#sets place after the dumpster fire that is the red robin run

[silent-wolf]

xo, kitty au except it's tim drake and his 10 million situationships from brentwood, louis e grieve memorial hs, and gotham heights

[iphoenixrising]

Merry Christmas, Timmy

hi babes. For those of you that don’t celebrate, I still hope you are wonderful wherever you are. Kiddo was with her dad last night, so I was all by myself, got a little sad, and thought of this little thing for the holidays. I’ve done angsty ones before (like this one), but I won’t break your heart with it <3

**

And the softly falling snow flutters around Gotham, painting the city in a semblance of joy. Christmas lights on buildings and store fronts, a decorated tree in Robinson Square, all signals the city is feeling the good cheer.

Christmas Eve and all is calm. 

Except for the vigilante standing at the top of the Wallstone Apartments, grapple in one hand, planning his next jump while the snow piles on his shoulders, and the glinting lights sparkle off his harness in the night.

The muted comm in his ear is silent, no witty banter back-and-forth or calm, cool orders, no sounds of flying over the skyline or fights breaking out against the criminals. It’s as quiet as the city itself. 

He hadn’t expected any different, knowing the patrol roster would be empty. The Bats would be at the Manor for hours already, eating and celebrating the holiday, taking a well-deserved night off unless something awful happened, and major crime took them away from the warmth and laughter.

And even if he isn’t part of it all anymore, not since he’d brought back the OG Batman from time, even if he didn’t wear the R in front of his heart like a brand, even if he’d been gone long enough to get the point, that maybe he’d only been the stand-in all along, Red Robin is still determined to keep moving and make damn sure there would be no reason to disturb their family gathering tonight.

The pain in his chest at being the last one left standing had waned in the last year, enough that he could be in the city without it being such fucking agony. It’s easier to stand at his old haunt with nostalgia dogging his steps, looking out for the same hidden niches and fire escapes sturdy enough to hold his weight. It’s easier to stay out of the way when he’s back, to run Wayne Enterprises without getting in Bruce’s sight, to patrol the outskirts and gaps away from the family, to keep his comm on mute, to keep his penthouse Perch his main haven instead of coming back to the Cave or the Manor or the Bunker and pushing himself into their lives where he probably never should have been in the first place. 

It’s easier...for everyone.

It’s easier not to make waves but to just bow out gracefully and work on the backend instead. So, yesterday, he’d bid his teammates at Titan’s Tower good-bye as they all left to go to their families for Christmas, and he boarded a plane back to Gotham with every intention of keeping the city safe while the protectors got their time to celebrate.

And the crisp, cold air is hard on his lungs after thwarting the first of three escape attempts from Arkham, bruised to the bone from some pretty good fights along the way. A few hours before dawn and he could go back to his Perch, check his injuries from the last tussle with his team to make sure he isn’t approaching an infection, and pass out for the first time in over sixty hours.

Renee Montoya, as it happens, is also on patrol, and flags him down with a full cup of coffee, grinning at his whiteouts, pulling the collar of her jacket up while they talk about the few B&Es he’d already hit. 

A swing to the soup kitchen and further to the homeless shelter. Skimming along the roof of the crooked pawn shop in the Narrows and down to the usual hangout for a few of the lesser gangs, flaring the cape out to be obvious, sending the message someone is out tonight, and a beating might not be the best present for the morning. 

An alarm raised at Blackgate, and he’s riding the Ducati at breakneck speed, jaw tight against the bitter cold, ignoring the numbing in his legs and fingers. 

It’s no shock someone as smart as Falcone would have his minions try to bust him out when the guard duty is light for the holidays. 

He shoves one out of the way of a hail of bullets, his armor taking most of the damage, and his thigh taking another in a bout of stupidly bad luck. He brings them down fast enough to keep the fighting to a minimum and as many guards safe as possible. 

He stays long enough to zip tie the cranky ones, waits for the red and blue lights, the scream of sirens signalling back-up is on the way.

The ride back to town is hazy because he didn’t get the tourniquet on fast enough and blood paints a nasty wreath-like shape in the snow.

The Ducati coasts to a shadowy alleyway a few block from his Perch, and he falls off, drags himself behind a dumpster for a breather. Midnight chimes across the city, a Merry Christmas to go with his blood loss.

And when he’s finally caught his breath enough to stand with the whitehot pain in the meat of his thigh starting to be a problem, his ear cracks to life, hazy in his brainpan.

“Can’t trace him. He doesn’t have trackers in his suit.” “What the fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout, O?” “We will absolutely address that later, Hood. For now, we have priorities.”

He laughs off his insane imagination and manages to get to his feet. He hobbles to the Ducati, pushes it behind the dumpster, out of sight, and makes a note to get it in the morning.

The grapple is slippery in his hand, and he fumbles a little on the way up, not realizing it’s because his glove is bloody and not conducive to any kind of a good grip. No running this time, just hobbling his way two rooftops over and he’s home free.

Wavery, he doesn’t fall when Nightwing and the Red Hood land it on either side of him, but damn if it isn’t a close thing.

“Finally!” “Fer fuck’s sake, Red. Ya couldn’ta bother callin’ er some shit?”

Which throws him for an important second because what the hell are they even doing out?

The step away is automatic, stepping back from the vigilantes that, in their own ways, tried to kill him. Jason, at least, didn’t try to hide the intent.

Slowly, N raises a hand, “easy, Red. It’s okay now, we’re–” “Go home,” is all he can think to say. “Go back to your family. I’ve already taken care of the city tonight.” And turns his back on them both with copper in his mouth and the pain in his chest more acute than the one throbbing in his leg.

But the tall, imposing shadow right behind him manages to stop his thought processes because of all things, he sure as hell didn’t expect this.

“The guard at Blackgate reported you could have been hit,” Robin takes a step away from Batman’s side, a hand flying out to sweep the cape back, the reinforced tights stained even in the dim. “It seems he was correct.”

Penned in on all sides, B and Robin, N and Hood, all of them closing in on him.

“Is the bullet still in?” Hand on his shoulder and fuck is it familiar. “Why the hell didn’t cha call fer back-up?!” “We need to get him home. Now.” “Do not strain it, Drake. It may have hit an artery.”

Pulling out of Batman’s hold is not something he can remember doing before tonight, and it’s easier said than done. The hand tightens down for a second before Red makes another try, lunging back to keep them all in his sight.

The vigilantes around him go quiet, all those whiteouts fixed.

“Go home. I came out tonight so the Bats could enjoy Christmas. Arkham’s been secured and so has Blackgate.” He grips his thigh, tightens his hand so the pain helps clear his head a little.

Hood holds up both hand, palms out in the I come in peace that really has no place between them. 

(Really, what’s a slit throat and bat-a-rang in the chest between enemies?)

And Nightwing still has a hand out toward him, takes a careful, easy step. But the Batman? He gives absolute no fucks about what his middle son is spewing, just strides up, moves fast and furious enough to have Red Robin up in his arms, tight against the yellow insignia on his chest, turns in a flare of cape, and dives off the roof.

“What the fuck–?!”

The Batmobile slides open silently, and B falls right in the driver’s seat without a ruffle, slams the button to start the massive engine, an arm around Red’s to keep the younger vigilante against his chest, in his lap, held securely. Robin lifts the legs off his seat and joins them.

The Dynamic Duo ignore the pointed, “wait!” as the hatch slides back in place and the car takes off down the silent, snowy street.

Robin reaches to adjust the tourniquet, a quiet, “hold your breath, this shall not be...pleasant.”

B’s hand moves to grip his shoulder while the other pilots the big car, pulling Red Robin deeper into his body, trying to shield him in some crazy way that seems too much, too fucking much, to be real.

The adjustment takes him by surprise, the abruptness of it, of them, of this, taking him completely–

out.

Which is how the Batman leaps out of the Batmobile, with Tim limp and loose in his arms, Damian following on his heels with quicker steps.

“My word,” Alfred turns away from setting up coffee, a hopeful gesture for Master Tim’s sake. 

“That’s not what I hoped for,” Stephanie is out of the computer chair in a heartbeat, her ugly Christmas sweater still lighting up since Dick and Jay said there wouldn’t be a need for anyone else to suit up tonight. She and Cass elected to stay behind and keep Alfred company while they boys went to collect their wayward Robin. 

Cass moves silently past, already throwing the screen back to the medical bay, her eyes narrowed on the swaying arm and tights darkened with blood.

The echo of Ducatis hits as Alfred scrubs his hands, gloves up, and Steph helps Bruce maneuver around the traps in Tim’s suit. 

It’s all hands on deck with Cass and Dami helping to ready supplies, stripping off pieces of the suit when they can. 

Dick tosses his gloves and gauntlets the minute they throw themselves off the bikes, Jay dropping the helmet at his workstation on the way. 

