn’t need to have O’s vital screens to know that his brother’s heartbeat is already spiking.
“I can’t see him,” Tim replies, breathless as hot fire just barely misses the rafter beside him. These guys are way too good at keeping them under constant fire.
The silence stretches, broken by the grinding of metal, creaking of wood, and crackling of fire. The smoke is getting thicker by the moment, and visibility is getting worse. His rebreather is still fixed firmly to his face, thank god.
The line opens back up with a pulse of static.
“Robin, acknowledging.” The kid’s voice is stretched and drawn out. Tim knows he’s hurt before he can speak further. “My leg is caught. I can’t— Nightwing, I require you. West-side.” It’s the closest he can probably get to admitting he’s in immediate danger.
From Tim’s bird’s eye view, he finally catches a look at the immediate response.
Nightwing vaults over a metal debris pile, “Responding. Red, give me some time.”
“Copy.”
From Tim’s obscured view, he can see Nightwing ease over another obstacle. Avoiding spell-fire with an array of slides and rolls, only the renowned acrobat could pull off. He weaves through all of it like choreography. Perfectly executed.
With the sudden movement, both magic users turn their full attention to the man, giving Tim his chance to roll over, hucking a smoke bomb in the midst of the eastern-side duo. It explodes, erupting in a cloud of dense gray.
Sure, it messes up his team’s visibility, but it’s not like any of them have had much these past few minutes anyway. The best it offers is a few seconds' respite from the magical onslaught. Tim completes his plan by hooking his grapple to the rafter and letting himself fall, landing dead-center of the room before dashing to the closest cover, unfortunately southward.
“I have eyes on him.” Nightwing cuts in, but Tim can’t spot him from his position. “Any word on backup, Oracle?”
“Not coming. The others are twenty minutes out,” Oracle’s terse voice replies.
Tim’s stomach sinks. “N, you got him?”
“Yeah. I’m—“ there’s a short breath and a grunt. “Fuck, this is heavy. Are you close?”
“Nope, just consider me en route. Visibility is in the negatives.”
At his word, there’s a sharp whistle from across the warehouse, and a gust of wind explodes, tearing apart the smoke to reveal the magic users. “Too many tricks for our taste. How about we all come on out, little birds?”
“Red, get on it.”
“You got it, boss,” Tim vaults over from his hiding place into the clear area in front of the duo. “Hey guys, how’ve your days been? I’ve definitely had better.”
He stays moving after catching their attention, weaving through bridge and machinery debris as tangled colors fire after him. This game of mouse could almost be fun, if the cats weren’t currently trying to burn him alive.
Tim’s lungs burn as he ducks under another toppled support beam, the sound of spellfire cracking at his heels. The collapsed bridge is proving pretty handy for cover, solid for covering them when dodging trigger-happy magic users. Less handy when you consider that Robin is still trapped.
He risks a glance across the wreckage. Just barely catching sight of the two struggling. Their cover consists of a metal amalgamation of bridge deck, folded over perfectly to obscure them from the casters’ view. Nightwing is kneeling beside a prone Robin, working on clearing the metal engulfing his lower half. They’re too far for Tim to catch their words, but their movements say enough. This could get bad, fast.
It’s as if he’s manifested their miserable luck. Tim watches one caster’s green-tinged spell tumble out of control, spiralling off into the warehouse. They let loose a sigh of frustration as it tears north instead of at Tim’s west-side progress.
Its streak of violent green rips across the warehouse, striking the debris protecting Nightwing and Robin. The explosion is instantaneous. The entire heap detonates into a clash of metal, wood, and masonry, the shockwave rattling Tim’s bones even from across the room. When the smoke thins from the burst, they’re suddenly visible, no cover left at all.
Both spellcasters laugh, disbelieving, overjoyed. Eyes directed to the grounded birds, Tim forgotten for now. Fire gathers around the taller’s hand.
There’s no time.
Tim doesn’t think; he dives into view, coming out of a roll to flick a disc. The tiny projectile slices across the space and strikes the caster squarely at the wrist. Caster shortstack is too slow to pull up a shield.
Their yelp is sharp and startled, and they flick their wrist in a moment that relinquishes their hold on the flames engulfing their hand. The spell is released into the space between the two, entirely uncontrolled.
Shit.
The spell falters in air, jerking violently— and then it warps. Fire twists into something else entirely, its colors flickering wrong, its shape pulsing like it's about to explode. Ah, so that’s what it is. Wild magic.
And Tim knows its target hasn’t changed. Robin, still pinned and unable to move, tries to lift his head, mask unable to cover his grimace, his acceptance.
He doesn’t have to accept anything for long.
Nightwing acts first. A blur of blue and black lunges forward, hurling himself between the blast and Robin with arms braced over his face.
“DON’T—!” The word tears from Tim’s throat, too late.
