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Fuck, Ra's is weird.
If Tim was a sympathetic man, he might grant the decrepit corpse some leniency simply because he's lived so long. Four hundred or six hundred or however many years must twist someone's ability to comprehend current faux pas. If Tim cared to be nice, he would forgive Ra's a blunder or two.
Unfortunately, the teen isn't feeling magnanimous at waking up to that ugly mug (not to mention adding on how groggy he is from being drugged). Ra's can thus be labeled as a weird, old man for waiting at Tim's bedside like a doting grandparent or some shit.
Wait… Does Ra's consider them family? How- how the fuck would that work? ‘Hey. My grandson's father adopted your boyfriend, so you're my adopted grandson-in-law.’ Is that it?
Wait! Alvin was never adopted? How could Tim forget that?
Sideyeing the suspicious old bastard smiling at him, Tim rubs his forehead. Did the drugs give him the headache or is it a natural phenomenon of seeing Ra's?
Fuck. What was the question the bastard asked again? ‘Do you really suck faces with Alv-’
No. Uhh.. ‘Behold my splendor! Mwahahah-”
Fuck. Whatever it was, Tim can not claim to the murderous overlord that he is not in a very loving relationship with himself. That would not help him and might even endanger him since it would decrease his value as a kidnappee. Tim has a brain. Tim occasionally uses this brain to bolster his self-preservation instincts.
The calculations are simple: Tim loving himself equals living. He merely needs to execute this act until Ra's is subjected to bleeding eyes from all of the mush Tim will be pouring out about Alvin. For example:
‘I love him, Ra's. I swear! He's got the most gorgeous, unspecified eye color and the most luscious variety of wigs! Oh, how I adore his ever-changing face shape contoured by makeup.’
Or something along those lines. Is it a bad idea to wear down Ra's patience by painting poetics about Alvin? Eh. Rather than worry about that, Tim wants to point out that this is all Ra's fault anyway. The ancient fuck can deal with the cringe.
Okay. He can do this.
“Who are you?”
Right. Timothy doesn't know Ra's. This is a great start.
Ra's tilts his head, one finger tapping his armrests. “Did Alvin not tell you about me?”
“Why would he?”
Okaaay, Tim. A little bit aggressive right out the gate here. Ra's may be an annoying asshole, but pretending to be a civilian is the top goal here. Ordinary civilians don't ragebait kidnappers.
… Theoretically this includes Gothamites.
Coughing, Tim curls up until he's peering over his knees. Ra's left eye twitches.
Surprisingly, this position is perfect for ignoring the oh so scary assassin lord and hiding his facial expression. If he trembles enough like a kitten left in the rain, perhaps Ra's will be so thoroughly disgusted with his weakness to leave him alone.
Now, the question Tim needs to ask himself is how ‘Alvin’ is going to desperately search for ‘Tim’ while Tim is stuck in an electronic blackout across the world from where Alvin is supposed to be operating. The CEO might be good, but he ain't that good.
Gods, what the fuck is his life? Creating a fake civilian identity to assume a vigilante identity that is discovered to not be fake dead because the fake civilian identity is ‘dating’ his real identity leading to him being kidnapped by his fake identity's somewhat brother's grandfather. Ah.
Tim will not try drugs. He will not steal Ra's alcohol. Tim is fine.
Murder, though? Could Tim try a little stab stab? Maybe a stab stab stab stab stab puncture Ra's lungs stab stab slash stab impalement. Like a rage room but with knives and an incapacitated Ra's.
Tim could get away with murder. Easily. Especially when he's surrounded by assassins that could take the fall.
But Ra's is a cockroach of a bastard. At this point, nothing short of a nuke would permadeath him (if even that).
Perhaps Tim should be arguing against murder for morality's sake, but Ra's kidnapped a teenage CEO two weeks before his eighteenth birthday. That fucker doesn't even have the courtesy to die as a suitable birthday present. Clearly, he deserves to be electrocuted, set on fire, crushed in the back of a dump truck, and then blended into sludge. It's the only rational response to being kidna-
Ra's is to blame. He is why Alvin was presumed dead. Oh. Oh. Ra's is fucking responsible for why Tim became CEO! It's all his fucking fault!
Tim should feed the geezer his own body parts until he suffocates.
Damian has Alfred. He doesn't need two grandfathers. That's two more than Tim has. The kid will be fine. Therefore, Ra's should die and Tim should ensure it sticks. It's only right.
He got sidetracked. Any murder plans will need to be put on hold until he's no longer a captive without sufficient resources. For safety reasons, Tim needs to romance himself while also establishing enough of a separate identity from Alvin while also not being interesting to Ra's… as a teenage CEO of Batman's company dating the third Robin that Ra's himself thought dead.
He could play dumb?
“Al- Alvin will save me!”
Perfect.
Ra's raises an eyebrow, an amused twist to his lips as he stares at the indignant teen. “I have no doubt the Detective will try. Whether he will succeed is a separate matter when he can't find you.”
Ah, yes. Ra's is suggesting that Alvin will be clueless about Tim's location. Perhaps this is a base that wasn't on the League network. That, or Ra's threw down a fuck ton of money to install an entirely new, secret base in a matter of months. While his current location is unknown to Tim, he will not suggest to the coffin-dodger that Tim and Alvin are a lot closer than Ra's thinks.
“I believe in Alvin. He'll find me! He will!”
Tim makes a valiant effort not to cringe. Or barf. He's got faith in himself to power through any situation, but he's usually not the type to become a self-cheerleader.
“We shall see,” the assassin leader smirks.
Huffing, Tim turns his head from Ra's so he doesn't have to look at the bastard. If it likewise happens to appear that Tim is hiding back tears, all the better for his cover. He is just a helpless teenaged CEO without any fighting skills who is missing his boyfriend. He just wants Alvin to hold him. Scout's honor (Tim was never a scout).
“You will be free to explore and you will not be harmed - so long as you cooperate. You will be given plenty to eat. You only need to ask for what you need.”
Tim stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the old man.
“This is not the Cradle,” Ra's emphasises because Alvin had gleefully blown up the Cradle and a number of other bases worldwide. “However, a number of Alvin's items were retrieved from the wreckage and brought to this room. While all of his electronics were confiscated, the other items may bring you comfort.”
… Is Ra's offering Tim emotional support for the kidnapping that he orchestrated by giving him access to his fake boyfriend's items that were dubiously obtained?
Fuck it. A win is a win.
But should Tim be questioning why Ra's held onto what is practically junk to his rich ass while he thought its owner was obliterated meat?
A win is a win, Tim.
“Thank you,” he grits out. He doesn't want to thank his kidnapper for giving him a five star kidnapping experience, but needs must. Pissing off an assassin leader while in his “care” would be idiotic even for Tim.
Though, would a star be subtracted due to a lack of abducted atmosphere? Tim is rolling on a mattress even more expensive than his own, the sheets are clean and soft, the pillows are his exact preference (how the fuck did Ra's know that), there's no exposed lightbulb, he has free reign of the facility, three whole meals a day, he has snacks, an actual toilet instead of a bucket, and he has zero rope burn. Should he rate the imprisonment lower for not fitting the standard nature of abduction?
He'll ask Duke when he gets back.
“Of course, Timothy. Do let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.”
Holy fuck, he's a hospitable kidnapper. Wow. How weird. Although unlikely, Tim tries, “Can I be released?”
Ra's grips the handle of his sword with a grin. “No.”
“Alright, then. I'm good.”
“I'll let you settle in. Someone will show you to dinner later tonight.”
“Great.”
The fossil’s bones creak as he gracefully rises from the chair without a visible wince. He doesn't look back while striding out of the room and the door clicking shut behind him.
Tim allows himself a moment. One singular moment of throwing himself back onto the pillow, scrunching his face, gritting his teeth, and feeling that soft burn of water in his eyes and the tightness in throat. He breathes in deeply, wills himself not to wail, and scrubs his face as he exhales.
He can't break down. Not here.
Later, when he's locked in his panic room, huddled under four soft blankets and reassured that he can't be attacked again, then he'll cry. He'll let the tears fall for a few minutes, maybe he'll sob for a second, and maybe his jaw will ache as he silently screams around his tears. It won't last longer than five minutes – it never does – but he can have that then. When he's safe.