By the computer, Barbara keeps searching, her likewise ugly Christmas sweater a tacky Riddler dancing with the tastefully done rhyme: Jingle Bells, Batman smells! Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile lost it’s wheel is absolutely perfect for the night.  

Until she digs around to see what Red Robin has been in to since his plane hit Gotham, then goes a little further to see what’s been on the Titan’s roster the last few weeks.

The report is grim, and she gives it with a hard tone as Duke comes into the medical bay with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, frowning over bullet fragments pinging in a metal tray.

“By his damn self?” Because Jay feels it bares repeating. “By himself,” Barbara confirms, wheeling cautiously around to reach through the bodies and squeeze the unmoving hand. 

The bruises and contusions make the point, drive home some very hard to believe things as the Bats take him in to the skin. The new scars aren’t in his medical report, and B shoves back the cowl, eyes moving to memorize each one, already planning how he’s going to ease Tim in to talking about them all.

Dick runs a bare hand through Tim’s hair while Jay puts in an IV, Damian grips a bare ankle, his expression grim. Cass winds an arm around Steph’s waist to ground her, watches her best friend blink back tears and hold a hand to her mouth in disbelief. Duke stands with arms folded over his chest, looks for any indication he can jump in and help.

In a few hours, everyone is in pajamas, in various stages of passed out around the couch when Tim comes to slowly, strangely warm for being out in the middle of Gotham on Christmas Eve.

(What the fuck?)

He catches his breath when the ceiling above is one he recognizes all too painfully. He doesn’t even get the chance to move to sit up, to try maneuvering around all the bodies splayed in his favorite sitting room in Wayne Manor because Bruce is someone with an instinct that flares when one of his Robins is obviously in need. 

He’s awake, completely alert before Tim’s hand moves the blanket off enough to try getting free over the back of the couch and out.

“Thank God,” and Bruce’s expression is so awfully, terribly relieved, Tim has to look away or be reduced to that teenage kid, shoving himself in their lives trying to save this man from himself. 

And since, well Batman, Bruce is up on the couch just that fast, holding Tim in his lap, against his chest, rocking him gently back and forth, arms tight. 

“I’ve been so worried about you,” breathed against his too long hair, “when you wouldn’t come home, wouldn’t come back. I thought...it doesn’t matter what I thought, but you’re home and we’re going to take care of you.”

“N-no, I can’t...I shouldn’t be here. I– you should have let me go, I don’t...I’m not–” but his voice wavers when those arms lock down, keep him from wiggling away.

“Yes, yes, you should be here. Right here with us where you belong. No more running, Tim. I’m not letting you go back to Titan’s Tower until you tell me everything. We’re going to solve cases and update your files and talk about what a pain in your ass the team is. We’re going to go to WE together next time and text each other in board meetings to keep from falling asleep. You’re going to patrol with me and Dick and Damian until you remember this is your home too.”

And Bruce only lets up enough to pull the blanket up to Tim’s shoulders, rocks them both gently while his other children sleep on.

“Bruce,” is watery and lost, is so many things that make his heart ache painfully. 

“I know, well, at least some of it,” he huffs against the top of his son’s messy bedhead, “but this? You coming back? This is my Christmas Miracle, Tim.” 

A big hand loosens enough to rub soothing circles on his back, feeling the tremble that go through Tim’s body that has nothing to do with the hole in his leg. But it’s fine because he’ll sit here all day and into the night, just like this if he needs to, will keep his middle son in place if it keeps Tim from running back to the Titans, to give him the evidence he needs to see. 

(How much they need him.)

He holds on and soothes while the tree in front of him blinks brightly and the presents below wait for the excitement of his sleeping kids to wake up and rip them open. And strewn around the base, packages and packages marked Tim and Timmy and Drake and Pain in the ass and Boy Wonder and Master Tim all from the last two years without their third Robin are waiting to be piled up in his lap and spill out on the couch beside him. Are waiting for him as patiently as all the sleeping bodies have been. Waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to finally, finally come back.

By the time Alfred comes in with a tray of coffee, hoping to see their missing member awake without trying to leave, Tim is laying exhausted against Bruce’s chest, the two talking softly.

“I just...I–” “I know, kiddo, I’m sorry you ever thought that.” “B...” “It’s okay. We’ll work it out, we’ll work together to make it better for you. Don’t give up on me, Tim.” “Like that’s ever going to happen? The rest of the world thought you were dead, you know.”

Seeing the look on Master Tim’s face when he takes the first sip of coffee is intensely gratifying, watching him devour the omelette (tomatoes and spinach, still his favorite of course) before Alfred’s other charges are awake sets a bit of starch in his spine because the young man is woefully under weight. Another omelette is certainly in order.

Dick barely blinks his eyes open before he’s latching on to his little brother with his own octopus hold engaged, and refuses to relinquish the bird while the others start waking up to gather around him. 

Tears are shed and the hugs are so tight, laughter following on the edges. Gifts are piled and the attention is set on him as he slowly opens them, blinking back so his eyes don’t spill over.

And he gets to have this warmth in the niche of Dick’s lap with hands desperately holding on, grounding him here in the Manor instead of in the silent Tower or his empty Perch. 

He gets Dami gingerly handing him a wrapped package that’s a book of sketches, him in his red and black, him with a grin and domino, him with an arm around Kon and Bart, him and Dick on patrol, him and B walking to the open Batmobile, ready to take on the night. He gets a serious lecture on the statistics of sepsis and a finger wagging in his face that Dami will not tolerate his family being in such danger, Drake, and yes, that includes you.

He gets Steph holding his hand too tight, her eyes watery and lower lip trembling with whatever she’d seen while he was riding the unconscious train, and Cass rubbing his scalp with her free hand and smiling that same gentle smile from that time she came for him in the fight against Ra’s crazy ass sister.

He gets Jason Todd putting a fresh cup of coffee in his hand and a soft half-smile that seems to tell a story he’d never thought he’d live long enough to hear, and Babs treating him the same as always, going on about the new Ransomware she’d planted in Lonnie’s systems just for a hoot.

He gets to low-five Duke when the guy helps get some of the intense attention away, steering most of them back to the tree to help hand out gifts and get spots cleared so Alfred can bring in food with Jay helping so the butler can catch a seat and accept brightly wrapped packages. 

And the day moves into afternoon, terrible Hallmark Christmas movies turn into awful 80′s action movies with Christmas themes (Jason making fun of Lethal Weapon is literally the best thing he’s ever seen), and it’s strange to see someone waiting for him in the hall anytime he’s had to use the bathroom, or hobbles upstairs to change clothes.

(He never suspected he’d still have a room, a place, a workstation, a set of clothes that fit. Never suspected any of this to be waiting, thought these days were long gone and acceptance was the road better taken.)

A chorus of hell no’s! and Dick literally wrapping him up in a stifling hold keeps him in for the night when he follows in the back of the group down to the Cave and picks up his suit, assesses the damage briefly but starts to wrap his wrists anyhow.

Jason is the one to take the tape out of his hand around Dick’s crushing denial, and another finger wagging in his face with some nu-uh Timmers. That shit ain’t gonna happen, feel me? on the side.

Alfred caps it all off, mildly remarking how Master Tim would absolutely be able to work comms in their absence since someone of the household would need to clean-up the mess upstairs since he apparently isn’t getting any younger.

So he finds himself plunked down in the chair by the big computer, O grinning next to him on her laptop, warming up her system to plug into the criminal side of Gotham and get their night started right.

And this chain of events might not be what he imaged a few hours, a few days, a few weeks ago when memories of the Manor hit him in his roughest moments, gave him a bit of strength to keep moving, but it may just be the evidence he needs to also believe in Christmas miracles.

[rayewriting]

Being Enough

Fandom: Batman

Note: This fic is ignoring the crappy “Ric Grayson” plot line and Damian’s Teen Titans disaster. I did not like those ridiculous character developments at all so I’m blatantly throwing those out the window. So, Dick did die, was sent to Spyral, before going back to Bludhaven to see how his dumpster fire is holding out. Damian was resurrected, and has met Jon, Maya, and Suren (because they are my babies) but does not have a TT team. Damian is fifteen and Dick is twenty-*mumble mumble* in the first scene. I also tried to write it as if Damian was writing it from third person and I don't how it turned out so... yeah.

Did I mistype and write out “Might wing and Flame burg” for the prompt in my draft and laugh about it off and on for the better part of an hour? Yes, yes, I did.

Two sets of combat boots race across Bludhaven roof tops, both sets were similar in size, one just barely bigger than the other, “Okay, Flamebird, lets see take tonight easy, just a regular patrol, then on home, sound good?” the smooth, tenor voice is from the one wearing midnight black suit with a cobalt blue bird across the front extending to the tips of his fingers.

“Considering the arsonist from the last month’s fires has finally been arrested, that seems reasonable, Nightwing,” the other male agreed with a tenor-bass voice. He was wearing something similar, but his suit was wine red with a marigold bird across his chest, giving the impression of fire when he moves.

