Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ghosts.

The whole house is filled with ghosts.

He can see it in the picture frames lining the hallways, dusted a little too well, in the kitchen cupboards, stocked with more coffee than Bruce could hope to drink, and even in the bedroom  door, left so slightly ajar, leading to a room no one has since entered.

Case files and notes litter the sturdy mahogany desk but not a single speck of dust lines it’s crisp edges. Under normal circumstances, those files would have been closed, tucked into the cabinet made for solved cases. But instead, they’ve been left behind to linger, because no one had the heart to touch a dead boy’s room.

The bed is strewn with pillows and crumpled blankets that still smell like Tim. He wonders how many times Alfred walked in armed with cleaning supplies and detergent before deciding to walk back out.

This is a time capsule, a moment preserved for the family.

Stepping into the room almost feels like a crime.

He tiptoes around the clothes strewn about the floor, the faint edge of a stolen superman sweater poking from underneath one of the piles.

He had wondered where that went.

Pulling it out felt almost disrespectful, even if it had been his in the first place. The room shuffles, and falls back to sleep as if mourning the loss.

He turns it over to inspect it.

There’s a large coffee stain along the pad its elbow, but it’s dulled now, muted after several rounds in the washing machine. He can almost imagine how the scene played out: Tim elbow deep in a case, drunk after a night of caffeine and adrenaline, falling asleep…

Right into his coffee cup.

He chuckles softly underneath his breath. Classic Tim.

The fabric is soft underneath his fingers, smelling of Alfred’s detergent.

Space was a vacuum. There was no light for sound. Smells were weird and intrusive, nothing like the scents down on earth. In short, there was nothing to remind them of home.

His time traipsing the universe with Cassie and Bart was almost like an escape.

But they’re back now.

And everything hurts more than it did before.

The sweater, the room, even the case files are splayed out in a way that’s so particularly Tim that he can see exactly why no one had the heart to change a thing.

He brushes a thumb over the stain, tracing the frayed edges along the sleeve. It was well worn, well loved.

Alfred must’ve hated this damn sweater, must’ve asked Tim again and again to get rid of it.

But Tim was stubborn like that.

Tears burn his eyes. They had been so close to saving him. He had almost told the others to take Batman and go, to let him find Tim.

But the wounds, the broken bones and injuries…

Batman had been critical. There was no time to lose.

Cassie was strong but she couldn’t get them all out in time.

Bart was fast, but he’s built for speed, not strength.

Leaving was their only option. So that’s what they did.

They left Tim.

He sighs into the sweater, crumpling the fabric in between his fingers. If their roles were reversed, Tim would’ve found a way to save everyone.

Thoughts of ‘failure’ and ‘not good enough’ spiral around his head like a broken record.

A sliver of guilt worms it’s way into his chest, making a home there.

It’s become harder to shake off lately. His ears twitch suddenly, picking up the distant sound of crying.

Cassie, he thinks to himself.

Harder for all of them, it seems.

Chapter Text

The building behind them goes up in flames.

A chunk of metal that goes flying over his head. He ducks and it crashes into the pillar on his right, missing him, just barely.

His chest burns. He coughs once or twice, trying to get the suffocating smoke out of his lungs, but each second is precious, another moment he could have spent running, zigzagging through falling debris instead of trying to get back the air that he lost.

He catches his breath some ways away, beside the thick cement of another building. The heat is stifling despite the distance. He peeks his head behind the wall only to feel another whoosh of hot air.

‘Bad idea’, he thinks, throwing himself back behind the wall with a thump.

Bruce and Jason dive behind the wall next to him, wheezing behind their masks. They’ve had to run a greater distance than him, having been the ones to trigger the explosion.

Jason’s letter jacket is singed in the ends and his hair is dusted with a sprinkle fine white powder from the broken foundations of the building. His helmet is tucked under his arm, scratched all over from falling debris.

Bruce is arguably worse off. His heatproof cape is more white than black on one side, shoulder tilted, and he grits his teeth in a way that indicates he’s been injured.

Judging by the slight in hunch, he’d wager a guess that he hadn’t been a quick enough to dodge the falling debris.

Dick slides down the wall, exhausted.

That’s the twenty-sixth league base that they had infiltrated. It was their best lead.

And Tim wasn’t there either.

It’s starting to feel like a game. They’re out here scrounging up every clue they can find while Ra’s Al Ghul watches them from afar. The man has more bases than he has enemies, and he’s not surprised that he’s sacrificing a few just to keep Tim well and truely hidden.

They could spend their entire life finding them, planning to infiltrate them, and they’d die before they got to a point where they’d investigated even a percentage of those locations.

It’s a losing hand that they can’t seem to shake off.

He looks at their worn out faces. Even the dust and grime can’t hide the utter exhaustion marring their features.

Jason is the first to stand up. He mumbles a few choice swears before disappearing without a word. It’s not surprising. He never stays long these days.

Bruce is quiet. Then again, he always is. The disappointment and pain is trapped deep inside, because he has some fucked up belief that he can’t look weak.

It makes him difficult to be around. How many times has he tried to help only for it to end up as a screaming match?

Out of all their siblings, Dick’s tried the hardest to help him - And he’s just so damn tired.

Now, they barely talk to each other at all except about which league base they’ll strike next. In the burnings embers of another failed search, the frustration is clear on both their faces.