For now, he rolls off the bed until his feet hit the floor. He has work to do and Ra's stupidly gave him supplies.
He finds his, Red Robin's, duffel bag stashed at the bottom of the closet. It's singed, there's a few patched tears, but otherwise in decent condition – much to Tim's surprise considering it was left behind in a blown up building.
Yanking that bad boy out and dumping it on a table, he ruffles through the contents that have obviously been disturbed. The LoA have zero concerns about privacy and have poked through the bag as well (not that Tim blames them). They didn't hide their effort, particularly when Tim can't find any of his fucking sulfur or potassium nitrate.
Ra's must be sore as hell about all those destroyed bases if he's restricting Tim's access. Maybe after all of this Tim could post an instagram story where “Alvin” is teaching Tim all these really cool chemistry experiments. That old fucker is monitoring his socials, right?
Fuck. If Alvin shows off those cool experiments, then Tim will have to explain to the media why Alvin knows this shit… Then again Alvin lives in Gotham. Maybe it's fine.
Regardless, Tim just wants to know why he packed Mister Sarcastic's disguise into his Red Robin items. He knows he needed a fake identity for his art heists, but he never strayed from Cale Hill (rip that identity. Tim will miss it). So, why the hell is Mister Sarcastic's disguise in here?
And can Tim use it?
“The idea is to put fear into the hearts of criminals-”
Three batarangs thud into the wall, one after the other.
“- not innocent victims.”
Tim readjusts the mask over his nose and pulls his hat further over his brow. Cass stalks towards him, grabs him by his collar, and yanks him onto a nearby roof.
“Hey- hey! What the-”
Eyes of warm espresso peer into the artificial glade of Tim's. “You died,” she spits.
“I-” Faltering before the rage and grief within her eyes, his mouth snaps shut.
“No excuses.”
“Right,” he murmurs. He can't lie to her. She doesn't deserve it. “I'm sorry.”
With a frown, she shakes her head. “Why did you come?”
“Cass… things have settled down in Gotham – Bruce is back.”
She doesn't look at the package in his hands that he's offering. “And you?”
“I… No. I won’t be back.”
Nodding, she crosses her arms. The wind gently pushes against them, tugs at their hair, and sweeps along the roof. The sounds of cars and people sound the same along these rooftops as they do back in Gotham.
Tim is trying his best not to look at the giant billboard with his real identity on it. Of course Cass notices, yet she seems willing to dismiss his distracted attention on Timothy Drake. Instead, she finally takes the package from Tim.
Unraveling the black suit, she frowns. “There is a Batgirl. Stephanie Brown needs it.”
She's right, but, “And what do you need?”
She folds the suit back up. “To… just be."
And fuck if Tim doesn't feel that. After he did it, after he saved Wayne Enterprises, protected his loved ones from LoA, sent proof of Bruce's existence in the timeline to the JLA, and finally got Bruce home, he had a moment to breathe. Everyone is safe.
Sure, Alvin might be considered dead. He might be unable to return to being Red Robin or Robin. And he's stuck as a CEO. Still, he did what he set out to do. Bruce will be brought back.
But Cass didn't return home.
Tim may be shedding his fake identities, he may be running as fast as he can from the Waynes, but fuck does he still care about them.
He really, really shouldn't. Yet, here he is in Hong Kong using WE as an excuse to visit his wayward sister. Here he is toiling away in a business position he never wanted. Here he is, even in disguise, trying to convince his sister to return to a home he won't be in.
It's with similar feelings that he replies, “Fair enough.”
She smiles and tugs him into a hug. “Keep in contact.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles into her hair.
She still doesn't know his name.
Alright. Tim has his disguise stashed in his pockets, he's armed himself with some small gadgets and knives, and he isn't on the verge of setting the entire base on fire regardless of whether he's in it. Peak mental health, truly.
Now it's time to judge Ra's interior designing skills for the rest of the base. By the state of his room, Tim is displeased to note so far that it isn't horrendous decorating. Some might even call it tasteful. Not himself, surely, but the teen can be honest… when it suits him. Even if it means not insulting Ra's.
Whipping open his door, he's a bit shocked there aren't any guards outside of his room. As far as he can tell, he's not even being monitored. Watched, yes, but not in the stalker way they could be doing.
There's a difference.
If anyone asks, he has a perfect plan. He will disappear in the middle of an LoA base somehow accidentally enough for it to not appear purposeful. There's skill in achieving seemingly impossible tasks while also masking it as pure luck so that he remains underestimated. A skill he has mastered.
It's fine. He can do it. He's Tim fucking Drake. If anyone can do it, it's him.
He's not sure what to do after disappearing, though. It's not like he can just waltz outside after losing his guard, especially because the base is probably located in the middle of some wilderness. Without gear and a map, he has no hopes of surviving his escape.
But he also refuses to peacefully coexist with the person that kidnapped him. So, what can he do? Lurk in the ceiling tiles until he's caught? Barricade himself in a room with supplies? Hide in plain sight?
Wait. That's brilliant. Tim can't be forced to go to that dinner tonight if Ra's can't find him. Even more, he can fix his issue of being kidnapped!
His new identity, name to be determined, isn't kidnapped. They will have access to resources Timothy would be prevented from. Like bombs. Or the internet. Or the outside.
Tim Drake is a brilliant, humble man.
Ducking into a corner, he whips out a compact mirror to quickly throw his disguise together. It's with great confidence that he slaps on his fake goatee. Hell, he even plasters on a mustache. For his hair… He manages to wrangle it into a natural looking bald cap. The final touches include slipping on some sunglasses.
Blinking at the mirror, Tim exclaims, “Mr. Worldwide?”
Is it the glasses? Is that too much? The mustache? He shouldn't be doubting himself, but he doesn't want to stick out either. Then again, there's Pru. How much could he stick out when Pru worked here?
Just as he's fiddling with his appearance and contemplating his existence, he hears from behind him, “Who's there?”
Fuck.
Over his shoulder is one of the League members glaring at him while gripping the hilt of their sword. They maintain a defensive position.
Tim nervously laughs as he turns towards them.
“What are you doing there?” The person frowns. With narrowed eyes, they ask, “I've never seen you before.”
Well, if Tim can't beat ‘em, he'll join ‘em. “I'm a new hire.”
Disbelieving eyes sweep over Tim from head to toe with a scowl. “You're not in uniform and I have never seen you before.” The assassin draws their sword. “You're an intruder.”
“This is my uniform,” Tim huffs. He ignores the disapproving glare. “I am the new HR representative.”
“What?”
“I said I'm the new HR representative.”
“We don't have HR.”
Pinching his nose, Tim lets out an aggrieved breath. “Let me ask you something…”
“Kye.”
“Kye. How many people are in the LoA?”
“I… I don't know.”
“Right. Of course. You would say more than a thousand though, correct?”
“No doubt.”
“Then, how many HR representatives would the LoA need for at least that many people?”
They slowly shake their head.
“At least ten people, Kye. Ten people. Unfortunately, finding someone capable and willing to fill this role is excruciatingly difficult. They need to be competent at their job, able to defend themselves, and willing to pledge loyalty to Ra's. Considering these necessary qualifications, the LoA has been unable to fill the role in… Say, how long have you been with the LoA?”
“Fifteen years?”
“Thank you. As I was saying, the LoA has been unable to fill the role in seventeen years. This is not due to a lack of trying, though. Your superiors care about your well-being.”
Tim doubts they do, hence why he is referring to them as ‘superiors’ and not ‘supervisors.’ Despite that, Kye seems to brighten at the reassurance that their life seems to matter to the cult.
“Really?”
“Of course, Kye. Here at the LoA, we strive for a family culture.”
A severely dysfunctional, murderous family, but nonetheless.
Tim continues, “We want you to feel valued and appreciated for your work.”
Would a hand on the shoulder be too far? Probably. Tim resists the urge to squeeze the other's shoulder and stare meaningfully into their eyes like a high school basketball coach. Kye stiffly nods with a, “Thank you, sir.”