“Great, after all it’s your second anniversary, we have to celebrate!”

“I told you, Nightwing, I—”

“’Don’t want a party, and find it pointless’ but I think some people disagree and are waiting for your presence at home,” Nightwing replies with a smile gracing his face,

“TT,” let out Flamebird, but he did not complain as they began their track across the city.

When both vigilantes return home after a quiet patrol, Flamebird opens the fire escape window and upon entering sees a banner with “Happy 2nd Birthday!” and immediately releases a big groan, causing laughter from the others in the apartment. Titus runs over to the two and sniffs at them, then headbutts Damian for pets, Alfred the cat walks over to Dick walking between his legs, wanting attention.

“Go ahead and change, masters. Then the party shall begin,” Pennyworth instructs. Grayson thanks Pennyworth, throws his arm over Damian’s shoulders, and drags the teen down the hallway to change.

When both return to the living room in lounge clothes, the teasing begins, “So, how does it feel like being two, Demon?” Todd jeers at him from the couch.

“You should know, isn’t that how old you are, Todd?” Damian snarked back, sparking laughing in the room.

But Damian wasn’t paying attention to the room, his mind was roaming because Damian remembers the last time of wearing Robin’s colors.

Two and a half years ago on the rain-soaked roof across of Grayson’s Bludhaven apartment building, an equally soaked Damian picking out which apartment was Grayson’s, when he felt the presence of someone else on the roof, instantly alert. “Where are you supposed to be, Little Bird?” a familiar timber asked, instantly letting Damian release the tension from his muscles, he turned around to face his (brother? …father? …mentor?) mentor.

Grayson was in his Nightwing gear, a comforting sight compared the last time Damian saw him with his spy garb. Damian looked down and was reminded that he was not in his Robin uniform, he was sporting his black under armor long sleeve shirt, tights, thick green boots, and green domino mask.

Damian tried to explain, he really was, but he is still reeling from another (conversation? … lecture? … grilling?) conversation, “I—I have no place anymore.” He felt the burning behind his eyes, holding himself together with anger since leaving Gotham; however, his anger was fading, and Damian’s composure was wavering. “I am requesting shelter, Nightwing, I will be out by morning.” Damian requested, trying to pull himself together.

Damian knew Grayson was immediately picking apart his tense stance when touched the roof, “Why don’t we talk about what happened, huh? I was going to cut patrol short today anyway, slow night,” the vigilante gently answered. As Grayson was reaching for his grapple, he noticed Damian about to jump off the side of the building. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Little One, come here, we will discuss where your things are when we get home.” Damian shrugs and wraps his arms around his neck, legs around his waist, trusting him to swing them to the alley behind his apartment building to enter his apartment. “Okay, first things first- any injuries?” Grayson asks, taking off his mask waiting for Damian’s answer, which is a shrug, “Alright, go head and take a shower, okay? I’ll set some clothes out in front of the door, then we will patch you up,” he requested, knowing Damian needs to find his composure and demanding an explanation now will amount to nothing. Damian nods slowly and begins to head to the guest room and bath.

As Damian walked into the wash room he took of his final layer of armor and turns on the shower to his preferred temperature, he looks himself in the mirror. He has one black eye forming, a few bruises across his arms, and small cuts marring his olive skin, all things that can wait till he bathes to be dealt with. He is stepping into the shower when Grayson knocks on the door and speaks loudly, “I’m leaving the clothes right outside the door, okay, Little D?”

Damian gives a grunt of acknowledgement through the water streaming from the shower. He takes his time, making sure he was thoroughly clean and time to collect his thoughts for himself. When he exits the shower and opens the door, he spots a Cheese Viking sweatshirt, black lounge pants, socks, and undergarments piled on the clean floor. He pulls on the undergarments, bandages his cuts, puts on his socks, sweatshirt, and pants, then exits the wash room.

When Damian enters the living room, Grayson turns to survey his injuries, but he already treated himself and covered by bandages, defiantly not the worst he has gotten physically; however, his emerald eyes must show his pain and grief, because Grayson’s smile dims slightly. “Let’s go get some ice on that shiner, Dami, pick out what you want for dinner, then we can discuss what happened with B when it gets here, alright?” Grayson asks slowly getting up and guiding Damian to the kitchen, grabbing the first ice pack he sees and take-out menus from the freezer door, passing them to Damian, “I haven’t been able to go shopping this week with a gang war breaking out, so choose what you want to eat and I’ll call it in.”

Damian sits at the bar, looks through the menus while placing the compress to his face, wincing slightly. Pizza, Chinese, burgers, Vietnamese, Indian- he picks the Chinese and points out the vegetable fried rice for him to eat, passes the menus back to Grayson, and waits for the older man to make the phone call. “Anything to drink, Dami?” Grayson asks him, causing Damian to look up at the older man- still not speaking, causing Grayson to place his hand on Damian’s shoulder- “Juice, water, tea—” and Damian cuts Grayson off with a nod, “Okay, I have chamomile tea, and I remember how you like it- brown sugar, lemon, and a china cup. Which is perfect because I just bought a tea set…”

As Grayson walks around his kitchen, talking aimlessly, Damian relaxes slowly, the final bit tension draining from his shoulders. When he comes back with both of their tea and takes a seat next to him, Damian slowly move his hand till it rest near Grayson’s- not touching but absorbing the warmth and comfort from his brother.

Damian always knew wherever Grayson was, he had a safe place. Away from prying eyes. Away from extreme expectations. Away from the harmful things of the world. Grayson was Damian’s place of comfort. A place where he was free to feel, even if it was childish. A place where Damian could be Damian, not a Wayne or an Al-Ghul. Damian did not know how much he wanted (needed) that till he was resurrected and asked where Grayson was. Damian could not describe the feeling of being so overwhelmed that he shut down, did not sleep, eat, drink, anything for a week- just sat in his room with glassy eyes- till he walked into Grayson’s room and began to weep loudly, grasp the edges of Grayson’s blanket and tug and tug till the comforter was free, only for Damian to fall backwards onto the floor and wrap himself in the faint smell of Grayson and slept.

The doorbell interrupted Damian’s thoughts, prompting Grayson to get up, answer the door, and return to Damian’s side. “Okay, Little D, what happened?” Grayson prompted him.

Damian took in a deep calming breath, twirled his fork in his rice, and began slowly let the breath go. He went on to explain how Father had reacted to Damian ignoring his order to save a child from the Joker, “I saw things that Father did not. Father was dealing with Joker’s men, and I had a clear path to save him. So I did what I thought was right,” only for Bruce to rant when they got home, sparking a fight, eventually telling Damian that he has not changed since he arrived to Gotham, “I have proved over and over that I am different. I died for this—I died for him and his crusade for that city, yet it is clear that no matter how much I adapt my teaching and curb my upbringing, it is not enough—I am not enough…” Damian patters off, anger giving way for the hurt to set in, overwhelming the small boy for a couple of silent minutes and Grayson brought Damian into his arms, “Father made it clear that I am not welcome in Gotham for the foreseeable future. So, I came to the safest place I could think of… here.” Finishing his tale of woe, Damian felt his eyes burn again, but felt powerless to stop them, “Grayson, why am I not enough? Why am I never enough?” Finally, Damian’s tears spilt from his eyes, and Damian lost himself in his anguish, letting out sobs against the man’s chest.

“Oh, Dami, you are enough, you always have been enough. You deserve the world, and I am sorry that I can’t give it to you. You are alright…” Dick consoled the shaking teen, setting Damian on his lap, rubbing his hands in soothing motions on the teen’s back. After Damian’s tears slow and pulls back slowly, head bowed, Dick begins his plan, “You can stay here, okay? I keep Bruce from the apartment, away from this city if I have to. Damian held on to Dick the entire night, feeling peace for the first time he could remember.

Damian was shaken from his thoughts as Dick throws his arm around his shoulders, “Come on Little D, there is cake! Your favorite!”

“Red velvet and cream cheese frosting?”

“Exactly, Jason baked the cake and Alfred made the frosting, says his own secret recipe.”

After everyone said their hello and congratulations, Alfred sliced the cake, and began to pass them around- Damian getting the first slice. “Thank you, Pennyworth. I am appreciative of your presence tonight,” Damian spoke.

“Of course, Master Damian. I would not miss this for the world,” Alfred acknowledged, bringing his tea cup to his lips taking a small sip.

Damian took in all the guests that had shown. Wilkes, Kent, Darga, and Ducard were debating various team names that they thought could work. Todd, Drake, Brown, and Gordon were discussing a situation brewing from the docks of Gotham. Pennyworth and Grayson were sitting next to Damian in simple silence, soaking in the warmth of the small apartment, the peaceful atmosphere. Damian once again lost in his mind.

Two years ago in Grayson’s living room, sitting on the couch was both males, pouring over Damian’s sketch book, “Flamebird? A goddess?” Grayson asked.