Bruce turns to Dick, mouth falling open slightly as if to say something, but he eventually resigns himself to a small nod and leaves just as quickly.

The message is plain as day. They’ll see each other again once they identify the next location.

Then, it’s just him, looking back at the embers of a burning base.

Standing there alone, he realises that he might as well leave too. He walks three blocks to an alleyway between two tall buildings. His bike is hidden behind one of the dumpsters, lying flat across the ground.

He pulls it up, straining against the weight of their failure.

Another dead end. The realisation ricochets around in his head.

There’s a light splattering of burns across his body - Second degree, nothing serious, but as he throws a leg over the seat, he winces in a way that has nothing to do with the pain.

The bike revs with a smooth purr as he fits his other leg into the strap. Within seconds, he’s taking off, zipping through the streets with enough speed that it makes his wounds burn.

He tries to shake off the disappointment.

Their family is disjointed, broken into pieces that he can’t put back together.

It’s just the three of them these days.

Steph gave up the mask when she found his body. And after they found out about his resurrection, she broke down in a way that they couldn’t fix.

Cass stays with her now, if only to make sure she’s still eating.

Damian disappeared months ago from Titans tower, before they even found out that Tim was still alive. All he left was a note saying he didn’t want to be found.

Bruce didn’t believe it at first, at least, not until Damian sent a strongly worded message from an encrypted number telling them to back off.

To this day, he doesn’t know why Damian left, but he imagines that it’s his fault too.

After the funeral, he was so entrenched in grief that he never paid any mind to the brother he still had. Instead he just pushed, and pushed, and pushed, until eventually, Damian left him too.

So, he’s lost both brothers - all in the span of a few months.

They’re not too far away this time, just off the side of Bludhaven, and he can make it back home easily enough on his bike, but being alone in an empty apartment doesn’t seem remotely appealing - not when he’s so deeply entrenched in his thoughts.

He ends up tilting to one side, swerving as he bolts down the opposite direction and into the highway that leads to Gotham.

Somehow, he finds himself on that rooftop where it happened, where his brother died.

(Except he didn’t just die. He fell.)

And the reminder brings with it thoughts of sliced harnesses and broken bodies and parents who had their lives ripped out of them.

All that time, all that training, and it still wasn’t enough to save the people he loved.

So what’s even the point anymore?

He sits over the side of the balcony and looks out over the cold, dreary skyline.

It’s been nine months, time spent doing reconnaissance and infiltration, countless sleepless nights sandwiched between rough patrols - All that effort that just seems meaningless in the light of their latest failure.

He can feel the wind blowing past him harshly, rustling the branches with such force that the foliage is ripped off. Fallen leaves blanket the pavement, turning the trees bare. The seasons are changing again. Soon, it’ll be winter, and this place will look exactly like it did last year.

So really, nothing’s changed at all.

He hugs his knees into his chest.

The ledge he’s sitting on is the one Tim almost grabbed onto - The ledge that could’ve saved him had he been just that little bit closer.

He comes back here sometimes, partly because he likes to imagine what things could’ve been like if he never died, or perhaps just to torture himself.

Either way, the thought fills him with bone aching regret.

‘I’d give anything to have you back with us.’ He thinks quietly.

He slumps back against the roof, looking at the night sky. There aren’t any stars, not with the polluted smog that blankets much of the city, and can’t help but hope that wherever he is, the League is kind enough to let him see the sky.

With their luck, he doubts it.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there, staring at the starless sky. What feels like minutes has probably been hours.

He’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t even look up when someone plops down next to him.

There’s a scrapping noise as they settle down, crossed legged. It’s a familiar sound, and not a comforting one.

He gives himself another moment to absorb the tranquility of the nighttime sky, to take in the sights and sounds of the city, before he finally sighs and sits up.

“Have you thought about my offer yet?” The voice calls out.

He takes a deep breath of musky Gotham air, closing his eyes to fully immerse himself in the moment.

The choice is clear. Maybe, it’s always been and he spent all this time trying to delay the inevitable.

“Yeah, I did.” He admits softly. It’s the first time he’s said those words out loud, and something within him settles with the commitment.

“Good.”

When he blinks his eyes open, He’s alone on the rooftop.

They find him two weeks later.

He’s half starved, crouched in the corner of his cell, almost driven mad from torture and repeated dips in the pit.

His hair is shaggy, dipping below his neck.

But when he spots Dick, there’s a gleam of recognises, that spark of ingenuity that’s so distinctively Tim.

The wariness melts into relief.

He gets up and surges forward. There’s a bleeding cut along his right leg that stops him from moving as fast as he’d like too, but he crashes into Dick with the might of a bull, grasping him with a relieved squeeze.

Tears build up behind his mask as he cradles his bother in his arms, hugging him back just as tightly.

“You’re okay,” He chokes out. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, Tim. You have no idea how much we’ve looked.”

“I know.” Tim mumbles. His upper lip is bruised and he’s missing part of his tooth, but he smiles as if nothing hurts.

Dick runs his hand over Tim’s matted hair. There’s blood on one side that’s turned it crusty, sticking it to his scalp, and he wants to cry because his little brother has endured so much in the last nine months.

His eyes are green, the same shade as Jason’s.

At this rate, Bruce will have a gaggle of green eyed children instead of blue.