“Always. And, if you're not busy, would you mind showing me where I can set up my office? You know how all these bases have endless tunnels.”
“I'm still on patrol, actually,” Kye apologizes with a sheepish rub of their neck.
“No worries. I'll figure it out eventually.”
They almost turn back to their patrol route with a nod until they pause. “I never got your name.”
Fuuuuuck. Alright, Tim. Don't say Mister Sarcastic. Do not say Mister Sarcastic. Don't say Mr. Worldwide. Don't say Mister Sarcastic. Don't say Pitbull.
“It's Jackson.”
… That's his middle name. That's his actual, birth certificate middle name. Gods fucking damn it!
“Nice to meet you, Jackson.” Kye nods. “I'll see you around. Just remember to avoid the laser pits while you get the hang of this base.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Tim laughs. The other man has already turned when the words actually register with Tim.
Laser pits? When the fuck did Ra's get those?
Bruce Wayne has returned from the timestream. Worse for wear, yes, but alive.
And Timothy Drake is sans a spleen.
He's not an idiot. He's well aware that his brand new shitty immune system combined with living in Gotham and having Timothy Drake luck will equate to him getting injured again. It's only a matter of when. The intelligent move would not be to hide this fact.
Better yet, he needs to backdate the information. If his splenectomy occurred years before Red Robin's, then Tim can bury how the two are linked (even if only the LoA are aware of RR's skewering). So, how does Tim fake medical records well enough that Bruce nor Ra's would be wiser? Could he, for instance, utilize a time period where medical institutions were under a great deal of distress and thus likely to have faulty records? Like, say, a giant earthquake?
But what about Tim's obviously fresh scar?
The miracles of modern medical technology can singularly target scar tissue to further their age. Drake Industries just so happens to also have wonderfully developed medical technology.
The final nail in this coffin is Tim's acting skills… Or rather him ending up in a near death experience that ‘forces’ him to out himself to everyone involved in his life.
“Oh no,” Tim will cry. “I thought I could handle keeping this secret. I managed for a few years, but it almost killed me. You're right that I shouldn't keep this to myself. I'll start wearing a medical bracelet from now on. How could I have been so foolish? What a young adult mistake to make. I'll do better.”
Maybe he'll sniff pathetically too.
Tim hasn't been able to escape as Jackson. It's been a week and a half.
The issue with maintaining an employed fake identity is that he actually needs to work, especially when he is conning the place of employment. The issue with pretending to be the LoA's first HR rep in seventeen years is that he needs to completely establish an HR department and do the work of at least ten people.
Luckily, a good chunk of HR's duties do not fall on Jackson. He is not in charge of payroll, hiring, or promotions due to those systems already being in place. Termination of employment, on the other hand, is still unclear to him. He is unsure whether quitting or being fired are actual feasible outcomes for the LoA without the employee being killed. Do they have retirement plans?
Instead, Tim has to implement an LoA-adjacent OSHA, manage worker interactions, protect assassins from discrimination, and listen to complaints. While Ra's does have his own versions of FMLA, parental leave, healthcare, childcare, etc., there aren't typical supports for protecting the workers from their superiors nor a set-in system to handle minor disagreements. There's clear care for their members, but the LoA is still a murderous cult that can and will kill those who disagree with their superiors.
Yet somehow, with the extensive and honored benefits programs, the LoA is better than the majority of companies in America. Even with the murder.
For instance, Tim really appreciates the strict sexual harassment policies regardless of ranks. That, and the no tolerance for any discrimination. He shouldn't be so ruthlessly enthused at their punishments for abusers. And yet…
Regardless, Tim's self-assigned tasks are a mess. A headache. An overhaul. Tim will be extracting payment for this clusterfuck. Since he isn't receiving financial compensation, he will use other avenues to satisfy the sheer amount of effort Jackson is throwing into this organization.
Like, for instant, mandating all of Ra's people to watch yearly videos about sexual harassment, safety in the workplace, discrimination, the company values, and worker benefits. Lovely, yearly HR videos.
These videos are his pride and joy. He has asked forced several LoA members to participate in their creation. They are masterpieces. Despite featuring deadly assassins, the videos are a wonderful blend of corny, dry, and mindnumbing. Truly perfect.
His crown jewel, though, is the video warning against ageism in the workplace. In the span of ten minutes, he either outright states or implies one hundred thirty seven times that Ra's is a senior citizen. Therefore, disregarding his contribution to the cult because he is old is against cult policy and may lead to an untimely death, naturally. No one should imply that his memory is going, that his body can't meet demands, that he smells like hospice, or that he can't be an uber scary assassin lord. None of those examples are allowed. LoA does not allow any form of discrimination, including ageism. That's the point of these assigned videos.
By the time these videos are completed and released to the entire network, Tim hopes he's off base. There is no doubt that Ra's will try to hunt him for sport for this.
The risk is worth it, though. He has copies saved. Copies to personally show– to anonymously send to Damian and Jason.
All of Jackson's work will be worth it if he can witness their reactions. And oh the money he'd pay to witness Ra's watching the videos.
For now, Tim is editing the subtitles on the company values video while contemplating about what he'll do when he finally escapes. He is utterly unwilling to release the facade of his fake identity, Alvin Draper. It would uncomplicate his life and grant him more control over the situation if he came clean on his own, but fuck that. Fuck that. Let his lies crash to the earth and burn down his careful plans. Let him be engulfed in the consequences. Let it consume him whole. He spent far too long separating his real identity from everything else in order to protect himself. The only way he's letting that go is if the lies sear all the way through his palm to the other side. If his fingers can still bend around his falsities, then he won't let go. May he perish from his stubbornness before rationality kicks.
Don't let him give in to sense.
Please.
The sound of someone humming in success drags his mind back to reality. He glances over at the other LoA members he asked demanded to help him. Kye is repeatedly bashing their head into their desk, Hashim sends him a smile when he notices his gaze, and Aminah bites at the end of a pen. It's as he's studying them that he remembers, “Aminah… You're happily married, right?”
Cocking an eyebrow, she scoffs. “Are you trying to curse my marriage, Jackson?”
“No no,” he dismisses. “I just… there's this guy, yeah? We've been dating for a bit and I wanted to do right by him. I was wondering if you had any suggestions.”
Has Tim's life really devolved to him asking for dating advice about himself? Is he truly asking dating advice under a fake identity in order for his true identity to date another fake identity?
Fuck. Is this the rebound effect of Tim being the ‘Robin who can lie to Batman?’
“I'm guessing your parents aren't happily married?” Aminah drawls.
“They're dead.”
“Fair enough.” She squints at her monitor, scrunches her nose, and then clips a section of the video. While working, she inquires, “Are you wanting to marry him?”
“I-” Fuck. Is he? Does he want to marry himself? “I guess so? Not right now, we're not ready for that, but I want to get to that stage.”
She glances over at him for a minute, her eyebrows scrunching as she looks him up and down, before returning to her work with a huff. “You're what? Twenty seven?”
Apparently the Jackson disguise adds a decade to Tim's appearance. “Yeah?”
“Have you met his family?”
Technically? “Yeah?”
“Have you told him about your work?”
While this is a gamble considering that their job should be kept secret on threat of death, Tim decides to be truthful. “Yeah.”
She shakes her head with a sigh. “Then all you have to do is talk to him. Remind him often, repeatedly, just how much you love and appreciate him. Do not take him for granted and be there for him.”
“Oh.”
That's wonderful. All of Tim's specialties in one: Loving, appreciating, and caring for himself.
Aminah snorts. “Simple, yeah? But not really. Communicating deeply with another is necessary for all close relationships, sure, yet sometimes your dictionaries don't line up and you spend an eternity trying to procure a translation for the smallest of gestures. Effort and commitment mean absolutely nothing if the other party doesn't feel cared and appreciated for. If anyone told you that conveying affection was the easy part, they've been lying to you. Therefore, you need to reflect: How honest and communicative would you say you are to each other?”
Ah. Tim's other specialties: Being truthful and expressive. Is Tim honest enough to admit that he's not honest to himself? That he utilizes humor, homicidal urges, and anger to deflect from the constant hurt of others?