Damian nods his head, “Based off the Kryptonian myths I have heard from Kent, yes. But this mantle does not depend on a person being male or female, like Superman or Wonder Woman. Also, the myths describe the entity as a destructive force, but for the betterment of life, such as farmers burning an old field before planting again the next year.”

“Okay, but what’s with the color scheme and no hood? It’s cool and all I’m just wondering, you loved the hood of your previous uniform.”

“The name is Flamebird, so black does not match with the name I am presenting, the color, wine, is dark enough to be concealed if need be. I have decided against black and a hood because I feel, perhaps… tired of being swallowed by shadows and darkness. Is that acceptable, Grayson?”

“Of course, it is, Dami. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not,” Grayson spoke softly, slowly wrapping his arms around the teen. Damian leaning slightly into the older man’s chest, nods his head, then slips out of the hold, and Grayson lets go. “We need to get these to Barbra, and you need to tell your friends about your name change, so they aren’t surprised next time you see them in uniform,” Grayson gently instructs, gathering the papers in his hand and phone up to his ear, “Hey Babs, I have a thing…”

Damian is suddenly jerking from his thoughts again as Grayson stands and announces, “Attention, attention, everyone near and far, I propose a toast! To Flamebird!”

“To Flamebird!” responds the small gathering, lifting their various beverages, smiles on their faces.

Then Grayson loudly says, “Speech! Speech!” thus sparks everyone as well, “Speech! Speech!” Damian looks at Alfred for help, but he just smiles and raises his cup.

Damian then rises from his seat, causing people to cheer, “I do not have anything planned, so this is the best I can do,” he begins turning to Alfred, “Pennyworth, you have taught me the value of tact and how manners are just as, if not more effective, than threats, but also the value of being a supporting person in someone’s life”, Alfred gave a quiet chuckle and grasps his hand in a quiet thanks, then Damian was twirling to his friends, “Wilkes and Kent, both of you have instilled in me the sense of friendship and how I can be even more effective and how I can rely on people if need be. Ducard showed me forgiveness, when no one else would look at me, you showed me how to be merciful in a world that is so cruel. Darga, you have been my example of perseverance, you and I have similar backgrounds with our families, but we have work on the same side of good.” After Damian’s speech Wilkes, Kent, and Ducard wraps him in a group hug, and Darga looks a little off put till Ducard grabs his arm and shoves him underneath her head, trapping him in the hug.

Damian’s cheeks turns red as he takes in a breath and walks towards his family, Gordon raising her eyebrow, “Gordon, you have given me many lessons, but the best one is you should never let others define your worth, so thank you. Todd, you have given me the best piece of advice from my time with my mother,” after Todd’s confused look Damian explained, “if you cannot beat them, give them hell,” at Damian’s words, Todd’s jaw drops.

“That was you! What the f—”

“Jason, shut up, it’s my turn!” Brown shouts and bounces on her feet.

Damian’s face began to turn even more red, “Brown, I have one lesson that you taught me that I treasure more than most, and that is your past does not define you, that you have a choice in how you act or react to a situation, that I always have a choice,” Brown wraps him in her arms and Damian feels a tear against his shirt, then she let him go, this gives Damian time to collect his thoughts. “Drake, I cannot explain how I feel when I think of our first year together, the things racing through my mind at the time we met, but I think you taught me something that will stick with me forever,” Drake looks uncomfortable, and Damian would agree, but this needed to be said, “I believe you taught me that it is acceptable to leave when someone is hurting you- that you should not have to accept someone’s behavior because they are ‘family’. And—” Damian sucks in another breath, “And I am sorry for the pain I caused and hope one day we can heal from the past, and slowly build a relationship- perhaps not brothers but—”

Drake grabs his arm, prompting Damian to look him in the eyes, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, “I accept your apology, Damian, and I think—I think I would like to start over too,” the smaller man agrees quietly, looking down.

“Just hug each other already!” Brown shouts still wiping at her eyes, causing Damian and Drake to spring apart, both flushed out of embarrassment. The two looks at each other, reading the body language and eyes of the other, and slowly Damian reaches his hand out and letting a small grin on his face. Drake smiles and grasps the younger’s hand, giving it a small shake, and Damian feels a heavy weight drop off his shoulders. “You two are ridiculous…” Brown mumbles, and shoves Drake into Damian forcing Damian to catch the smaller man, “There, you are welcome.” Both males roll their eyes at Brown’s actions and Damian helps Drake up.

Finally, turning to face Grayson, Damian felt his face heat up to his ears as Grayson let a gigantic, dazzling smile. Damian takes a final fortifying breath and his voice was slightly rough with emotion, “Richard, you have let me have a childhood, when I had none to begin with. When I did not know how be a child, you taught me how, provided opportunities, and encouraged me to do so. You showed me care and affection from the start- even when I did not want it, but when I unknowingly needed it, and you took an interest for my wants and needs when no one else would or could. You provided for me when I could not for myself. You treated me with respect, but also did not let me hurt myself or others. You taught me I am enough just by being myself, that I did not need to adapt, but let myself grow up of that I am still doing. You gave me a safe place, a peaceful place, that I can express myself with no fear of pain, harshness, or disappointment. There are no words to describe how that kindness—no that love means to someone like me, someone that felt beyond repair, holding on to anger and pain, because that was all I knew, that was all I was taught. Until you, Richard John Grayson, gave me a chance to become something beyond myself, beyond my pain, hurt, and anger. So, thank you for being my Batman, my mentor, and my partner. Most of all, thank you for opening your arms and welcoming me as part of your family. I can honestly say, I would not be here today if not for you.” Grayson started crying somewhere early in the speech and has not stopped.

Damian looks at everyone in the room, “I appreciate and care for all of you and I only pray that all of you can continue let me be by your sides for as long as I can.” Most eyes were wet, causing Damian to feel uncomfortable and wanting to fidget, but his hands were still till Brown and Ducard pulls him into another hug, then Kent, Pennyworth, and Gordon.

Lastly Grayson pulls Damian into a hug so hard the younger falls and his partner shove his head into the Damian’s neck and Damian feels tears against his neck, “That was so beautiful, Dami, you always make me happy. You are the best, Dami.”

Damian wraps his arms around Grayson tightly, slightly burying his face, “We are the best, Richard.”

“Hey, we can’t help being great.”

[the-spoony-bard]

A Matter of Leverage - 5

Fandom: Fire Emblem Awakening

Style: Leverage!AU; modern setting; adventure/drama

Word count: 3,758

Read on Ao3

A woman gasped for breath as she pushed her legs as fast as she could, tears leaving steady streams from the corners of her eyes. Smoke billowed out of the barn, the cries of the horses still inside cutting to her very heart. She tripped around the bend in the path, throwing her arms up just barely in time to protect her face from the dirt and gravel. Her friend shouted at her as she clambered back onto her feet, dashing straight into the smoke, pulling the bandana from her long, brown hair down to cover her nose and mouth.

 The wood crackled from the flames, giving her just a moment’s warning to jump out of the way before one of the ceiling’s beams tumbled to the ground mere inches from her nose.

 “Sumia!” her friend cried, but Sumia could barely hear her over the horses still trapped inside. She lurched forward to the nearest stall, throwing it open with the free hand not clutching the bandana to her face.

 A hand grabbed onto her upper arm as she hurriedly led the horse out. She shrieked, sending herself into a fit of coughs. Her friend dragged her back out, the horse dashing ahead once he was free of his stall. Sumia made to run back once they were safely back on the path outside, but her friend’s hold didn’t waver. She finally released her grip when Sumia fell heavily to her knees.

 “Oh gods, oh gods,” Sumia cried frantically, trying to spin back around. “No, no, no, no, they’re still in there!”

 “Sumia, no!” her friend ordered, pulling Sumia to her chest.

 “Cordelia, we can still save them!” Sumia choked out between coughs. She started crying anew when the horse she’d brought out whinnied desperately back at his fellows still in the barn.

 The barn’s roof collapsed entirely.

 ○

 Robin sits through Sumia’s story in silence, allowing the poor woman a moment to collect herself as she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. Robin hands her a tissue, smiling weakly over to Stahl at the bar who attempts to casually observe the proceedings, but is clearly too concerned to do a good job of being discreet. Another woman with long red hair—Cordelia—who’d arrived with Sumia waits on one of the barstools, watching Robin skeptically. Though she’d made herself clear that she thought Robin to be leading some sort of scam, at Sumia’s insistence she allowed the two of them to talk, keeping an eye on the proceedings from outside the conversation with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

 Robin finds her attention much more focused on Sumia though, looking over the pictures she’d brought with her. First she looks over a series of pictures of each horse, totaling ten in all. Sumia points to one mostly brown with a couple small splotches of white on the face.