He laughs disbelievingly as he presses his face into Tim’s head. The fact that he found him, that both his brothers are back now… “I’m so glad you’re alive,” He whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out sooner.” He mumbles brokenly, closing his eyes in regret.

Tim rubs slow circles on his back. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. Ra’s showed me everything. I know how hard you tried and I don’t blame you at all.” He says softly.

This forgiveness, this reunion - It’s not something he ever thought he’d get to experience.

His heart feels fuller than it’s been for a long time.

He can’t even find any words to say, to overwhelmed by gratitude. He just buries his face deeper and presses a kiss into his brother’s matted hair.

It’s a moment that feels like it could last forever, at least until Jason crashes into the metal bars of the cell. “Reunions later. Get him out first!”

He immediately snaps up, suddenly at attention.

Jason’s right.

They need to get Tim out. This moment can wait.

There are assassins flooding into the prison, overwhelming Jason in waves.

An assassin worms his way through into the cell, but before Dick can pull out his eskrima sticks, Tim leaps forward and ducks underneath the man’s guard.

He grabs hold of the assassin by the hair and flips him onto the ground, slamming his dead into the pavement until he lies there, limp.

And Dick is left to the side, eskrima sticks hanging loosely at his sides. He did not expect that kind of speed.

“You - I thought you were injured.” He blinks dumbly.

“I am.” Tim answers like it's the simplest thing in the world. He grins with crooked teeth, and the sight is more akin to a rabid dog than a skilled assassin.

“I’m going to be injured too if you both don’t get off your asses and HELP ME!” Jason rams a man  with his shoulder and throws another to the ground before grabbing his guns and shooting two more.

Soldiers are still entering the room in a slow stream, the door acting as their only bottleneck. There’s no backup coming, Barbara confirms over his comm. Bruce is somewhere outside, coordinating their escape, and he’s been forced to leave the three of them to fend for themselves.

All they need to do is find a way to get out of the room.

But with two ex-Robins fighting alongside him, he’s not too worried.

They’ve faced worse odds than this.

He and Tim look at each other, matching grins split across their faces, and leap into the fray with a battle cry.

Later, when they’re back in the cave, he helps wrap a bandaid around Tim’s leg. There’s a new cut on his arm that’s bleeding sluggishly, but it’s small compared to the multitude of injuries covering his body.

Turns out his ribs were broken too, go figure.

Bruce was fretting over him like a mother bird. He triple checked the IV drip, stockpiled the medical tray with more bandages than they needed, and scrutinied Alfred’s needle work with sharp eyes until the man was forced to shoo him away.

Now, with most of his wounds wrapped, it’s just the three of them again.

Alfred left earlier with a simple, “I’m relieved you’re home, master Tim.” Before going upstairs to force Bruce into bed.

(Turns out staying awake 72 hours straight can have dire effects on your health)

So, it’s just the three of them now, wrapping the small cuts and lacerations that didn’t warrant their attention until now.

Tim’s been quiet for a while, hands fiddling with a bandaid aimlessly. He’s obviously grappling with some thoughts.

Dick ends up putting down his roll of gauze, nudging him affectionately with his shoulder. “You good there?”

Tim nods, putting down the bandaid.

After a moment of indecision, he looks up apologetically. “Sorry you have to see me like this. I know it looks bad,” He admits to them both. “You guys caught me right before my next round. He usually heals me up first before…” He grimaces. “Before the next fight.”

That’s a half truth. Dick can see the truth he’s trying to conceal from every injury, every infected wound and scar.

Translated simply using Dick’s bullshit detector, it means that Ra’s throws him into the pit before throwing him into another round of torture.

Most of his wounds are incidental. They’re placed in weird spots, places that make sense. A nick in the cleft of his ear, a sharp line down his leg.

But other wounds are far too precise to be picked up from your average battle.

Let’s take his hands, for instance. He has ten cuts on each finger.

It’s the kind of wound that’s painful, because your fingers contain all your nerve endings, and also inconvenient, making it harder to do everyday tasks, but it’s subtle. Most importantly, it’s non-lethal.

In short, it’s the kind of wound whose sole purpose is to hurt.

And although Tim won’t admit it, there’s a reason he hasn’t picked up anything since he’s been home. Even the slightest motion would be enough to send shockwaves of pain.

Jason peers into the wound from the corner of his eye, having come to the same conclusion.

He doesn’t address the apology in any way, and there isn’t a drop of pity in his eyes when he shifts his gaze to meet Tim’s eyes. He simply smiles and acknowledges that quiet strength. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Timmy?” He says, more gently than Dick thought possible.

Tim tries to keep a straight face, but he can see the slight wobble in his lips. The cork holding in his emotions starts to unfasten, and like a bottle of champagne, his emotions begin to bubble up to the surface.

A drop falls down, and then two, and suddenly he’s bawling, crying into both their laps.

Jason pulls him close, mumbling reassurances into his hair.

He takes a moment to look at them both. They’ve both grown up so fast, matured in ways that Dick couldn’t have anticipated. A few months ago, Jason wouldn’t call Tim anything but replacement, and Tim would’ve chosen to handle his emotions alone like some sort of mini, emotionally-constipated version of Bruce.

But here they are now, helping each other. Both his brothers are home, Cass and Steph are on their way to the manor, and the family is more whole than he’s ever seen it.