No. No he's not.
“Yeah. We're as honest as can be.”
The side eye Aminah sends him is proof that she doesn't believe him. “If you say so.”
He merely hums. Who needs honesty in a fake relationship with themself? Maybe when he's back he'll ask Bart, Cassie, and Kon to help him get married. It could be a nice bonding activity.
Tim's not sure how he still has a job at Wayne Enterprises. Due to Robin requiring him to call in frequently, he should have been fired long before he sent Mr. Fox his leave of absence for several months. The leave of absence he sent while he was boarding a plane.
He may produce significant results and be well-liked by Lucius and Bruce, but this time might really be pushing it. Hell, Mr. Fox should have murdered him for leaving him alone with that Brucie impersonator. Tim would have murdered someone if he was stuck dealing with that man.
But, somehow, Mr. Fox doesn't even sound angry when he confirms Tim's leave. He simply accepts it and maneuvers plans accordingly. By the gods, none of them deserve that man.
(And some part of Tim always wonders why he's given so much grace. Is it because he's young? Does Lucius suspect Tim's alter identity?)
Regardless, somehow Tim will still have his position at WE when he returns from his search for Bruce – his desperate, seemingly hopeless bid to find this man.
He doesn't have any connections to assist himself either. Alvin may be a friend of the Waynes and Timothy may work for them, but neither identity is helpful for crossing borders or setting up appointments with worldwide curators and collectors.
He's alone this time. Hell, he's always been alone. But not quite like this.
His parents left him for months, nearly years at a time. They traveled and worked and missed most of his childhood. They were busy, too busy for the child they were responsible for. And why would that matter? They had the money to hire a league of nannies and housekeepers. He was watched over by boarding schools. They left him constantly, yet he had people hired to aid him with his needs.
After they died, after Tim essentially emancipated himself at fourteen, he had the Waynes. They didn't know him, not his eye color nor his name, but they knew his laugh. They knew his favorite foods, how to cheer him up, and whether he needed a hug. Dick was his older brother, Barbara and Cass were his older sisters, Steph his friend, Alfred his grandfather, and Bruce like his father. There were issues, sure. Fuck, they had a shit ton of issues.
Still, if push came to shove, they were there.
They aren't here now.
Can Tim blame them? Can he? He… He doesn't have anything outside of Robin. He gave up his civilian life, his civilian friends, for Robin. He graduated high school online and didn't even attend the ceremony. He holds a job he doesn't need for Robin. Everyone he interacts with now is because of a mask (whether he's actively wearing it or not).
So, can he blame Alfred for making the costume, Dick for cooperating, Damian for taking, Cass for fleeing, Barbara for not interfering, and Steph for countering? Can he?
But how else is he meant to breathe? Everything, everything he has, is for Robin. For that role, for that stupid fucking role, he gave up every godsdamned thing he had. He doesn't have a life, a friend, or a family outside of it.
It was supposed to be temporary, he knew that, he fucking knew that, but what? Is he supposed to give up when it's stolen from him? When he doesn't have a choice? When it's not his own doing?
What is he supposed to do? How could he possibly let go?
He can't-
His suit, his memorial to Kon, the identity Bart knows best, and the last clothes Bruce saw on him. The mantle isn't his. Still, still, it was. He made it his. Fuck Jason. Fuck Dick. Fuck Damian. It was Tim's.
But fine. Fine! He's Red Robin now. He's Cale Hill. He doesn't need them. He doesn't need anyone. He's never been alone like this, but he's already handled the responsibilities of an adult. He'll deal without any support either.
He's fine. He's doing great. He's doing better now that he doesn't have to watch over anyone. He's fine!
… Even if he's wanted by several governments. Even if he's attacked and assassins are sent after him. Even if the only helping hand is a poisoned one.
Tim has been acting like an adult since he was fourteen. He's seventeen now. He'll be fine.
He's fine.
Tim is on a very important mission. He knows Ra's, that rage-baiting bastard, is pickling his spleen. He just needs to find where it is.
He's searched every area that Jackson has access to (and some that he doesn't). The only places he hasn't dared so far are those only accessible to the al Ghuls. He was sincerely hoping he wouldn't have to search the shriveled husk's office. In the end, though, he does manage to sneak in, scoop up a jar of spleen chunks, and slip back out the door without alerting anyone.
He's brilliant like that.
Finally, in the nearest alcove, Tim peers down at his prize. He shakes the container to watch all the bits sloosh around.
Sloosh sloosh.
Why did Ra's jar all the segments of Tim's spleen?
Sloosh sloosh.
The fucker thinks he has a sense of humor.
Sloosh sloosh.
“Jackson?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Swiftly obscuring the jar behind his back as he turns, Tim smiles at the man approaching him. “Yes?”
The other man, Hashim, trots forward with a sullen face. He stops just before him while sighing. “Are you busy?”
Gods fucking damnit.
Shaking his head with a gentle smile, Tim answers, “For you? Of course not. What's wrong, Hashim?”
“It's just… I don't feel appreciated or valued. You said I can come to you with that, right?”
“Absolutely. We can head to my office if you'd like more privacy and to discuss it further.”
“No. I'm alright here.”
Fuck. Tim glances towards Ra's office internally wincing. However, he can only reply, “Then what seems to be the matter?”
“It's… The death matches. Ronan keeps interfering in them. I don't know why, I even tried asking him, but he keeps giving nonsensical answers. I, like all members, have the right to them. I only want to fully participate in them without Ronan stopping them at every little instance.”
Shuffling the jar to a more comfortable position, Tim nods. “You are valid for your feelings of frustration and disappointment, Hashim. Am I identifying your emotions correctly?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The fact that they are cutting your death matches short despite your experience and training is simply not okay. I'll set up a meeting soon with Ronan, Aminah, and Nadia. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Hashim nods.
As the jar slips, Tim grimaces.
“Jackson?” The older teen's head tilts and his brows furrow in concern.
“I'm alright. Is that everything you needed to discuss?”
After a moment's hesitation, Hashim affirms with a nod.
“Good, then I'll see you-”
The jar fully slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a loud cracking noise. Tim closes his eyes with a sigh. Hashim tries to glance at the noise, but luckily the jar landed directly behind Tim.
“Are you-”
“I will see you on Monday, Hashim.”
“Oh.”
Fuck. Now he feels guilty.
“Yeah… I… Okay.”
Now Hashim looks like a kicked puppy. His shoulders fall, his wide and amber eyes tremble, his lips protrude in a pout, and he lowers his gaze. Tim can practically see the drooping dog ears perched on his head. Before the younger teen knows it, he's grabbing the other's arm as he turns to leave. Those amber eyes dart up to him expectantly.
“I didn't mean to be so harsh.”
“I know.”
So Hashim says, yet Tim can still see those metaphorical drooping dog ears. Fuck, he thinks.
“It's okay, Jackson. I'll see you on Monday.”
After a moment of staring into sincere amber eyes, Tim lets go of his arm. “Alright.”
Hashim offers a small smile before leaving. Tim watches his lowered shoulders until he's out of sight and then crouches down to inspect the jar. There's a crack along the bottom where liquid trickles out, but the container and pieces are otherwise intact. A lucky break, so to speak.
The jar retrieval is somewhat of a success, thank the gods.
His side burns. That's the first sensation to drag him into consciousness. The incessant, shredding warmth along his left side.
Other senses also trickle in, like the cold and rigid material beneath him, the sound of multiple people trying to conceal their breathing, and… green.
Fuck. Fuck.
Please please tell him that he didn't steal Jason's shtick. Gods, no. He's going to ask that fucking Spider to finish him off if Ra's dared to throw him in the fucking pit. Tim doesn't want anger issues, a stupid white streak of hair, and a craving for murder.
Well… More of a craving for murder. He does not need that in his life.
Then again, he could just kill Ra's and blame it on the pit. A little, ‘Oh no! The knife slipped into his body thirty seven times! I had too much green in my eyes that I couldn't see! I also very conveniently couldn't comprehend what was going on when all of his limbs and organs were separated and disposed of in a variety of methods. Damn. How regretful.’ A little frowny face, some tears, and perhaps some trembling thrown on top to sell it.