 “Luna was the only horse that made it out,” she says, letting out a shaky breath. She covers her hand with her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

 “No, don’t be,” Robin says as tenderly as she can. “This couldn’t have been a simple accident or you wouldn’t have reached out to me.”

 “No—or yes—I’m sorry,” Sumia ducks her head. “But you’re right! This wasn’t an accident at all! It was Vasto! Cordelia is always so careful and checks up on all of our facilities every day to make sure that everything’s safe. There is no way something like this could happen by accident. I may be clumsy at times, but I’d never let this happen either.”

 “You mentioned Vasto in your phone call, but I’d like to know more about him,” Robin says, pausing for a moment to murmur a “thank you” when Stahl comes over with their drinks—whiskey for Robin and water for Sumia. “What is his stake in all this?”

 “It’s about his ownership of the horses,” Sumia explains. “My family’s been training and boarding horses for generations, but we’d never owned any ourselves. I’d always dreamed of owning my own, so when Mr. Vasto arrived with an offer that gave us ten percent ownership…” Sumia trails off, shame tinging her cheeks pink.

 “Of course you took it.” Robin nods understandingly.

 “It was working out well at first,” Sumia continues, looking lovingly down at the pictures for a moment before her face clouds over once more. “But then he started getting really angry. They weren’t performing well in the races the past few months, and I was afraid he was going to pull out. But gods, I never expected he would do something like this…” Sumia hides her head in her hands for a few long moments before she looks up. Robin can’t help but see the bags under her eyes. “He’s been trying to frame us for the fire. Now no one is willing to hire us, and even if they were, our stable still needs major repairs.”

 “So that’s his game,” Robin grimaces. “He wasn’t getting enough winnings from races so he figures he can make a profit with insurance fraud instead.”

 “Miss Validar—”

 “Just Robin, please.”

 “Robin,” Sumia amends. “I don’t know what else to do. Cordelia tried to convince me to not even contact you in the first place, but we don’t have any options. No one wants to help a case like ours when there’s no hope of winning. I saw you online and I thought… well, maybe…”

 Sumia takes a deep breath before she gulps down half of her water in one go.

 “It’s going to be okay, Sumia,” Robin says, almost reaching out to grab her hand but stopping before her muscles can even move. After such a long time without it, initiating contact seems a foreign concept made even more awkward by the unabashed scrutiny of Cordelia from across the room. Instead, she gathers up the photos for Sumia and tucks them safely back into the folder she’d brought them in. “We’ll look into the insurance payout Vasto is receiving and see if we can get you a share of that money to at least cover the damages he caused.”

 “This isn’t about the money, Miss Robin,” Sumia’s lips quiver as she hugs the folder to her chest. “Money won’t be able to bring back the lives of the horses he killed. And it… it won’t be able to take away the memory of having to—to listen to them scream and not be able to help. Only Luna is left and I don’t want Vasto to have a hand on him. I—I don’t want Vasto to ever do this to anyone else and get away with it again!” Sumia pauses, surprised by her own outburst. She hurriedly stands up.

 “Don’t worry,” Robin assures her, standing as well. She spares a glance to Cordelia as she walks over briskly before Robin looks Sumia straight in the eyes. “He won’t get away with this.”

 “Sumia,” Cordelia cuts in gently with a light touch to the woman’s elbow. “Would you mind waiting outside in the car for me a moment? I’d like a quick word.”

 “O-okay,” Sumia looks back and forth between Robin and Cordelia as she pulls on her coat. She shuffles off hastily, nearly tripping on the carpet.

 “Please, allow me,” Stahl is over to the door in seconds, helping Sumia out.

 “What do you think you’re doing?” Cordelia turns on Robin as soon as the door shuts safely behind Sumia. Stahl watches with silent alarm. “We’ve got enough on our plates without someone like you trying to take advantage of us!”

 “I’m not taking advantage of you,” Robin replies tensely. “I only want to help.”

 “Look, I’d like to believe that’s true, but the world doesn’t work that way,” Cordelia sighs heavily. “Sumia’s been through enough. I won’t have you raising her hopes for nothing.”

 “This won’t be for nothing, I assure you.”

 “You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you,” Cordelia crosses her arms over her chest. “What sort of agency doesn’t show charges for their services?”

 “Mine,” Robin answers without a trace of hesitation. “There are no charges.”

 Cordelia sighs again, beyond weary, before fixing Robin with a stern glare.

 “And just how do you get paid then?”

 “We have other forms of revenue.”

 Cordelia doesn’t break eye contact for a few long moments, observing Robin for any clue as to her dishonesty. She sighs yet again when her silent probing comes up empty.

 “I’ll be along in person in a couple days,” Robin continues. Cordelia nods weakly in response before walking back outside to rejoin Sumia. Robin gives Stahl a reassuring smile before she turns back around to the table and finishes her whiskey. “Olivia?”

 “Y-yes?” Olivia answers from over the earbud.

 “Send out the message to the others. We have ourselves a job.”

 ○

 Lon’qu is reaching for the backpack hidden in the dumpster when the sound of a gun’s action being cocked echoes loudly beside his head.

 “What, you thought you’d give us the slip that easy?”

 Lon’qu turns around slowly, awfully casual for a man with a pistol trained on his nose. He notes the flimsy stance and overly shined shoes—a rookie.

 “Hand it over,” the rookie nods to the backpack now by Lon’qu’s feet.

 A phone rings, playing some generic ringtone. The rookie does not waver.

 “Could be important,” Lon’qu says quietly. “You should answer it.”

 The rookie takes one of his hands off the gun to reach for his jacket pocket, and then the other is quickly knocked aside as Lon’qu moves as quickly as a snake, snatching the gun out of his hands and jabbing his elbow into the young man’s face. He stumbles back with a cry as Lon’qu presses the advantage, reaching forward to grab the back of his head and slamming it—hard—onto the dumpster. It’s not hard enough to kill, but more than enough to knock him out cold with the promise of a killer headache when he comes to. Lon’qu will be long gone with his package by then. He hefts it over his shoulder as he digs his ringing phone out of his pocket to glance at the caller ID.

 “Yeah?” he answers.

 “Robin has a job for us!” Olivia blurts out.

 “I’ll be there.”

 ○

 Gaius grins triumphantly to himself as he shimmies between the ceiling of the first floor and the floor of the second as carefully as he can with the painting of some wrinkly old painter that’s been dead for a few centuries. Gaius took a look and didn’t see the appeal of it, but someone was paying an awful lot for it, and he doesn’t question the client’s money like he questions her taste. More importantly, just a little bit farther and he’ll drop down into the service closet, stow the painting in one of the large trash bins on wheels, then safely spirit it away out the back door.

 He pauses as he hears a shout of alarm from behind him, a guard discovering an empty section of wall where a painting should be. Gaius curses under his breath, but presses on—time is of the essence. He gets to the service closet without mishap, carefully covering the painting up as he packs it securely in the bin. He’s already nearing the exit, the door in his sights, when a voice orders him to wait.

 “Who, me?” Gaius turns around, giving the security guard a sleepy smile. “Do I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe or something?”

 “What are—”

 The guard stops as Gaius’s phone starts buzzing, momentarily mistaking it for his own pager.

 “If you’ll excuse me,” Gaius nearly leaps for his phone, inwardly praising his luck, doubly so when he sees who’s calling. She’ll understand what’s going on. “Hey, babe.”

 “B-babe?” Olivia stutters. She does not, in fact, understand.

 “What?!” Gaius exclaims loudly. “The baby’s coming?!”

 “B-baby? What are you…? Gaius, there’s n-no time for this! W-we’ve got a job! Robin needs us all back!”

 “Don’t worry, I’ll be right there! Just don’t do this without me!” Gaius takes off immediately with the garbage tin in tow, waving to the security guard as he goes.

 “Well, we k-kind of need you. We’re a team and all…” There’s a long pause where Olivia says nothing and Gaius slides the painting into the back seat. Olivia gasps as Gaius turns the key in the ignition. “Oh gods, you’re working! I-I’m sorry to interrupt you!”

 “Actually, you had perfect timing,” Gaius snickers. “Babe.”

 “J-just get over here!” Olivia cries before hanging up suddenly, cheeks ablaze.

 ○

 “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Nowi pounds her fists on her desk, even stomping her feet on the ground in her rage. “I won’t let you get away with this!”

 Her fingers fly over the keys, so in focus that she almost doesn’t notice her phone start singing at her. She spares only a moment when she glances over to see Olivia’s face. With an overly dramatic sigh, Nowi picks up the call on her headset.

 “Olivia! It’s good to hear from you.”

 “O-oh, yes, It’s good to hear you too,” Olivia replies automatically. “Robin has—”

 “No!” Nowi shrieks, cutting Olivia off. “No, no, no!”

 “Nowi, is everything okay?” Olivia gasps, all concern.