Wild magic slams into Nightwing dead-on, erupting in green light that swallows him whole.
When the spell sputters and dies, it reveals his crumpled form. For a breath, the warehouse goes dead quiet.
The casters stare, eyes wide, as if they can’t believe they’d actually landed a hit.
A pause is all it takes.
Metal shifts behind the ruined debris pile. There’s a soft groan, then a biting yell— then Robin explodes out from under the twisted beam pinning him down. His knee buckles, and he catches himself on the debris, coughing. Nightwing still lies prone at his feet. Tim’s view is obscured by the smoke; he can’t tell if he’s breathing.
“Red Robin,” the boy curdles through the comms. “Get him out of here, or I’ll have your head.”
Tim can feel his breath hitch. A comeback heavy on his tongue, but it wouldn’t do. Not when their mediator is down. “That’s— I’m closer to the casters.”
“And yet,” Robin snaps, “I’m the one with their attention.” Robin draws himself to full height. His cape is torn, his hair slicked back with dust. Blood runs down his torn pant leg. Nonetheless, his jaw sets, and Damian Wayne Al Ghul snaps out a quiet, “Move.”
“Copy that.”
Tim doesn’t hear Robin’s attack, only the sharp scream of the after. He whirls through the warehouse, leaping over crates and scrambling to edge past machines while the casters’ attention is held.
There’s a crash as more debris topples, scattering more dust and smoke. It’s getting almost unmanageable now. A retreat is the only card they have left to play. He should call in Oracle for her to look into Dick’s vitals, but he’s not sure he wants the answer right now.
Crashing spells are present, but they lack the rhythm of before. As they slam into the environment, it’s pure panic. The high of a hit and the consequences of said hit have thrown them off balance.
If only this had happened sooner, Tim curses. He doesn’t break pace, focusing on his downed teammate as he slides on the battered floor. The smoke is so bad he can hardly make out his downed form, but he spots the bright blue of the costume among the mangled metal and masonry.
Upon reaching Nightwing’s side, he’s crashing to his knees.
“Oh, what the fuck.”
It’s been a quiet night at the manor. Hopelessly silent, refusing to even let the sound of the wind through its tall windows.
Jason used to find comfort in the silence. It was always a welcome change to the wild nature of being Robin. Time in the manor was spent as a way to decompress, to relax. To shift from gunfights and constant motion to a warm blanket and a cup of tea.
Now, it sets him on edge. The silence is perfectly curated. Grating on every inch of his skin. He can feel his fingers twitch at his sides, preventing him from releasing the tension in his arms. Silence leads to thinking, and thinking is when things get really, really loud.
The infirmary is bleakly lit, only a small table-top lamp illuminating the white walls. Highlighting the steam rising from his still-warm tea Alfred had provided earlier.
Technically, he could leave, instead of trying to nap with the lights on like a five-year-old; the door is unlocked. But it’s a trap. His warden is only three doors down, and if he so wished, he could sweep down on Jason before he could turn the handle.
Alfred is a hardass, truth to be told. Even as the years go on, he’s never lost that quality.
Being a prisoner isn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Being trapped in this goddamn ‘family’ isn’t new. No matter what he tries, he somehow finds himself stuck at square one.
Bruce has a compulsive need to keep him within arm's reach, always worried Jason is going to finally snap one of these days. Someday, it might feel nice to prove him right. Maybe, one of these days, he’ll throw out the rubber bullets. Just to mess with the old man.
Bruce can’t seem to speak unless they’re on a mission together. And even that brings out only the barest of essential sentences. ‘Remember your training.’ ‘Stick to the plan.’ ‘When you’re on my team, you listen to me.’ All with that trademark Batman tone.
Last night, Jason had grown so pissed off that he’d gotten sloppy and found himself bleeding out on a rooftop in the financial district. As expected, Bruce was there, abandoning the others to haul his squirming ass into the Batmobile and dropping him at Alfred’s door for ‘mandatory medical care.’ If Jason had been more present, he probably would’ve shot him.
He should really stop accepting mission invites; they never end in anything less than a full-blown argument. Still, he keeps accepting them, even if he tells himself he won’t. Technically, none are really directed at him. Rare is it for anyone to ask for him directly. All these years later and he’s still the boogie-man. The cautionary tale.
Listen to Batman or you’ll end up like him.
His comm, always tuned in to the emergency line, crackles to life, upheaving the silence.
“Heyy, this is Robin to everyone,” Tim says. “Figured I’d better get you all in on this. We have a situation, we’re going to need to set up the standard search protocols. Gotham-wide.”
It’s the first time tonight it’s buzzed. Everything had seemed under control. In all fairness, it was a last minute thing. Dick was in town for… something. And the others couldn’t stop tripping over themselves to tag along tonight.