Tim isn't sure how much premeditation he can do before it no longer becomes pit madness, but then again Jason did the whole duffle bag thing. If Bruce will rationalize throwing around severed heads to threaten people for drug money, Tim can figure out disposing of Ra's body. With this notion, maybe the dunk-a-dunk was a good thing.
If it happened.
Okay. Observations. What is going on?
He's in a room with over a dozen assassins. The old geezer is here too. And Pru, Z, and Owens are being held at swordpoint.
Hmm.
A hostage situation using the fuckers Tim has grown a soft spot for during his extra angsty stage (although anybody's life could work to ensure his cooperation with a few people not included [sacrificing himself for the Joker is Bruce's noble morals, not Tim's]).
Towering menacingly over his bedside is a man in a white mask. Despite his urge to throttle that man, Tim withholds due to the three very obvious chess pieces.
This is going to be a headache and a half, isn't it?
Ra's had threatened to kill people for every minute that Tim was late to dinner. So, despite avoiding the crispy fucker for weeks now, he's throwing open the dining room doors dressed as Timothy Drake.
There are a lot of questions Tim could ask the cult leader. He could ask when he's going home, how long he'll be stuck here, or if the asshole carries butterscotch candies with him. He could question the man about the League's forces, about fighting techniques, about history long past, or about Ra's plans for the future. Any of these would be acceptable questions.
Instead, he inquires, “Why are there balloons?”
There's an almost tasteful display of balloons, streamers, and other party decorations to the private dining room. Tim lingers by the door as he eyes the changes warily.
“I wouldn't forget your birthday, Timothy.”
Ah. Tim had completely forgotten that it's normal for kidnappers to celebrate their captive's birthday. With a birthday party.
“Do sit down, Timothy.”
With a brief glance at the armed guards standing along the walls, Tim complies with the demand by settling at the left corner of the table near Ra's.
“Are the decorations to your liking?”
“They are suitable-” Holy fuck. Is the table cloth made with spun gold? Damn. Not even Janet would go to this extreme for Tim's birthday parties. How badly does Ra's want Alvin to work for him that he's trying so hard to impress Tim?
“Wonderful.” The older man swirls crimson liquid in a gaudy, golden goblet. There's even, holy hells, there's even rhinestones on it. It could not possibly be comfortable to grip, and yet the shriveled ancient lard lounges on his dining-room-appropriate throne as he stares at Tim. Those crocodile-like eyes pin him down while the man tips his wine into his mouth.
Refusing to shiver out of pure spite, Tim attempts to guess what his food is poisoned with based on smell, taste, and texture.
“Alvin is a brilliant detective, but I should have known that his companion would have been of similar quality. You have managed to hide yourself in a base filled with highly trained league operatives for how many weeks?”
They both know that Ra's is aware of how long Tim has been kept prisoner. That's not the point of this inquiry. If Tim outright denies knowledge of the passing time, Ra's wins this verbal spar. If Tim concedes by informing Ra's of the information the older man prodded for, then Tim is surrendering a win. It's a question set up for Tim's failure, so of course he responds with:
“Your assassins are unobservant, Ra's. I've been here the entire time.”
Tightening his grip further on the bedazzled goblet, which has to be uncomfortable to hold, the assassin drawls, “Obviously, Timothy. You would have returned to your paramour if you were able to.”
“Paramour?” Blinking, he sets down his goldware. “Would you have an allergic reaction to calling him my boyfriend?”
Ra's raises an eyebrow. “If that is the term you would prefer, I will use such.”
Tim can only sigh. “What is it that you want?”
“Alvin did not, and would not, accept my offers to join. While it is a shame to lose such a valuable asset, he has also proven to be unworthy of even the smallest amount of trust. You, on the other hand, are just as intelligent as him.” Ra's pauses, tilts his head, and hums. “You may even possess more intellect than him. Thus, I extend the invitation to you.”
Oh. So this birthday party isn't about Alvin. Should Tim be flattered that two of his identities have been recognized separately by Ra's? No, right?
Should he be offended that Alvin isn't as smart as Tim?
And technically, technically, Tim has already been working for Ra's these past few weeks. Is it in direct opposition of the direction Ra's wishes to take his cult? Well…
However, Tim isn't even getting paid for his work! All those employee resolutions without a single dime to his name (ignoring the fact that he's a millionaire). He'd scream about the injustice if that wouldn't immediately ruin all of his plans.
“Can I refuse?”
Ra's smiles.
“I see.”
The conversation lapses, only the sound of cutlery and eating is heard for an unbearable amount of time. Fed up with the atmosphere, Tim breaks it. “I have a question.”
As Ra's dips his bread, he briefly glances up. “Yes, Timothy?”
“Why do you allocate a significant portion of your funds to charity?”
There's a pleased curl to Ra's lips. “You have accessed the League's financial records. Well done.”
Ah. Whoops.
Ra's clears his mouth with a sip of wine. “Humans have the right to food, shelter, and health. While human greed corrupts and corrodes earth, it isn't the fault of all humans. No. Rather, it's the ones in power who hoard resources they don't need by prying it from those with the least. How simple it is to take from the weak, and how arduous it is to ask from the strong.”
“But you are strong and kill those with less skill than you,” the teen points out.
“Out of necessity. I do not condone needless suffering.”
The dangerous aspect about cults is their ability to rationalize their actions. While what he said is logical to an extent, Tim has visited the torture dungeons. ‘Needless suffering' is stated under the manipulative assumption that their definitions of ‘needless’ match. Considering that Tim owns exactly zero torture dungeons, it is obvious where they disagree.
“I see.”
Ra's is sly enough to notice that Tim does not see, so he proposes, “Indulge my curiosity about your thoughts so that we may reach an understanding.”
Tim would rather he increase the dosage of whatever poison is mixed into their food.
At his silence, Ra's offers, “I will answer a different question then.”
“... How old was Damian when he started training?”
Ra's pauses, the barest downward twitch of his lips betraying his emotions. “Allow me to ask you instead, Timothy. At what age do American children start gymnastics?”
What?
“It is acceptable in your society to begin gymnastics as young as four years old. Martial arts can also start as young as three in America. Yes, Damian was young when he started training. However, it was only ever at an age appropriate level. We did not place a blade within his palm until we were certain he was able to wield it.” After a brief pause, he asks, “Would you like to see the weapons of his youth?”
“You still have his baby training swords?”
Ra's shoulders lower slightly. “We have every tool he used regularly until he left.”
That's… kind of adorable?
“I would be delighted to see the collection.”
“Perfect.”
Tim sets his utensils down to indicate he has finished eating. Someone steps forward to collect his plate and then disappears. While Tim is wiping his hands, Ra's muses, “It's a shame that Bruce has yet to adopt Alvin or you.”
No it's not. It's really not a shame at all. If the fucker approaches with adoption papers, Tim will shoot him. He will. If he has to steal Alfred's shotguns, he will. Also, where the fuck is this geezer going with this conversation?
Ra's dabs at his mouth with a napkin and then says, “With his ties to Talia, his children, regardless of blood, would be eligible to join the al Ghul family.”
Thank the fucking heavens Tim has never been adopted. Mother of gods, having Ra's as a grandfather? Talia as a stepmother? Oh, fuck. Is Tim now way more sympathetic for Damian? Even the idea of being related to his family causes Tim's guts to twist with nausea.
Wait… What does he mean by, “Ties to Talia?”
Gripping that gods awful goblet once more, the assassin hums. “I am referring to their marriage, of course.”
Someone take Tim to the training ground and shoot his brains out. Please.
“Did the Detective not inform you of this?” Sensing Tim's abject horror, Ra's explains, “Bruce and Talia married through League customs before he returned to Gotham and became Batman. He never registered this marriage with his government, and he never annulled it either. As far as we are concerned, the marriage is still valid.”
As soon as he gets back, Tim is telling Duke that Bruce cheated on his wife. That is the only reasonable course of action to this discovery.
Tim hates holidays.
His parents were never home for them (though they said they tried to be), and then they finally were. He watched them be lowered into the ground for Christmas.
He hasn't felt like celebrating since then.