 “This meanie is camping and keeps sniping me!” Nowi yells furiously, throwing her hands up and rolling away from her computer desk in a rage. “And my stupid teammates aren’t helping me! Fine! Just fine! They can heal themselves!”

 “Um…” Olivia clears her throat.

 “I will have my revenge, Bootylicious69! I will unleash hell on you!”

 “Nowi!” Olivia shouts.

 “What?” Nowi asks innocently, temporarily distracted from her righteous crusade.

 “We have a job to do!”

 “But I’ve got to—”

 “Robin is counting on us!” Olivia presses.

 Nowi lets out an overly exaggerated sigh.

 “Okay,” she pouts, already pulling up a website to purchase plane tickets. “Enjoy this time while you can Bootylicious69, because your days are numbered.”

 “Um, j-just to be clear, you are talking about a video game? Someone in a video game?”

 “Yep. Why?”

 “O-oh, good. I was ah, a little worried I’d be interrupting something important.”

 “This is important!” Nowi protests.

 ○

 “Would you look at us? The team, back together again!” Nowi says proudly as she walks with Gaius, Lon’qu, and Olivia to the elevator up to Robin’s apartment.

 Robin had exchanged her rundown apartment and strange landlord Hubba for a suite on the top floor of a much classier building. The only other suite on the same floor was owned by someone who Robin reported to never even be home, so privacy was not an issue.

 “It’s been a long time,” Gaius notes as Nowi presses the button. Lon’qu grunts the affirmative. “So, what did you guys spend your money on?”

 “Oh, where to start?” Nowi clasps her hands together, eyes sparkling. The elevator starts moving. “You guys are gonna love all the new tech I’ve got set up for us!”

 “Y-you didn’t spend all of your money and s-stuff for us?” Olivia sounds one part surprised and the other guilty.

 “Of course not!” Nowi waves a hand casually before Olivia can escape from the elevator to hightail it to the nearest mall to purchase gifts. “I hooked myself up first. And Auntie’s taken care of too.” She leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “She doesn’t know it’s from me.”

 With Nowi’s record of remaining inconspicuous, the other three have no doubt that her aunt knows.

 “I almost got her a vacation home,” Nowi continues thoughtfully, “but I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

 “I-I got myself one,” Olivia says, then immediately shrinks when she realizes she’s said it out loud. Her voice gets quieter with every word as she continues. “It’s o-on an i-island with a private beach.”

 “Ooh, nice,” Gaius says appreciatively. “I’m not much for buying fancy houses myself, but I can appreciate the idea behind it. I still have most of my money kicking around. For emergencies.”

 “And here I thought you’d spend it all on sugar,” Lon’qu deadpans.

 “What did you get, Lon’qu?” Nowi asks.

 Lon’qu stares at her blankly.

 “Lon’qu?” Nowi presses.

 Lon’qu escapes Nowi’s questioning by stepping out as soon as the elevator door slides open. With Olivia’s assurance that Robin had promised the door would be unlocked for them, they go inside. Gaius gives a low whistle as they look around.

 The first thing they see is a very professional looking sign hanging on a wall that reads “Leverage Consulting and Associates.” A room to their right holds a table and chairs, business-like, yet still comforting in a way. Likely where she intends to meet with clients. As they walk around to the left, they are reminded that Robin lives here as well.

 First, a kitchen—that looks hardly used, judging from how clean it is—then past that, a living room. A curling set of stairs go up to a level that rests above the kitchen and room with the table, covering half of the space of the downstairs. The first floor proves to go around in a circle, with another entrance to the room with the table and chairs from around the living room. Robin herself is still nowhere to be seen, but her coat hangs on the rack on one wall of the kitchen and her shoes are placed in a row beside other pairs of boots and sandals.

 “Isn’t it nice?” Nowi coos as they gather around the table, looking at three large screens in a row covering one wall.

 “Y-you’ve already been in here?” Olivia sounds surprised.

 “Yep! Robin wanted my help setting this up.”

 Nowi picks up a tablet that sits in the middle of the table and swipes the screen. All three larger screens on the wall turn on, already covered in multiple tabs and open documents.

 “This is my pride and joy!” Nowi gestures to it. “I’ve got us connected to all major intelligence networks, so we can easily check records, run facial recognition software, the whole nine yards. I even made records for us too.” She spins around to open one of the drawers of the discreet cabinet on the opposite wall, pulling out a few manila folders. “Robin’s family has now officially been in this business for four generations, and we’ve all been loyal employees since we each started.”

 “I don’t blame us with benefits like these,” Gaius raises his eyebrows as he looks through the paperwork in his file. “Nowi, do you even know what an average amount of vacation time is for a normal job?”

 “Robin said it was okay,” Nowi purses her lips. “If you don’t want it you can give it to me instead.”

 “Now’s not the time for a vacation,” Robin says, appearing in the doorway to the living room. “Nowi, I saw this morning that you’ve already gotten the info I sent you.”

 “Yep!” Nowi says proudly, puffing out her chest. “I compiled a bio while I was waiting for my flight.”

 “Nice work,” Robin spares her a smile as she sits down in one of the chairs and gestures for the others to do the same. “Pull it up, please.”

 “Sure thing, Boss Lady!” Nowi throws Robin a salute then presses the tablet.

 Some official looking documents slide onto the screen along with a picture of a man with unruly brown hair styled into spikes. Though not a bad looking guy, the eyes looking down his sharp nose make Robin feel uneasy. Olivia presses her cat sticker-embellished pen to her lips in thought.

 “Olio Vasto,” Nowi strikes a pose, gesturing grandly to his image on the screen. “He’s a hedge fund manager for Chalard & Sons—Wall Street guys. He’s made them tons of money in the last five years.” Nowi swipes a news report front and center on the screen. The article boasts another stellar year, even featuring a picture of Vasto looking off camera with a steady balance of thoughtful and arrogant. “We’re talking fifty million dollars sort of lots of money,” Nowi clarifies.

 “He doesn’t mess around,” Lon’qu notes grimly.

 “On the contrary, Lonky!” Nowi waggles her finger. Lon’qu’s eyes narrow at the nickname, but Nowi shrugs it off. “He’s got a taste for some high-risk hobbies. First there’s his history of high stakes poker, and now he’s started getting into horse races.”

 “A gambling man then,” Robin says with a ghost of a smile. She immediately flattens her features when she sees Olivia observing her.

 “He’s dumped a lot of money to buy Sumia and Cordelia’s horses. Oh, and check out this little tidbit, Robin!”

 Robin leans forward in her seat as Nowi pulls up the paperwork.

 “Excellus Insurance is covering Vasto’s policy on the horses.”

 “Excellus?” Oliva raises her eyebrows, immediately looking to Robin. “I-is this going to be okay? Are… are you?”

 “It’s fine,” Robin says, though no one seems to believe her. She sighs heavily. “Of course I don’t mind screwing over my old bosses. I’m actually more than happy to.”

 Olivia looks uneasy, but she doesn’t press it.

 “Our main goal is to get Vasto’s last horse for Sumia,” Robin says, looking at Nowi to continue. Nowi nods, swiping at the tablet again. Luna appears on the screen, standing serenely amidst a field of grass.

 “Vasto’s last surviving horse, Luna,” Nowi points to the picture, then over to the race records. “He’s won three times and placed in two. Vasto has him insured for three hundred thousand dollars a year.”

 “Nice job, Nowi,” Robin says as the girl beams with pride. She rests her elbows on the table as she laces her fingers together, deep in thought. “We’ll need to a find a place to meet him. Do you happen to know what Vasto’s schedule looks like for the next few days?”

 “Pft, who do you think you’re talking to?” Nowi scoffs, puffing herself up as much as a person as tiny as her can manage. “I’ve got his schedule right here…” She taps at the tablet for a few seconds before pulling it up. “Looks like a big race is going on this weekend near where Sumia and Cordelia are.”

 “Oh,” Robin says with a chuckle in her voice. She turns slowly to Olivia, who seems to find something amusing as well. “Tell me, Olivia. How is your Southern Belle?”

 Olivia giggles as Robin rises from her seat.

  “Alright then. We’ve got a horse to steal.”

[iphoenixrising]

No Home for Dead Birds XI

It wasn’t long after he moved to the ‘Haven. So many people around him were dying, his father already gone, and B figured out there was no Uncle to keep him out of CPS (and those little tips helped, thanks Bruce). It was before the adoption, before he felt like he could breathe again without his chest caving in.

It was just after Cass left for Hong Kong, and he was running free in Blüdhaven, not giving much of a shit if he kept moving to the next ass hat or not. Kon and Bart were in a constant state of pissed off with him because he wouldn’t just stop and mourn, wouldn’t let them be good boyfriends, wouldn’t let them comfort him.

(At the time, he didn’t understand why it mattered so much to them, why they couldn’t let him fight out his pain like he’d always had to do.)