Dick is just about join them, moving to cradle both his brothers in his arms, but there’s a buzzing in his comm that he can’t ignore, and he knows what it means.

His time is up.

He takes a step back, pointing upstairs and gesturing at his headpiece. Jason takes it as a sign that he needs to take an important call, and then he’ll join them again later, so he nods, mouthing ‘Go, I’ve got this’.

And Dick just feels a rush of gratitude. A lingering weight lifts off his shoulders.

‘You’ve really stepped up, Jay.’ He thinks fondly.

And then reality strikes him, the buzzing in his ear more persistent, so with one last, lingering look, he turns around and walks away from the family he’d just rebuilt.

He accepts the call as he walks into his old room.

“You’re late.”

“I know, Slade.” He says into the comm.

There’s a duffle bag hidden underneath his bed. It’s only half packed, because he didn’t know what the outcome of the mission would be until today. He didn’t even know if he could trust the intel or if they’d walk into a trap.

When Deathstroke offered information about Tim’s whereabouts in exchange for his loyalty, he never expected to take the deal.

It was always too much of a gamble. Tim had been gone for so long. He didn’t know what kind of brother they’d get back. Or even worse, maybe there wouldn’t be anything left to find.

Besides, with the entire Justice League looking, he had faith that they’d be able to find him.

But the days went on and, all of a sudden, nine months were gone. At that point, he just couldn’t risk it anymore.

He pulls out the bag, opening it to find the uniform that Slade left for him that night.

Orange and black. He’s never hated those colours more.

He throws in the essentials: extra clothes, toiletries, his eskrima sticks.

There’s no need for any other weapons. There’ll be plenty of them where he’s going.

He zips up the bag and throws it over his shoulder.

The window swings open with a careful tug of his wrist and he takes one last, longing look at his room in the manor.

There’s a part of his that regrets doing this, that regrets taking the deal.

But then he thinks of Tim, of his bright eyes teeming with life, and thinks, “Yeah, it’s worth it.”

His family is whole again.

And even if he can’t be a part of it, he’s content to watch them from afar, safe and cared for.

It’ll have to be enough.

Because he loves them more than anything.

When he sees them three years later, his boot is crushing Tim’s throat. His brother’s hands grasp it desperately, trying to create a gap so that he has enough space to breathe.
The shoes he’s wearing are made of leather and lined with steel. All it takes is a simple push to crush his throat even further

His hand is raised, gun casually aimed at Jason’s head, but he’s sweating beneath the renegade mask, two sides of himself waring with each other.

“Kill them now.” Slade’s voice rings in his ear. “Pull the trigger, renegade.”

His arm shakes. They’re his brothers.

They’re interfering with the mission.

He turned into this to save them.

What is he even doing anymore?

“Pull the trigger.” Slade commands.

Bang.

Chapter Text

Option 1

“The plan.”

“…”

“The plan, O”

“…”

“You don’t have one, do you?”

“Hey! I do. Or - Err… I will. Just give me a sec okay!”

Tim groans, leaning against the sewer wall. They traveled thousand of miles, snuck through the disgusting sewers, and made it all the way to the base, only to come here without a plan.

“Remind me to never trust you again.” Tim deadpans. They left the bombs back in the jet, and it was hard enough to get inside undetected. He nearly short-circuited his wrist computer trying to bypass his own lockdown protocol, which is what sucks the most because he definitely should’ve built in some sort of backdoor for himself to access, but - oh well, that’s a note for next time.

The real problem is now.

Because they’re stuck miles underground without any semblance of a plan.

Tim wants to curse himself.

The lack of sleep must be getting to him, because to come here depending on a plan from Owens of all people, quite frankly, kinda stupid.

72 hours is usually his max without sleep so 96 hours is kinda pushing it - Even if he did manage to squeeze a 20 minute nap on the plane. Guess lack of sleep can impair your judgement after all.

“Okay, but you gotta admit, your plan sucked too.”

“Well, at least we had a plan.”

“And we would’ve been running out of here like headless chickens while you fight off sleep. Look,” He motions at his face. “Your eyes are drooping. You don’t even have the energy to be mad at me right now.”

Tim scowls. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“That face tells me otherwise,” He comes to a stop and forces them both to sit down. “We have time. You can rest.”
“Tell that to Z’s doctor.” He hums, but his eyes are already slipping shut.

Option 2

They don’t make it to the base.

Tim stumbles out of a jet in a half-drunk daze, head ringing from the sound of the explosion.

He blames Owens really, because if his friend didn’t confiscate his coffee, maybe he might’ve actually been awake instead of knocked out.

But he’s running on two hours of sleep, and although it’s usually enough to get him through a mission, it’s still not enough to negate four days of near constant research, and without his coffee, he’s nearly dead on his feet.

So maybe running headfirst into their first lead wasn’t the best idea, but to be fair, he’s still shaking off the remnants of the nightmare and the looming threat of Z’s death. They’re on a very strict time limit here.

And it’s made worse by their little… Detour.

By his calculations, they’re in the outskirts of Sudan, about 800 kilometres away from their intended destination, which is just great.

Because Tim had tracked five traitors to that base, and given the quickness of the explosion, it means that those clues we’re planted to make him think that he caught them unawares.