After his parents died, after he assumed both the identity of Alvin and Robin, no one was around to celebrate his real birthday. Sure, Alvin had cakes and presents with the Waynes.
But Bruce fucking ruined even that for him. Who knew he could develop severe anxiety over gifts and nearly have a mental breakdown?
The one bright spot is that YJ, his team, knows his actual birthday. While he tries to avoid whatever they have planned, without fail they always find some way to celebrate. Cassie, Kon, and Bart will bend the laws of the universe just to say, ‘We're glad you're here for another year.’ Cissie, Anita, and Greta send well wishes as well.
If only that had lasted more than two years.
Tim turned seventeen with Kon in the ground. Then Bart died. Then Cassie found Tim's cloning experiments and deemed him out of his fucking mind.
Now Tim is spending his eighteenth birthday kidnapped by Ra's al Ghul.
It's official. Tim hates holidays.
“Did you see the resources HR provided?” This whisper across the cafeteria room caught Tim's attention.
“Are they even allowed to hand those out? I thought HR was for handling conflicts, not making them.”
“I don't know.” They stab their fork into their potatoes.
“It's useful information, though. I'm thinking of joining.”
“Are you out of your mind?!”
“Well, what else are we supposed to do? Adhere the status quo in fear of our mere fragile lives or risk death for the chance for improvement?”
The other person sighs. “You're being foolish. Isn't it good enough now? It's better than it was. Rather than jeopardize what's been granted, shouldn't we not be greedy?”
“But what's granted can always be seized. There's no guaran-”
The clink of a cup in front of Tim breaks him from his eavesdropping. He looks up to see Kye nod while settling across the table. Their hands wrap around their tea.
“How has work been?” They ask.
Aminah snorts. “He's been pulling everyone into his projects. Don't you already know?”
“I was being polite.”
“Polite? Why bother?”
As the two continue to bicker, Tim gazes at the employees from before. He handed those pamphlets out for the hell of it, but he can't help wondering, “Why did you join the League?”
His two tablemates fall silent at being interrupted. They stare at him and then share a glance.
“That,” Aminah tsks, “is not appropriate to ask, newbie.”
Kye pushes her shoulder. “It's fine, Aminah.” Their gaze falls on Tim, a bitter smile pushing their lips while they rest their face upon their hand. “I wouldn't recommend you ask others like that, but I don't mind.
My uncle wasn't a kind man. He never offered a word of praise nor a hug. He was cold and distant, but he was there. He taught me to bandage my wounds when I came home from school beaten black and blue, showed me where to hit others so it hurt, and always took my side when the school called. He didn't reassure me when I cried nor did he step-in to help with the bullying. Instead, he told me to always fight back. To bite, to claw, to holler, and to deal as much damage regardless of if I win that fight.
He told me there would be consequences, that the school wouldn't let my retaliating go, and then he gave me the choice: Allow the fear of punishment to keep me down or fight back knowing I will pay for it.
He made me into someone who won't take abuse and injustice willingly. And he was all I had.”
Rolling their cup between their palms, their gaze slips from Tim's face to over his shoulder.
“My bullies weren't ordinary kids. Their parents were rich and they were powerful. They were the type to enjoy others’ torment but had fragile egos. If they were to commit a crime, they could pay or threaten off the investigators until it was swept under the rug.
I know that because the police ruled my uncle's death as an accident. He was missing three fingers, his tongue, and an eye.”
Kye's eyes meet Tim's.
“This life, the League, you're either born into it or pushed into it by cruelty. The League is strength, salvation – a stand against corruption. No one joins for the rainbows and sunshine.”
Tim shouldn't have asked.
Aminah's eyes reflect Kye's – that same hollow, distant look into the past that led them here. There's acceptance of the blade they grip, the blade they press against their enemies’ neck, and the blade that is against their own. A grimy determination to push themselves through their self-assigned hell because they've judged the cost as worthy. They could lie to themselves, deceive their reality so that they are the good characters within the story of their life. They could frame the narrative of their actions and excuse any wrongdoings. Yet, despite their strong conviction, they acknowledge their circumstances.
They are murderers.
Their methods aren't good. They utilize sinister, sinful techniques. And they are willing. If there is a hell waiting for them, they welcome it.
“I won't share my story,” Aminah affirms. “I won't ask for yours either.”
A convenient out, yet, as they lapse into silence, one he's grateful for. He worries about the choices he's made and the experiences he's had that have led him to where he is now.
Red Robin, Alvin Drapper, was isolated from any support system. He was desperate, foolish, and out of his mind with grief. He clung to the embers of his hope, a mere shattered painting, and allowed it to sear into his palm as he stoked the flame.
And Ra's was kind.
Tim wasn't naive. He knew that the old man inviting him to chess games, sending him trainers, and praising his skills was a cunning snake. He knew that the grandfatherly persona of a gracious if not grouchy elder was an act.
But he was kind.
Tim knew. The League of Assassins still carried out their kills while he was with them (even if they hid that from him). Some of the members would disappear to never return or show up with another scar. Some shied from eye contact or touch. Some barely hid their fangs – their mouths drooling with bloodlust.
Their farce of ignorance on both sides was held by the swords pointed at hostage throats, the ticking of a clock, every prey ensnared in spider silk, and casual smiles over food. A mutually deceptive act. Alvin, the young almost grandson helping out, and Ra's, an elder in need of assistance. The scheme was obvious.
But, in spite of the frustration of being threatened and the necessity of his actions, Tim had hesitated before inputting the final line of code for his killswitch.
Ra's was a manipulative murderer, but he had been kind.
Tim stares at the green, bubbling liquid - its glow bathes the surroundings with its sickly, chartreuse light. For all that it has affected the Waynes over the years, it's so unassuming. It almost seems warm, comforting.
These waters are sinister - a genie's wish. A sweet promise like cinnamon in a tea cup. They grant life and health, yet their cost is great. It corrupts. It pollutes.
Tim wonders, from a purely scientific standpoint, just how murky those waters are to those affected by it. Does the pit whisper in their ears about dark desires in a voice they thought they could trust? Does it cloud their vision until all they can see is green? Or is it worse, sneakier? Does it upset their brain chemicals so its victims are initially unaware of its influence?
To what point can Tim assign culpability? Were Jason's actions his own? Did the pit manipulate him? Did the trauma of dying, of rebirth, and of his assassin training cause what happened? Is Jason fully to blame? Partially?
And as he gazes at the sloshing of chartreuse liquid, he muses how often Damian had been subjected to them. How many times would the youngest Wayne have been lost without them? To what extent should Tim hold Damian accountable for his actions?
And is he a fool for forgiving them regardless?
He doesn't trust them. He couldn't. Yet, he doesn't need trust to forgive them for their past actions. Which he foolishly does. He merely hopes they forgive him as well.
The water lapping at the rocks is a soothing, gentle sound. It should hiss like poison, but Tim could even meditate at this repetitive sound.
He tilts his head to the side.
If he took a dip, a very small dip, would his immune system be bolstered? He wouldn't be restricted to eating certain foods, consuming antibiotics like candy, or fearing every time someone coughs if so.
Could it kill him instead or make him mad? Yes. Would it be worth it?
.
.
.
Cass's disappointed frown flashes into Tim's mind, so he backs up with a sigh.
Only by a single step. The eerie warmth pulls him into a trance, one his exhausted mind struggles to shake off.
“You would die.”
Blinking out of his hazy mindset, he turns to find familiar emerald eyes gazing at him. These ones are impassive in comparison to the ones Tim knows.
“Come, Timothy. Dinner is ready.”
He doesn't move, but he doesn't turn back to the green liquid either.
“Do not make our mistakes of heeding the waters’ call. When the tide lowers once more, you'll only find yourself adrift your regrets.”
The reminder ripples through his mind like a pebble thrown into a lake; although the surface eventually calms, the reminder sinks to the bottom of his thoughts. As it settles Tim asks, “Why did you subject Damian to them, then?”
The warmth he hadn't even noticed leaves her gaze as she replies, “He needs to be strong. Weakness will hinder him.”
This is the answer Tim had expected from her. A cold, practical response to the skills and scars drilled into a child's body.