Dick...showed up at the terrible flophouse he was in, amazing him because after losing everything, Dick was the last person Tim expected to see anywhere near the ‘Haven. But, when his “big brother” refused to take get the fuck out for an answer, he hadn’t had the energy really to fight anymore.

(He’s been fighting for so long, hasn’t he?)

Instead, he got trapped in the whirlwind of activity that is Dick Grayson.

(It’s not the first time he’s saved me)

And Dick had gone the good brother things; he had tried so hard to get Tim out of the funk, to make sure he wasn’t going to shove the .45 in his mouth and blow his fucking head off or something.

(What a wasted effort)

A night of tolerating Dick’s presence, his light and witty banter, of being the Cindy to his Marsha, and something in his broken chest caved way.

He couldn’t have known at the time how stupid he was for kissing his long-standing crush in the first place. A year later and he would def find out.

**

Because at almost twenty, he’s fucking done with everything except the group of loveable assholes shuffling along around him, keeping him moving with their sheer momentum. He follows Cassie’s excitedly bouncing ass and slowly drifts to the side, just enough to slide a finger into the side pocket of Bart’s jeans while they walk through the brightly lit aisle of IKEA.

It feels stupid to do something like that, but really, the speedster is too busy talking and looking around to notice anyway. (His other best friend, however, isn’t, and does notice, a corner of his mouth quirking up.)

Gar’s shirt stretches tight over his shoulders when he points out the Dyfjord over the Hemnes since Rachel is still on board with the Tyssedal.  Really, as long as it does things like hold stuff in drawers, he’s good either way (because things that will eventually hold dangerous vigilante weaponry? Those things he makes himself, so just raw materials. Seriously, he needs something that can withstand a small explosion and most of the stuff here? Would stand a chance in hell). But this gives him time to idly work on his phone, playing with the code for the first training loop while holding on to Bart’s pocket with the other. His body operates on auto-pilot as he’s balls deep in the numbers and commands, making vague noises at towel racks. As he’s been informed, he has to put all the shit together himself anyway, so he’s about to drop the Koppang and end all the mayhem.

There, mindblown.

Well, after this next span of code (because some people need special guns with the right tracking capabilities to make it, you know, a challenge. Speed and such).

He’s riding on over twelve hours of sleep before this little team-building exercise (and nice try. He knows exactly why they’re doing this, not just because Oh, since you have exercised sensible decision-making, we will reward you with shopping. Yup, sure.) But...playing along is so, so much good times that it makes him the right kind of nostalgic. Not something painful, something to choke on, but something lighter, something building all over again in those steps of affection and a mutual love for beating the ever-loving shit out of bad guys.

And it was...different, finding himself immersed with his old team to do movie night in celebration of his agreement to stay and rejoin them under new management (you know, their own). And yes, he was stupidly touched they went out on a limb and picked up the new Star Wars because, well, he’s the ultimate nerd of the group and probably always will be.

(Some people remember the little things.)

Still, much heckling and throwing popcorn at the screen is absolutely rote.

Falling asleep was definitely not his intention and should have been damn near impossible considering his sleep pattern has only become more sporadic, short and sweet bursts, in the time he’s been out on his own vigilanting it up.

The fact Conner was able to lift him without waking him, that his painfully sensitive instincts didn’t immediately alert him, kick his system into fight mode was far too telling for his peace of mind. It’s something at the very bottom of his priority list, something he can’t think about (because now is not the time for any of it, any of the should-have, would-haves, to feel like utter shit about how wrong he did them, how they should have just turned their fucking backs on him—just like Dick— because he made a fucking choice—the wrong one as it turns out) since there’s a whole lot of ‘shit we still need to do before we’re ready to break criminal heads.’

So he’s totally not thinking about the span of footage he caught from the new and improved communal floor proving that yes his system works and is crystal-fucking-clear because he saw the smirk on Rave’s face, he saw Gar snickering at him, he saw Cassie gently touch his hair, he saw Bart lay a throw over him with absurd gentleness just before Conner eased arms under him and lifted.

He shouldn’t have been shocked to wake up in the room Cassie showed him on day one (it was his from the get-go, wasn’t it?). The room for the guy they wanted as their strategist, their intel source. The two rooms are at the top of the new HQ, the secondary one prepped with a boss system (that is oddly similar to the one he built from the ground up in his Perch at the old Titan’s Tower. Hm. Coincidence, right?), work station, compact lab for analysis, and a meeting room with conference table.

All the nice things.

When he blinks owlishly around the separate bedroom, it takes too long for his brain to get with the ‘holy shit this is comfortable’ groove. It’s the first real bed he’s slept in since his last night in the Manor, not a cot, a couch, a seat, or the floor, it’s soft and perfect, molding around his body, more comfortable than he can remember being in a while. It’s enough that he really doesn’t want to get up. Is pretty good sinking back down for a few more…

When he finally manages to get somewhat conscious and use the impressive shower, he digs in the stacks of boxes in the walk-in closet, looking from something he can throw on—

And pulls out his last pre-everyone-dying Robin suit with green sleeves on the tunic and those reinforced green tights (before Conner and Bart died, before his ident was compromised, before Dad was murdered, before Bruce died, before Dick betrayed him). The sight leaves him weak-kneed, choking, trying very hard not to throw up because that shit was seriously a little out of left field.

(And if he sat in that closet for twenty minutes while his eyes got hot and full, holding that piece of his life while thinking about how Dick’s hands pulled this very tunic off him the last time before it ended up in a box, then no one would be the wiser because after he was done, he pulled his shit together, stood the fuck up, and closed that suit back up in the box to gather dust again when he should really send it straight to Dick with a huge fuck you sign attached. But nope, it’s his last vestige of the life he used to love, so until he could even take it, the damn thing would stay.)

The unlabeled boxes are full of his old things, things he’d apparently left in in the Tower before the last good-bye from the Justice League. Which is another thing he is not going to think about, but shoves those moments, out of his sight, and digs in another to pull out a pair of slightly too-small sweats and a nerd t-shirt that smell like Kevlar and spice, one that hangs off him because taller yes, but lacking some pounds apparently.

And yes, he realizes the bathroom is stocked with his brand of shampoo and body wash (and fuck, there’s even a can of that shitty hair gel—no more of that fuck-you-very-much). Yes, he realizes the sheets are blue instead of red (but not that blue, Nightwing blue, thank God). Yes, he realizes the yoga mat under the bed is worn and have-I-seen-that-before? Yes, he realizes the medicine cabinet has his favored brand of tape to wrap his hands so the owfuck isn’t so painful after a night cracking heads together.

(There’s antibiotics there—someone found out about the spleen thing, right?)

Really, he doesn’t need any more evidence—they planned on adding him to the roster, made a place for him, made sure his stuff wasn’t just tossed out in a dumpster when the new team started moving in.

(He wouldn’t have even blamed them for it, really.)

It’s a tough enough realization to make him facepalm for several long moments because these guys.

Seriously.

Coming downstairs to the team gathered for lunch, a plate set out for him, and excited chatter while a po’ boy is absently set in front of him along with a grape fucking Zesti (grape is always the best).  All the plans they already have mapped-out, their contingencies and safe houses, their contacts and info sources, layers the conversation around him while he scarfs his food down, moving in time with everyone else chewing rather than really eating. Instead, he listens to how they’ve started gathering their own network of crime fighting and superheroing.

Within the fire few bites, he was done for.

The bus tickets out of New Orleans he’s had carefully stowed away were thrown in the trash an hour or so later before he started down to look at the training room on the lower level Gar had half-rigged up, a mess of wiring still needed to be run, lights needed to be connected, the AI that had been adapted from an old team project needed to be installed, and just the vents, man. How could you forget to booby trap the vents?

(Okay, so they need him for shit like this)

But it’s odd and comforting to have the them pause, gazes swinging to him to when he starts talking, laying out the power grid and system configurations, when they take his opinions as that’ll work, how long until we can get started?

As much as he’s freaked out by the attention after being his own team, it eases the raw and jagged edges he refused to focus on, to give power to anymore.

(It’s time to start moving again, asshole, in Robin’s old voice in the back of his head, the voice of variable reason. Except in matters of Dick Grayson apparently.)

But it’s fine because it’s not like he didn’t expect more of these little things to look forward to. You know, the whole team bonding thing. He gets it, he really does because most of it is them trying to figure him out all over again, sizing him up. The last few months of playing the game, being the nameless, travelling vigilante, had taken its toll. He knows he’s different, he knows he’s not the same Robin, not even Red, not even Tim in too many respects. When they get done with this little outing, he has every intention of sitting them down and laying the plan right out.

(And fuck, he has a plan again—he has plans.)

For now, he’s just raises a brow at Conner and nods his head to the Koppang. The super winks behind his fake, dark-rimmed glasses and subtly veers off from the group. He’s the smart one, not getting in on this little argument.