“Are the casters down? You still have an open backup request.” Bruce’s voice is clipped; it always gets clipped when protocol can’t be followed to a perfect T. Asshole.
“Both downed. I’ll make sure they get into the right hands.” Tim coughs; he sounds ragged. Worn out around the edges. Whoever could’ve guessed that a team with Robins three and five could’ve gone wrong?
“I want a full rundown, from all three of you,” Bruce remarks. It’s flat. Tone-deaf. Full Bat-mode.
“That might be a problem.”
It draws a small laugh from him as he sits up further. Things must’ve really gone to shit. This’ll be good.
“What?”
Damian enters the call with a sigh. “Tt. He’s being foolish. We need to locate Nightwing. He was hit by a spellcaster and— I— stop bleeding, Drake, it’s distracting. It’s only a broken nose.”
In the background of his communicator, a muffled and static voice can be heard. “—Third one this year! Leave me be!”
“What’s wrong with Dick?” Oracle cuts in, sharp and to the point. She really doesn’t mess around when it comes to downed team members. But especially when it comes to the original boy hostage. When no answer comes, she supplies a quiet, “Vitals are offline. Trackers are unmoving.”
Jason’s eyes narrow. Ole’ Dickie ran into a spot of trouble, did he? No wonder the whole cavalry is being called in. Maybe Gotham’s next in line to receive the Chemo treatment. He sighs, scowling as fire races down his side again.
When Dick does fuck up, he fucks up on a monumental scale. City-destroying, faking his own death for a whole year, losing his memory for an ungodly amount of time, kind of scale. And somehow— he can still come back and be welcomed back with open arms.
Tim clears his throat. “He probably ditched all of it. I’ll debrief at the cave. Rendezvous in ten if you can.”
Jason scoffs. Dumbasses.
Fifteen minutes later, Jason drags himself through the manor. Content to find that Alfred has abandoned his post. He slips into the cave entrance with a swallowed grimace. Half-wincing as his side flares in pain. He can still taste iron on his tongue, the faint feeling of fire dancing around the wound.
He’s taken enough painkillers to at least dull the feeling; he wishes he could drown it.
Everyone is already there. Really, the whole family. All of them are just as fascinated by this situation as him. All in costume, pulled from their respective patrols. Gathered in a loose semicircle around Tim, holding a tissue to his newly reset nose. He’s pacing back and forth, like working a lever to get the cogs in his mind working a little faster. Like the missing bird might crawl up from the floorboards if he twists the puzzle just right.
No one comments as Jason joins the edge of the fray, but he catches an eyebrow lift from Steph, Tim’s tightening jaw, and even Cass’s eyes cracking open from across the room. Jason can’t help but look away.
“Okay—” Tim clears his throat, squaring himself in the group, “thanks for coming. Sorry about the… summons, hah.”
Damian stands beside his father, arms crossed and shoulders reaching his ears in clear irritation. Looking like a furious cat. To be fair, Jason’s not sure if he’s ever not irritated. Much like cats.
“Give your report, Drake. We’re wasting time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Tim straightens, addressing the room. Mostly Bruce. “Mission tonight went sideways.”
That earns a sharp scoff from him.
Obviously. There’s a black and blue idiot they’re missing.
Tim continues, shooting him a tired glare, “Robin, Nightwing, and I were called in to bring down two spellcasters. We tracked them to the warehouse on 36th and Henry and quickly got into a fight. I took the high ground on a balcony while Robin and Nightwing stayed low. The short version is that the balcony collapsed and Robin got trapped beneath it.”
It’s always a warehouse, isn’t it? It’s a Wayne tradition at this point.
“They were pinning us down pretty heavily. I was a distraction for Nightwing to get to Robin. Nightwing took a full hit for him, wild magic, and went down.”
Jason’s eyes narrow further. It reeks of that staple Grayson bravado. Save a baby bird and lose his head while doing it.
Tim presses a fresh tissue to his face, discarding the other on a growing pile in the trash. “Robin broke free and attacked the casters while I went to check on Nightwing. And it— well, I guess it wasn't Nightwing I found, so much as Robin.”
Damian’s scowl deepens. Shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“I can’t tell you how old he looked, just that he was younger than me,” Tim sniffs, scrunching his brow. “He woke up pretty confused, got even worse when Robin returned. That’s when he freaked out.. hit me, and tried to start a fight.” His eyes flick down as he says it, Jason can’t help but grin. Never meet your heroes.
“When we wouldn’t, he ran. He asked… some questions. Or screamed them, but honestly, it was pretty much incoherent. We gave chase, but he lost us pretty quick. He’s fast.”
It at least explains the broken nose. Ah, how Jason missed a freak out from the older. The others don’t know the man like he does. They don’t remember just how quick he’d switch from friendly to hateful to guilty.
And they all think Jason’s the asshole. They don’t know the half of it.