This time, though, he pauses. Are her actions so simple? Instead of dismissing her reasonings due to her methods and goals, could there be more to why she would subject Damian to such a cruel childhood?
Her face is as impassive as always – an insurmountable wall between her emotions and others. But… the way she gazes at him is familiar. Her emerald eyes almost glint like sapphire, her lips press into a reminiscent line, and her umber hair seems golden with the chartreuse lighting.
Tim looks at Talia and sees Janet.
“... You hurt him.”
“I did not wish to see him dead.”
Talia doesn't resemble his mother, not from the shape of her eyebrows, the length of her hair, nor her height. Nonetheless, her stare and the way she carries herself hold a weight Tim has only found from his own mother.
Her reasons may not matter. The pain inflicted upon Damian, upon a child not even twelve years old, is inexcusable.
But Tim can't ask Janet why she always left, why she was never home, and why she obsessed over his image. Why did she never stay?
Talia, with emerald eyes shimmering like sapphire, can't answer these questions either. All she can provide is context for her actions. Perhaps within her logic Tim may find consolation. At least she isn't a silent gravestone.
“You taught Damian to kill in order to protect him?”
“The world my son is born into is a treacherous one. It will not spare him because he is young.
Bruce believes his own strength is enough to grant mercy to his foes,” she scoffs. “He allows himself to fall victim to countless consequences because of this mercy.
I no longer agree with him. I refuse the acceptance of such notions to limit Damian, to cause him to falter when his life is at peril. I refuse the cost of such ideals.”
With a wry twist of her lips, she turns away from whatever expression is on his face. “It's time for dinner. Make haste, Timothy.”
Tim doesn't resist being led into that ostentatious dining room that is only marginally better without the birthday decorations.
Talia waits for acknowledgement to sit. Tim, as an unwilling prisoner with a few too fucks to give, plops into his chair without regard. The potential stabbing was worth the way both al Ghuls’ eyebrows twitch.
Ra's motions at Talia, so she pulls back her chair with a, “Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening,” Ra's almost smiles. “You have brought Timothy to dinner.”
“He was sulking.”
Tim's head whips to her in gaping disbelief. Sulking? He was not!
Although her expression does not change, the amused twinkle in her eyes is not a misconception. He can't prove it, but it's there!
“It's rather fortunate you were able to find him.”
“So I've heard.” Turning to Tim, she ponders, “How have you managed to evade everyone?”
“Luck.”
“... Luck, you say?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Talia trails a finger along the rim of her wine glass (which is thankfully not as gaudy as The Goblet). “How much of this base have you seen, Timothy? If you'd like a tour, there's this lovely spot beneath the training grounds I could show you.”
“I'm okay. Thank you.” Tim has been there. The smell alone is revolting enough to vomit, not to mention the actual contents.
“Pity.”
… She's not going to drag him off to it in retaliation, right?
Talia offers him a smile.
Fuck.
“Is there a problem with the food?” Ra's pipes up.
The teen pokes at it with his fork. “No. The real, earthen nutrients are fine and void of plastic.”
“...”
Tim plops a piece into his mouth, chews, and then hums in satisfaction.
“... How relieving that it delights your palate.”
Oh how Tim misses his RR scanner. It's words like those that make Tim curious if what he's eating should even be consumed in the first place. To be on the safe side, he avoids the extra sus dishes.
The conversation dies as they focus on their respective meals. Tim's disappointed that the atmosphere is not uncomfortable. It's revolting how peaceful it is.
Wanting to stir shit, Tim chirps, “Have I mentioned how much a Columbian necktie would compliment you, Ra's?”
Talia chokes on her wine.
Ra's dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Not as much as a bloody eagle would suit you.”
Damn. The man got him. Tim cuts his meal into a refined piece and politely finishes chewing before speaking again. “Your animal conservation and humanitarian efforts might be your only redeemable qualities.”
“I do exist to seek your approval, Timothy,” Ra's deadpanned. “Despite your obstinance, the League has numerous aspects that you would agree with.”
“Like murder?”
“Yes.”
Fuck. How'd he know? Still, Tim is a stubborn bastard. He won't back down from such remarks. Smacking his chest, he hisses, “How dare you accuse me of condoning murder?”
“Timothy-”
“Murder!”
Talia hums sympathetically. “How truly outrageous.”
Tim gestures at Talia as if to say ‘See!’
Ra's shakes his head. “Forgive my implications that I shall not insinuate in the future.”
“Thank you,” Tim huffs and settles back into his chair.
It's only after he has finished his meal that he realizes how familiar he had acted with the al Ghuls. What bullshit is this? Is the cult brainwashing working on him??
Fuck, he needs to get out of here before he ends up calling that decrepit bastard ‘grandpa.’
Tim finds himself staring at his hands.
There's a scar along his left thumb. Another, uneven scar along the backs of both hands. A burn mark on his right middle finger. Calluses from his weapons and technical work. An indent on his right pinky. Freckles are scattered between knuckles, along fingers, and down his wrists. His hands bear the marks of his life.
Blood doesn't drip from them. The red hasn't seeped beneath his skin and altered its pigmentation. Instead, he sees the blood is dried. It flakes with each movement. It crinkles. And it's everpresent. He picks it off only to find another layer underneath.
He has accessed the records of how many died that day. His kill count of zero went to thousands of deaths in a moment. It was easy, too easy.
It was necessary, he whispers to himself. Their deaths allowed him to survive, to live.
But was it worth it? Can he claim his own insignificant life was worth thousands of others?
He doesn't like to think about it.
He can do violence. He can injure, harm, and break. If his hands could do it at fourteen, why not at eighteen?
But death?
Does he ever want to know if he's capable of it personally?
Joking about it is easy and simple. He's never had to watch the light leave the eyes of his victims. He hasn't witnessed theie last breath. Their pleading. Their fury, their fear.
He threatens death, jokes about it, because he doesn't actually know whether he could do it. If a screen wasn't between him and his victim, could he push that button – pull that trigger?
Half the time, he pretends his hands are clean.
He hasn't felt that sticky warmth between his fingers, underneath his nails, dripping from his palms, and cusped within his hands. If he's never witnessed his kill in person, he can delude himself of his innocence. He can look at his image in the mirror and pretend Bruce wouldn't be ashamed of him.
He can lie and say that the man in the looking glass doesn't reflect Jason Todd.
The small, emerald eyed boy looks at Tim. He looks at the other workers. He looks back at Tim.
Making eye contact, Tim shouts, “When I say union, you say power!
Union!”
“Power!”
“Union!”
“Power!”
“Union!”
“Power!”
The bewildered child glances at the crowd, several emotions flickering across his face until he ultimately relents. Keeping a hand on his sword, he grabs a member on the outskirts of the commotion.
They blink down at him. “Baby demon?”
Damian recoils from the address, the schlink of his sword being drawn barely audible to the other person over the commotion.
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” They cower.
Gritting his teeth and deciding to focus on the matter at hand, Damian barks, “Where is Timothy Drake?”
“Timothy Drake?”
The sword presses on their throat.
“I'm sorry! No one has seen him in days!”
“A civilian has escaped surveillance from League operatives?”
“...”
“Pathetic.”
As Damian shoves them aside to interrogate another person, Jackson asks someone else to take over the chanting for him. He'll need to switch his disguise and grab his jar of spleen before hitching a ride with Damian.
Tim manages to obtain his go bag and is in the process of removing his disguise when someone barges into his office.
“Jackson! The rally is a hu-”
Jackson, sans bald cap, startles at the appearance of Hashim. Hashim blinks at him, his mouth parted in surprise.
“I can explain.”
“Yeah?” The man closes the door behind him while stepping further into the room. The warm, gentle gaze usually directed at him is now guarded. “Explain then, Jackson.”
Tim rubs his face and then grimaces at the texture of his fake facial hair.
“Do go on, Jackson. I'd like to see your real face.”
At the demand, Tim reluctantly removes everything. Hashim's brows lower when his appearance is finally revealed.
“Ah,” the man hums. “Well, at least I know you didn't intentionally infiltrate the base, Timothy Drake.”
“You recognize me.”