How did they manage to track their location? They left right away, on a whim. It’s not like anyone knew where they were going.

And yet, he’s one step behind again. It’s like everything has been falling to pieces since Z was shot, and he can’t stop it from crumbling.

He has Owens to thank for their survival. While Tim was knocked out from the impact alone (Really, how weak can he be?), Owens took the ambush like a champ, flying them away on one broken engine and making an emergency landing in the middle of a dense jungle. It also just so happened to house one of their bases.

It’s small, more of a safe house than anything, and yet it has everything they need to regroup: clean clothes, medical supplies, and even a few beds.

Tim remembers reading about this outpost in one of his daily reports. It’s an intermediary between the two main bases, and because the borders were known to be higher in both police and gang activity, they designed an outpost intended for everything between smuggled goods and gang negotiations.

They probably didn’t account for an emergency landing platform, as evidenced by the trees they squished along the way, which means that they can’t stay here for long. Their enemies will surely find them, especially if they were using the same league commissioned supersonic jets as them.

O pulls his guns out the wreckage. One of the handles is dented and they’re covered in scratch marks. The league logo along the side looks more like bear than a bull, and he tries to dust off the bits of metal before giving up completely. “Damn, I just polished these.” He looks absolutely heartbroken too, and Tim makes a note to buy him another set of guns when this is all over.

He can hear the sound of approaching jet with his enhanced hearing

“C’mon.” He takes his friend by the arm. His eyes flick around the dense jungle. You never know who could be hiding behind one of the trees.

This jungle may be hiding them, but it’s also hiding any potential enemies.

They run the next two miles north until they reach the base of a sprawling tree. It doesn’t stick out too much given the diverse foliage around them, but he knows that this is its based on the patterns of the bark.

It matches the pattern on his reports exactly.

With Z guarding his back, he enters in the secret code. The keypad at the base of the tree opens, and all he has to do is take a retina scan before a passageway is opening for them.

He walks in with Z, watching carefully to make sure the door closes after them, and starts to make his way through the dark corridor.

It’s quiet, a dramatic change from the buzz of the jungle above them, and he finds himself relaxing slightly.

Option 3

They leave the room quietly, empty platters in their hands.

It’s not the time to laugh or cry, not when they’re so deep into enemy territory, but part of him wants to do both as they navigate the narrow passages of the servants’ corridor.

Then, once the pitter patter of footsteps have faded, Owens looks at him with a cheeky grin. “Told ya it would work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim rolls his eyes as he knocks their shoulders together. “Go ahead and gloat.” His tone sounds sarcastic but he finally lets out a small laugh as they find themselves in a relatively safe spot.

They decided to go with the subtle route. Owens, his brilliant, ingenious friend, had planted trackers, not around the halls or with people, places where they could easily be found, but mixed into their food.

It was shockingly easy, modifying a tracker so that they were ingestible, and all they had to do was add in new trackers every 24 hours.

Then, after carefully observing the soldiers’ movements, they were able to track their whereabouts, log every gathering in an unauthorised location and the list of people that tend to interact.

And this marks part two of them messing with their follower’s food. Someone really should get that vulnerability fixed.

Well… Maybe after they made full use of it.

The best part is, they didn’t even need to torture anyone this time round.

No one knows that they’re here, which means there’s no chance for the traitors to escape.

In short, it’s fucking brilliant.

Dressed as servants, they round the corner, entering the communal room.

Sharp sounds surround them, servants bustling about. It’s the start of a dinner service. Except, this is the first time they won’t be staying, because they nearly have a complete, irrefutable list of traitors in their pocket.

And this time, it’ll contain every damn name they missed.

Owens should’ve suggested this weeks ago.

They share another cheeky grin as a passing servant rushes past them with a tray.

Tim ducks but not before some stray garnish slaps him in the face. O barks out a laugh at the flabbergasted expression on his face.

He can’t even bring himself to be mad, still riding high on their victory. The plan is ingenious. And it’s something they can do with all the other bases.

By targeting bases that they already visited, no one will suspect that they did it.

Master will be pleased, and Z… Z is still alive, thankfully, even though just barely.

That doesn’t matter though. With the pit, he’ll be good as new.

Tim hides a smile as they duck past the exit and into the second corridor. The sound dissipates as they move father and father from the kitchen.

Slowly, they move towards the back exit, taking longer detours and walking through half forgotten corridors. Midway, they shed their servants uniforms with guard regalia. It’s convincing enough that no one would question their presence. Not that it would matter anyway.

There aren't a lot of people around here. Those that are look half bored, sniffling yawns behind their masks as they wait for the next shift in their rotation, perhaps moving them to more lively areas.

He falls into step with O, watching as a guard ducks around him. The man barely looks at him, and yet he shifts around them with such practiced ease.

It’s… unusual to say the least.

There’s something wrong here.

He peers at the nondescript faces at the end of the hall. Guards are trained to be quiet, but these ones stand as still as statues, unmoving, like they’re not even real.

Tim casts his eyes around the room, at those looking down meekly as they shuffle past. It looks almost normal. They try to look as small as possible despite their rush to complete their multitude of tasks. Except… The man standing by the door flickers.

Option 4

Lines of code are running the holographic monitor. He types in another command as his last program finally finishes erasing the footage of O’s deep dive into the base’s sewers. The next command turns on the newly installed kill switch.