The group shuffles, pulls him along with the forward momentum. He’s already decided how he’s going to lay out their systems once the immediate needs are identified, then get scans up and running, get their basics ready to fill in the gaps between the other superhero groups. A database of their baddies, strengths and weaknesses, bolt holes and last-knowns. He needs algorithms to track credible sources for any kind of intel they might need to keep track.

He starts when Conner lays a hand on his shoulder, the conversation running around him lost in the multiple contingencies he’s got running in his primary processes as warm-up.

“Tim? Food after this, dude, since you’re driving the truck. Gar’s license is expired and I don’t trust Bart behind the wheel of anything that goes over ten miles an hour.”

He immediately bites down on his lip before Bart even does the speedster double-take with an offended squawk, “wh-wh-what?! I am totally trustworthy driving—“

“—off a cliff,” Cassie fills in, humming to herself while pushing the flat cart with the boxes all loaded.

“—into a wall,” Gar seconds with a wink.

Rave just pats Bart’s shoulder but doesn’t even try.

“All of you suck,” Bart bickers back, “that one time was totally not my fault, dammit—“

And it’s just so crazy that he’s laughing under the cover of one hand while looking obediently at the bathroom towels Cassie is asking about while she shakes her head in mirth at all the antics or stands in front of the full-length mirror Raven suggests he could use.

“Okay, so next we need—”

“Wall cabinets.”

Gar, Raven, Cassie, and Bart pause in the mission, turn to blink at him because he’s been pretty quiet since coming down to breakfast after pulling a Rip Van Winkle.

“I need some wall cabinets,” he specifies with a half-shrug.

“Righteous.” Gar grins wide, the projectors taking away the slightly longer canines along with the whole green thing. He seriously looks like a surfer from Cali, and that? Is completely believable. “They have, like, the mirrored ones, dude. I totally had to have a set.”

“I already know my ass looks fantastic in tights, man. We can go practical on this one,” he deadpans back, moving to lead the way without taking his finger from Bart’s pocket.

It’s telling when Rave is the one that laughs out loud, but, well, he gets the mirrored ones any damn way.

**

A few days later, he takes a tour of a nice place in Faubourg Ste. Marie on Marseille Street for his daytime pseud (and...he’s really going to be Tim Drake again, like, being back in the real world, isn’t he?) to do crazy things— like start establishing residency.

It’s been awhile since he’s been that guy, but still, the knowledge never really left his brain pan. The suit is cut perfectly (reminding him of another life), and he falls back into the old space, charming the realtor with stories of Gotham City (the most crime-ridden in America. “Oh my! The things you must have seen.” You really have no idea), and bringing another industry to the booming town.

He doesn’t take the first place, but circles four more he wants to look at in her handbook, smiles when he hands it back, and she’s slightly breathless when she guarantees she’ll have the keys for them tomorrow morning.

He also mentions being in the market for office space—something large to house a substantial crew for the newest main office of Drake Industries.

HQ is closer to 60% up and running (because at least someone can get everyone moving when things like wiring and panelling needs to be done—some of you can fly, do this thing) when Miles Kelsey comes down from Gotham with the official paperwork. It’s three small letters that have already been attached to his name under the Wayne Enterprise heading (just a formality to keep Bruce’s legacy out of the hands of Hush and Ra’s). But it mean more now. Not a deflection, not a ploy, not because of do or else. It’s his choice this time since, well, the reason for those hint drops in his voicemail? He’s going to turn twenty-one in a few months, and the whole shebang is going to be offered up, get a Drake back in control of the company. Miles is the one that wanted him to know in advance, maybe start early, get a jump on everything, and figure out if this is what he wants.

Thanks for looking out, man. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.

Miles hasn’t changed at all since he last visited the offices in Gotham. The guy is and always was a powerhouse, one of the reasons he’s been on the Board of Directors for so long.

In addition to being one of his dad’s good friends, Miles has always been a voice for the interest of the people (at times, over the business model), and it’s bittersweet seeing the older man again when they meet at a cafe in the Business District to go over the details.

Tim has a smart three-piece suit on that made Cassie whistle appreciatively while the others give him the equivalent of cat calls when he gets back—you know, because they’re assholes.

He’s giving them the half-smirk that is desperately familiar and heats up his coffee from this morning (previous night whatever really).

The convo he walks in on is at—

“It would be such a bitchin’ reality show,” Gar grins, sharp and wide from his spot on the island. The littering of wiring, motherboards, random drives, parts and pieces laid out in front of him like a variable buffet of tech. There’s a bin on the floor by his stool with completed comm units ready for use. He’s got about seventy-some so far because, well dude, we go through so many of these, you don’t even know.

“No way,” Conner argues while he presses down the panini maker gingerly (the last one was not as reinforced—the parts are in the trash by his hip), “there’s no island or anything.”

“I’m thinking more Real World versus Survivor, dude.”

“With the way our lives go, Survivor would probably be more fitting.”

And yes, that’s him, hiding his grin with his mug, and shaking his head at the antics of crazy superheroes.

Cassie is still out doing research on the local universities, thinking about History and Anthropology. Raven is taking the nice background docs he “made” to establish her a real ident to the DMV so she can have a picture ID all her own (she’s been using the Rachel Roth pseud for, well, forever, but he totally gets the whole let’s make it legal kind of feel.) Bart left to go for an interview for (wait for it), a bike courier position.

(He totally didn’t facepalm. Promise.)

When he’s putting his mug in the sink, buttoning his coat regardless of the heat, Conner (now Conner Kesel, thanks to a little bit of magic, or well, shameless hacking) leans in bump their shoulders together in such a familiar move. Those blue eyes are crinkled down at him, wide and bright and—

Fuck.

“Hey Mr. CEO. This,” and there’s a finger wiggle at the suit, “not bad.”

He smirks because, well, it’s all sinking into his bones at this point. The new digs, the company, the team (his team), and things are coming together in a way he hadn’t expected it to ever again. The worst part is the slow warm coiling in low in his belly when Conner or Bart smile at him again.

Double fuck

“It’s supposed to be a cover story.”

Conner just raises a brow at him and hums.

It makes the point.

His sigh is ignored for the smoke screen it is really is, “okay, so it’s a good cover story. Establishing a believable pseud is a good rule of thumb. Cassie is going to college, Bart is working, Gar is being the lazy, rich degenerate—” earning him a “hey! Well, yeah, so true,” from said degenerate before he goes back to the comms— “Rave might start a business once she had a real ident, and…”

He waves a hand absently, “someone has to pay for it all. Why not be me?”

And Con does that thing. Crosses his arms over his chest and gives him the stare down, totally seeing the utter bullshit without fail. The question of who would fund them has never been an issue; all of them have moved and maintained a financial cushion long before they broke it off as Titans.

Tim is trying to carve out a place for himself, something that can’t be taken away, a new ident, a new set of rules and how to live’s, and the meta-human can recognize it before Tim himself really can.

It’s one of those crazy moment where, if they were still that Superboy and that Robin, he would cuff the vigilante on the shoulder and tell him not to be a dumb ass (or when they were that Kon, Tim, and Bart, he would grip those hips and talk his ex-boyfriend out of his own headspace of insecurities). Instead, he lifts a hand to the back of the CEO’s neck, squeezing gently and turning Tim to look him in the eye.

“Don’t think you have to do it for any other reason than you want to.” Conner admonishes, “we’ve got plenty of resources, and you know it. People are grateful when you save them and the donations have always been put aside. If there’s one thing we don’t need, it’s money, Tim.”

And Conner watches those eyes blink quickly in surprise, the head tilt just slightly when the guy with the plan is faced with a fact he hadn’t considered.

Conner just leans down a little, raising a brow, “there’s nothing wrong with making your mark outside the mask. You want to be the Drake running your Dad’s company, then have at it. No one is going to judge you for it.”

“Conner…”

The expression on Tim’s face is so utterly painful in that moment, like his best friend is expecting some kind of admonishment, some kind of humiliation, something, that Conner just can’t stand there waiting on the outside anymore. He’s been treating Tim from some imagined distance for too long as it is.

And slowly, easily, without disturbing the two, Gar Logan slips easily out of his seat in front of the still-playing flat screen and strafes down the hall until he’s far enough away to hit the staircase (sure, Con had super hearing, but something tells him Blue might be a little busy at the moment).

He doesn’t see the super shake his head in old exasperation and pull this dumb ass in by the back of his neck, letting Tim rest his forehead right on the curve of Conner’s collarbone.

Hands are hesitant, light, high on his hips in such a familiar way that the super grins to himself because dammit Tim.

“It’s...fucking stupid isn’t it?” The vigilante asks quietly, keeping his head bowed.

“To want something to hold on to? I don’t think that’s stupid.”

The laugh is not one of those ha-ha funny ones, it’s something a little more bitter, “everyone gave their idents up, dude. What the fuck am I doing?”

“Making it your choice this time,” Conner replies easily, knowledgeably.

And for the fucking life of him, he can’t even get in a breath.