“I, an assassin, recognize the CEO of one of the top international corporations. The same CEO we recently kidnapped and are currently holding captive at this base.”
“Yeah.”
Hashim snorts. He ruffles his hair in agitation, dark curls falling back in front of his eyes. “I'm kind of pissed you can pull off a bald cap.”
“What?”
“Ah.” Hashim blinks. “Ignore that.”
Tim eyes him, his gaze lingering on the beauty mark under his left eye, and then he looks away. “If I do, will you let me go?”
Conflict flutters in those amber eyes. After a moment, he sighs, “I need to tell the others.”
“Oh.”
“How else will they know where to visit you?”
Tim's gaze darts up to meet Hashim's. “Visit?”
“Yeah,” the man grins. “They're going to be surprised, sure, but we've grown attached. You can't get rid of us now.”
A small smile blossoms on Tim's face.
“Besides, I'll escape all the teasing about being the youngest of our group.”
“Come on. I'm only a year younger than you.”
“Practically a baby,” he coos.
Tim walks over to punch his shoulder. “Shut up.”
Hashim dramatically stumbles and then wobbles his lower lip. “What's with the violence? I thought we were friends.”
“Keep your promise of visiting and I'll make it up to you, Hashim”
The older man moves away from the door with bright eyes. “I'll see you soon, Mr. CEO.”
“I'll hold you to that.”
After leaving, it doesn't take long for Tim to stumble upon Damian once more. The kid has unfortunately attracted all of the members on base willing to fight him. Which is practically the entire population.
Damian ducks under a punch, his eyes landing on Tim with a scowl. The kid is obviously not happy about how difficult it was to find Tim. The older teen merely waves. Damian's scowl deepens.
When it seems that Damian might be overrun, Tim loudly gasps drawing the room's attention to him. “Damian? Just what are you doing?!”
Several baffled looks are sent in Tim's direction.
“Your grandfather explicitly said not to be late! And what are you doing? Fighting?! We don't have time for this!”
A few of the assassins who have seen Ra's, Talia, and Tim at dinner back off. At seeing those members disengage, the others do as well. Tim marches into the crowd and grabs Damian's arm. The kid tries to yank back, but Tim sends him a warning look.
“Hurry up! I do not want to explain to him why we weren't there as ordered.”
There's wariness in the younger's eyes, a bit of hesitation at the mention of Ra's. He wouldn't say he trusts Alvin, and thus Tim, but he wants to believe the older man wouldn't sacrifice him to his grandfather. Yet, invoking Ra's’ name causes a shudder to travel down his spine and sour spit to fill his mouth. His palms become clammy and his breath shallows. Despite the onset of anxiety, he allows Tim to pull him towards an empty hallway. It's only after they are alone that Tim drops Damian's arm.
They travel in silence for a bit until Damian musters enough courage to ask, “Are we meeting Grandfather?”
Tim notices the younger's wary countenance with a huff. “Fuck no. I needed an excuse to pull you out of there. You are here to rescue me, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Let's go.”
The two pick up the pace, rushing towards the airfield. It's along the way that Tim's impulsive thoughts start to ripple through his mind. He shouldn't ask. He shouldn't.
Don't ask, Tim. Don't.
“Hypothetically, you don't need two grandfathers, right?”
Damian stumbles.
Godsdamnit, Tim.
“What?” Wide, bewildered emerald eyes look at him when the child really should be focusing on where he is running.
“Don't worry about it!”
Damian doesn't seem convinced by Tim's very convincing smile. “That is a worrying statement.”
Tim is proud of the young sprout. Damian admitted that something was worrying. What progress the Waynes have made in emotional expression. He can't help the encouraging grin he sends to the younger teen.
Damian eyes the grin with a sneer.
Ignoring that response, Tim's mind wanders again while they rush through the hallways. Even while countering attacks, another question slips out. “What's ‘old man' in the League dialect?”
Sending an incredulous look over his shoulder as he throat punches an attacker, Damian demands, “Why?”
“I need more ways to insult Ra's.” Tim flails his arms to ‘accidentally’ knocks his opponents away from him.
The younger teen remains silent as he dodges strikes and eliminates his opponents. Only after Tim and Damian are the ones remaining does he say, “I can teach you insults at a later date.”
Hmm. Is Damian obviously bribing him so that he can get closer to Alvin? Yes. Will Tim still take it?
“Deal.”
Who needs sanity and healthy boundaries when Tim could learn to insult Ra's in his own language?
While stepping over the unconscious bodies, Tim asks, “What is the plan for getting out of here?”
Damian smirks. “Cass.”
Ah. They'll be fine then.
They could have let him be. Everything was fine when they weren't acquainted with Timothy Drake.
He didn't get invites to family dinners, sent random memes, requests for backup, silly photos, a bit too forceful back pats, smothering hugs, Alfred's cooking, a sparring partner, rooftop tag, or ruffled hair. His life was quiet. Silence unbroken in the apartment he's lived in since he was fourteen. Calls and emails about work, an unfolded blanket sprawled on his couch, one set of shoes by the door, and a housekeeper that only visits when he's not home.
It was fine. It was all he needed.
He… There's a panel hidden in his bedroom wall. He doesn't like to use it. He keeps it hidden, unused until one am rolls around in his dark and quiet apartment. It's for those nights when he can't stand the sight of his ceiling nor the hollow ache in his chest. It's for when his hands twitch for a weapon and his body jolts in reminiscence of the fall before the grapple catches.
He tries to ignore it, to avoid crawling from his bed and collapsing before this altar. This memorial to a past he can grieve but should never return to.
The carpet digging into his knees and the cool, smooth surface of the concealed scanner against his hand. The light illuminating the revealed space shining upon his face. The glow, warm in an otherwise barren bedroom, encircling the pinned photos and the various screens spanning from floor to ceiling. The ever running code displaying information he shouldn't care to see.
Dick Grayson - GSW 37 hours prior. Adequate treatment received.
Barbara Gordon - Last slept 44 hours prior.
Stephanie Brown - Piano recital in 113 hours.
Various phrases float across the surface of the screens – updates he longs to be strong enough not to need. Every day he ignores their call is a success in his bid to distance himself from them. Every failing is proof of his inability to just let go.
Before the frozen, smiling faces of those he dedicated his life to, he begs each time for reprieve. Until when must he cling to festering affections?
His self-assigned isolation was his only mercy.
Finally, finally, Tim is both home and alone. No Waynes, no Bats, no al Ghuls.
He's kind of surprised that Cass and Damian let him go home. If Tim knows Bruce, and after years of being his partner Tim does know the man, it's appalling that he wasn't passed from Ra's’ custoday to Bruce's. That paranoid, anxious bastard would demand such if he knew.
Weirdly, Damian is disobeying this notion to be considerate to Tim. He isn't enforcing the young CEO to involuntarily accept their aid and protection.
Tim isn't sure how to feel about this development.
Thankful? Yeah. Lost? Definitely. Abandonded? He shouldn't.
The bright side of this entire clusterfuck is that Tim now possesses his spleen again. Not internally and properly working, but yeah! He's not quite sure what to do with it either (displaying it seems… inappropriate?), but it's no longer kidnapped from him.
Should he hold a funeral? Cremate or bury it? If so, Cassie might know of some ceremonial rites YJ could perform. Would a feast be too much?
Regardless, Tim sets the jar upon a shelf to deal with later. He has other matters to attend to.
This time Tim will do it. No waiting for Monday, no handing it in person, no two weeks notice. Tim will send in this blasted resignation and clean his hands from those bastards. He types up the letter, fiery passion ensuring it's a quick affair, and then hits submit. Finall-
Joy and relief don't even have the time to flutter in his chest when he receives an immediate follow-up response from Lucius Fox.
Thank you for your message. I am currently out of the office and will return on XX/XX. I will not be responding to any messages until that time. Please reference the attached contact list for any inquiries in my absence.
Best regards,
Lucius Fox
Lucius Fox just went on a month long leave.
Mr. Fox is unable to process and accept Tim's resignation.
No one else is eligible to handle it.
Tim closes his laptop, stands up, shuffles over to the corner of the room, plops down, hugs his knees, and then cries.