He’ll confront her in less than 12 hours. If he doesn’t like Talia’s answer, it would only take one button for his room to fill with toxic gas.

No more deals. No second chances.

With their level of access, they could have gotten into Nanda Parbat easily, but if Talia finds out they’re there, she’ll quickly take Damian and escape.

That leaves them with a particularly nasty excursion through the sewers. For one of them, at least.

Owens pulls himself out of the grate, dripping water.

“You owe me big time for this,” His face is streaked with brown sludge, dripping down in great chunks. There’s a stray leaf in his hair that glistens as he places his scuba helmet in a black garbage bag, ready to be incinerated shortly. “Here,” He tosses the crumpled plastic ziplock at him. The crumpled pieces of paper roll over each other as it soaks through the air.

Tim catches it with one hand, barely looking up despite the trail of brown sludge running down his arm.

At his lack of reaction, Owens stops midway. The half of his swimsuit that he’s already pulled down flops against his legs as he gestures at himself. “Gee, thank you Owens. You’re the best. I don’t deserve a friend like you, my lord and saviour.” He mimics Tim’s voice in a shrill tone.

“Thanks O.” Tim says distractedly, still focused on the screen.

Lines of code are running the holographic monitor. He types in another command as his last program finally finishes erasing the footage of O’s deep dive into the base’s sewers.

The next line of code turns on the newly installed kill switch.

Alternative scene for option 4

That leaves them with a particularly nasty excursion through the sewers. For one of them, at least.

Owens is still staring at him with a particularly nasty look.

Tim rolls his eyes as he types the last line of code and shuts off the holographic watch. He pulls the pages out and smoothes them one by one. “You did draw the short straw.” He mutters absently.

“Bet you cheated…” He hears his friend mumble.

Tim smiles under his mask because he did, in fact, cheat

(Not that he’d ever admit it.)

“What did you find?” He shifts to a serious tone, leafing through the papers.

“Call logs, a number making external calls. Nothing sent through text. She’s definitely hiding something.”

“That’s good detective work.” Tim mumbles.

Chapter Text

Dick wraps a new layer of gauze across his head wound. Although the swelling has gone down, he’s still benched from patrol.

At least his head stopped feeling like it’s gone through a blender.

Cautiously, he takes a peek at Bruce. To say he was angry is a understatement. He was fuming when he woke up, at least until Leslie took him by the ear and yelled at him to calm down before he ripped another stitch.

That woman was scarier than some of their villains. They’re lucky that she’s here to reel him in before he can dive back out.

The film of anger is still there, but it’s not as close to the surface, simply simmering as he creates plan after plan.

“I can feel you staring at me,” He mutters as he continues typing. His back is turned, but they’ve worked together for years. They have an acute awareness of each other’s thoughts and whereabouts.

Dick sighs,“I’m worried about you, B. You’re still injured.”

“So are you.”

He snorts. And he’s the one people call childish. “I think we both know that it’s not the same,” He walks over to peer at the screen. “Why did you cross out plan, twenty-two delta?”

“Wouldn’t work,” he mutters. His brow is furrowed, deep in thought. “The league has new motion detectors and thermal sensors. I assume they’d be lined along the south wall too?”

“And we won’t be able to hack it?”

He grimaces. “Tim coded a firewall to protect it. I’ve tried, Oracle has too. It’s nearly impenetrable.”

“He’s always been a step ahead of us. Explains how they knew we were there,” He sighs. “I could give it a crack?”

“Don’t bother. I’m sending the codebase we copied over to Ted Kord.” He rubs his eyes tiredly. The last few hours of sleep had helped immensely, but now that he’s awake, it’s been nearly impossible to convince him to rest.

He opens his mouth to reply, but it’s interrupted by the sudden blare of alarms.

“Someone’s in our system,” Barbara’s voice rings out above the din of noise. She typing furiously, hard enough that the sound is detectable over the coms. “I don’t understand. My firewalls should’ve prevented that.”

“Whoa, hold up. Someone hacked us?” He walks over quickly, pulling up his wrist gauntlet and linking it with main computer. “Shit Babs. This is bad. They’ve been crawling along our system for hours.”

She hums in agreement. “I only picked this up cause that new scraper we’re building managed to pick up the barest hint of an anomaly. They completely bypassed the rest of our firewalls,” The alarm in her voice picks up with every word. “Whoever did this is a pro. This isn’t good, Dick.”

“What have they accessed?” Bruce is tuned over a laptop, eyes following along the line of code as Barbara reads out her report.

“They’ve accessed 67% of our database. I can’t get their bots out of the server. The entire thing is compromised.”

A low whine sounds on the other end and she gets the impression that he found the same data that led her to that number.

“We can try to salvage what we can but this hacker has got their foot in every door. I have no way of knowing what’s been tampered with.” She shot off rapidly. With each click, the situation is becoming more dire.”At this point, the smartest choice is to abandon the server. There’s a bigger risk that we might carry over a Trojan if we try to transfer over the remaining files.”

“This server has all of our information!” Dick interjected. “Not to mention its ties to the Titan’s and Justice League’s database.”

“Sever the connections.”

“B… Are you sure? There’s no coming back from that.” Barbara asks softly.

“Do it.”