“He didn’t recognize you?” Bruce inquires, brow scrunched remarkably similar to Tim’s. He settles a hand onto his youngest’s shoulder. Damian stills under the contact. The child reprimanded for the time being.
Jason would think the man would be overjoyed; he might’ve just gotten the one thing he’s always trying to get back. His first Robin. The only success in the fucking family.
“Nope. I took off my mask to try to help him out, but it didn’t, clearly.”
“Not just a physical age spell then,” Barbara rolls forward, taking over the bat-computer. Already brushing against the keyboard in swift keystrokes. “Could we guess he’s mentally regressed as well?”
Bruce joins her, leaving the group behind to study the security feeds filling the screen. Likely those closest to the warehouse. “We assume everything because we plan for everything. We need to track him down.”
“He’s eight,” Steph leans forward, arms crossed, “How hard can it be?”
“He was older,” Damian snaps, voice sharp. Steph glares back.
Bruce doesn’t turn back to chide her, but the tone is there. “Dick has always been good at navigating Gotham; if he is out of time, so to speak, he’ll be disoriented. But able to adapt quickly. It’s what he’s trained to do.”
Jason snorts, “Just had to tack that on there, didn’t you?”
“I can find him,” Barbara interrupts, the computer screen already filled with camera feeds. No baby bird to speak of, though. “Even present-day Dick can’t escape my eyes in the city.”
“Set up a search, focus on northern Gotham, by the warehouse. I’ll send you facial recognition scans from ages 15 to 18. I only have photographs for ages 9 through 14.”
She waves a flippant hand. “I’ll make do. Send them over.”
“Babs can’t get that set up instantly; we need boots on the ground,” Tim argues.
Steph huffs again, splaying out her hands dramatically. “Sorry, guess I’m not following. Why hasn’t he come back to the cave yet?”
“Because he’s petty. And loves a good dose of drama,” his side flares, shifting his weight to cover the wince. “I thought everyone knew that.”
Bruce interjects, “Jason has a point, based on his behavior, and likely the introduction to two robins, it’s unlikely he’ll come to the cave. Whether from distrust of me or general paranoia.”
“He’s probably already running for Titans Tower,” Jason notes.
“Could be,” Cass says, pushing off the wall she’d been leaning against. “But he will want to stay close. Solve the puzzle.”
Bruce grunts. “I agree, he’ll want answers. In that case,” he points between them, “me, Spoiler, Signal and Red Hood will be on standard patrol routes. Cassie, Tim and Damian, stay here. I expect written reports from both of you, after, contact Zatanna.”
“Spoiler, Signal, Red Hood, and I,” Jason corrects. “But why am I included in this?” He adds before receiving a kick from Damian.
It’s a surprising development. He would’ve thought Bruce would keep him prisoner for the week. Unless.. He already knew Jason planned on escaping tonight anyway. This is just another way to keep an eye on him.
“You’re benching us?” Damian hisses.
Jason can’t help but engage. The baby bat is so easy to rile. “Sorry, kid. You’ll be missing out. Who doesn’t want to get a good look at Bruce’s favorite in his emo era?”
Bruce ignores him. “Those who knew him when he was younger are best to take up the frontlines, son.”
“I know Richard better than anyone else here,” Damian insists, taking a step toward his father. As if intimidation will get him any further in this conversation.
Bruce only shakes his head. “Not right now. What he does know, is your costume. And yours, Tim.”
Damian is already refusing, hands curling into small fists. “I won’t stay here. I’m Robin.”
“That’s exactly why you should stay here,” Tim tries.
The youngest rounds on him, “Shut up, Drake,” shoving a pointed finger into the older’s chest. “Tend to your nose.”
“Tim is right. That R on your chest will only earn you a right hook.”
“We don’t know that for a hundred percent certainty,” Bruce says quietly.
“Yeah, well. I know it for seventy five percent. Dickhead gave it over with gritted teeth, and then he fucked off until I died.”
“It’s best if you stay here, chum.” Bruce ignores Jason, patting Damian on the shoulder. “And Cass, I’m afraid your costume is too close to mine. I think you're best suited to watch the boys. And Jason. Use the domino.”
“Excuse you?”
“He may not take your helmet kindly, depending on his age.”
Jason grunts. Unable to argue on that front.
“That just sounds like a risk. Why let him go?” Tim asks, more confused than anything.
“Because,” Bruce starts, “like I already explained, he’s known Dick the longest out of any of you. It’s an asset in case of a worst-case scenario.”
“Technically, I knew him first, but yeah. Whatever. I’m compromised,” Tim mutters.
Jason sighs “If we’re done arguing about my competence, let’s go. Go enact your secret part of
Bruce’s jaw tightens. “I’m going to call Duke. We’ll leave when he gets here.”
The group watches Bruce slink upstairs before breaking into their respective groups with soft sighs and furtive glances.