Dick looked at the monitor in disbelief before leaning over and getting to work. As much as they hate it, he was right. They needed to cut out the rot at it’s source. When a server is compromised, the best thing to do was abandon it.

Right now, their biggest concern is confining the damage to one server.

If the bots found the backdoor to the JA servers, and by extension, to each member’s home computers, their secret identities would be compromised. He hopes it doesn’t get to that.

“We need more manpower.” Barbara says grimly.

“I’ve got a hold of Vic and Ted.” Dick nods. The crown off his head was creased in worry. “I’ll see who else I can round up. How are you holding up, Babs?”

“Not good. I’m notified the watchtower about the cyber attack. They’re fortifying their firewalls as we speak. I have no idea how they were able breach our server this quickly. Even our monitoring bots are down.”

He hums in acknowledgement. “Bruce?”

He hears silence on the other end. It tells him all that he needs to know.

“I found out how they jumped onto our server.” Barbara chimes in. “There’s an old backdoor that was decommissioned years ago. We never severed the connection because it was connected to a depreciated training system.”

Dick noted the thin line of her mouth, something hesitant in the set of her shoulders. “What else did you find?” He asked, a curl of dread settling in his stomach.

“It was one of Tim’s.” She said, eyebrows curved in confusion.

Complete silence fills the room. Even the sound of rapid typing has paused.

By the time they manage to pick up the pieces from the hack, a week has passed.

Jason shakes his head to clear it. They’re under a time crunch, the server still has multiple holes, cases are piling up without the infrastructure to support it. They’ve been at this for eight hours now and the codes were starting to blur together. Every part of his body was itching to move.

Bruce is dividing his time between the server patch and sleep. He’s been moved to his room now, because after that one time he spent 38 hours without sleep, Leslie didn’t trust him to overwork anymore. Now, he was stuck with a laptop, once that she could threaten to take away if he didn’t get his mandatory 8 hours of sleep.

All the bats had IT training, and while some excelled more than others, the situation was bad enough that even Jason and Cass were lending a hand.

When they get him back, he’s gonna take that little punk and dump the biggest case pile in front of him.

(But knowing Tim, he’d probably dive into it headfirst.)

Suddenly, the alarms start blaring again. It’s the one reserved for urgent, world ending situations. It’s rung twice, a week apart. What were the odds?

This alarm has seen the light more times this month than in the last seven years combined.

“Suit up, now.” Barbara’s voice calls out tiredly over the comms.

He jumps up, grateful to be out of that creaky chair.

“Babs, what happened?” Dick asks, running over to the monitors and switching the screen over to the broadcast that Barbara sent through.

’67 people dead and 500 wounded, attacked by the Justice League’, The news streams from every TV station.

He can hear her tapping furiously over the comm. “We don’t know. The watchtower started attacking Earth. Someone activated it’s defence system and set targets on multiple major cities.”

She brings up several more monitors.

Metropolis.

Star City.

Gotham.

And so much more.

There’s a countdown under each city.

“Babs is that?”

“That’s how much time we have left before those cities are attacked,” He can’t see her face but he can tell that it’s grim. “We have Superman covering metropolis. Captain Marvel’s helping out Green Arrow, but everyone else is tied up. We’re on our own here.”

He looks at the countdown for Gotham. Forty-two minutes. There are eight rockets heading towards them and only five Batfamily members fit for active duty.

“We won’t get all of them, will we?” He realises grimly.

“No, we won’t,” Her voice is shaky. “Suit up, Dick.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

Chapter Text

They’re gathered silently around the table.

No one is speaking, the atmosphere almost suffocating.

Nightwing leans against a shrouded in the corner, uncharacteristically silent. It was a risk, coming here, but with what just transpired and with Batman out of commission, he didn’t have much of a choice.

Superman gives him a look, raising an eyebrow in question. “Are you okay?’ He silently asks

Dick just sinks deeper into the shadows. It gives him the illusion of control, but more importantly, covers the medical tape that’s still hiding within the folds of his hair.

The attack reopened old injuries and created new ones. He has ten stitches running up his left leg, a result of falling debris. His shoulder was also mangled. A young teenager had been thrown off a tall building. Dick managed to catch him, but the impact had wrenched his shoulder back out off his socket. Jason had given him an earful for that stunt. He has his arm out of his sling for appearances sake, but a trained eye would be more than able to spot its stiffness.

Metropolis was largely spared, Keystone too. While they were targeted with more rockets, their heroes had superspeed. It was enough for them to save their own people, but not anyone else’s.

Oliver has his head in his hands. Star city had twenty eight casualties, three of them children.

It was times like these that the disparity between their abilities became more prominent.

Gotham was the hardest hit. One hundred and seventy-nine casualties. thirty-eight of them women, forty-seven of them men. Ninety-four were children.

A ninth rocket, unaccounted for, had hit a pre-school. Barbara still blames herself. She had cried in his arms for hours before he had been forced to leave.

Diana knocks her fist on the table. A dull thud echos, bringing everyone’s attention to her. “I understand that we’re all still grieving, but unfortunately this cannot wait,” A hologram springs up from the centre of the table, displaying ongoing protests in front of local government centres. “The attacks that came from the watchtower are still being blamed on us.”

“It was our fault, Diana. They’re not wrong.” Captain Marvel looks haunted. His town had few casualties, mostly caused by stray debris, but it was enough to strip away the sheen of childish innocence that once coated his eyes.

“Our diplomats has been using all our political power but the might of Themyscira alone is not enough.” She looks at Aquaman pointedly.

“I already told you Diana, we do not get involved in surface world politics.”

“Arthur, you’re a member of the Justice League. This will affect you too.”

“Yes, it will,” He says grimly. “It will affect me, but not my people. I have to protect them too. If we side with Themyscira, if we take responsibility for these attacks and even a few states retaliate, then all our progress regarding proper disposal of waste into our waterways will be for naught.”

“Themyscira shouldn’t be the only one to make sacrifices."

“You’re both right,” Hall speaks up, voice bitter and cold. “Atlantis shouldn’t have to make up for our mistakes, and Themyscira shouldn’t have to tarnish their good name to defend us. The Bats should take responsibility” He looks at Nightwing bitterly. “After all, this is Red Robin’s doing.”

Dick lets out a slow breath. It was Tim’s hack, that much was obvious. With everyone still picking up the pieces from the cyber attack, it was no surprise that he had left himself a backdoor, a way to access their system. He just can’t believe they missed it.

He looks up to see everyone staring at him, the most powerful people in the world were sitting there silently, waiting for his response.

“He was in the Lazarus Pit, you all know that. He’s not himself. But we’ll get him to come back to us, the same way Hood did.”

“The Red Hood’s attacks were centralised in Gotham. And he targeted criminals. We lost people, innocent civilians in all major cities. The death toll is in the hundreds. This isn’t the same.” Oliver interrupts him, seething with fury.

His mouth falls into a thin line. “This is not a discussion. We’re not looking for suggestions. I’m telling you what we’ve already decided. If you don’t agree, that’s fine. We won’t ask for help. We’ll find a way to talk to the public without involving the league’s name. But Red Robin? He’s ours. And we’re taking him back. That’s non-negotiable.”

He stares them down.

Eventually, Superman breaks the silence.

“We know you care about him,” He says hesitantly, and the warmth in his eyes is genuine.  “We all do,” And suddenly his gaze turns to steel. “But your judgement tends to get clouded when it comes to family. We can’t afford that right now.”

“He’s a bat. This isn’t your choice to make.” He interrupts sharply.

“He used our own defence system against the very people that he swore to protect. I think we can all agree that this is a league matter.” Oliver says bitterly. “We can’t treat him like one of us anymore. You have to face facts. The teammate you knew? He died months ago. You buried him This thing that came back? It’s easier to pretend that it’s someone else.”

Diana nods in agreement. “Warriors have one death, and it is a honourable one. Your brother was wretched from the Afterlife. But, his soul remains. That is something that they cannot take.” She steadfast and sure of her words. The hard lines of her shoulders remind him that she came from a long line of warriors. And she’s buried more than her fare share of comrades.

He keeps his face carefully neutral.

But internally?

He wishes that Bruce was here. It’s to bad that it’s only been two days and Leslie gave him enough drugs to knock him out for three.

He’s not even a member of the league. His words don’t carry the same weight and credibility that Batman’s do. Batman could face the whole room and command them to trust him. And he’s just -

“We should consider putting him on the league’s priority list of villains, and sending a warning to all non-league heroes.”

The faces around the table are all nodding in agreement.

’A screwup. Bruce is gonna wake up to a shitshow,’ He thinks.

“We need to consider extreme measures -“

Suddenly, he’s in front of Hal, close enough that any constructs he could generate won’t save him from the escrima stick poised above his head. It’s glowing with sparks, enough for the rest to figure that it wasn’t set to a simple stun.

“Nightwing,” Superman says cautiously. “Put down your weapon.”

He blinks, slowly lowering his weapon. It had been instinct.

If they didn’t believe it before, this moment solidifies Clark’s earlier statement. He’d do anything for family.

Anger steams from him as he takes in the various weapons aimed at him.

His eyes narrow.

Against his instincts, he sheaths his escrima sticks and calmly turns to them, expression serious. “I mean it,” He threatens. “Red is one of ours. No one hurts him.”

“Nightwing, please think rationally.”

“I’m always rational. I know how to control my emotions. I’ve been in this game longer than most of you.” He reminds them.

The newer members shift uneasily. It was easy to forget that when they were all so much older than him. With a few simple words, he put them in their place and reminded them that he was capable, even without Batman.

The decision rolls around his head as the room’s silence stretches on, As much as he wants to, he can’t force them to stop. So, the next best option is compromise. “The global summit where the league will make their statement; that’s in five days. I’ll resolve this in four.”

Everyone looks at him disbelievingly.

“Four days,” He repeats. “That’s all I’m asking for to make this right.” They still look unsure but some begin to nod slowly. At this point, they’ve learnt not to question the bats.

They need more time than that - way more. But considering the ongoing protests, and the pressure the JL was under to make a statement, four days would have to be enough to initiate their half baked plan. They’ve worked with less.

As the room seems to come to a mutual decision, Superman clears his throat uncomfortably. “Nightwing, are you sure that you can do this?”

He’s asking whether he can get his murderous and likely mentally unstable brother to come home, in which case, yes, he thinks he can.

They can definitely get Tim back.

Willingly and sane? That’s another story. He anticipates that the road to recovery will be a long one. But they’ll be there for him every step of the way.

“I am.” He nods confidently.