Chapter Text
It felt strange, not having Damian there anymore.
Perhaps Tim had some malformed blend of stockholm syndrome. It wasn’t like he - MISSED the little brat. It’s just - they’d barely been apart for days on end, and he’d gotten very acclimatised to the boy’s presence.
The way his ears stuck out just slightly beneath his thick mop of dead straight dark hair, and how they were tanning just a little faster than his permanently scrunched features. Or how he, accidentally or on purpose, seemed to always drag his miniature feet JUST enough to grind the rubber toes of his shoes down to a smooth shine.
The teenager emitted a strangled noise and tugged at the stiff starch of his collar. He did NOT MISS Damian.
...just…
He’d been the one to go and collect him from the manor, and somehow, leaving him felt - sacreligious. The kid had even looked a little startled and betrayed as the older boy had hurried over the hotel room threshold. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jason: he’d seen the big lump around kids before, Damian included.
Scarred children were pretty much Jason Todd’s kryptonite, Tim thought darkly.
Speaking of the manor: the villa he was drawing up outside of (in a Gondola, of all the ridiculous things) somehow reminded him of the Wayne Residence. At first, he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
He stepped from the wobbling, dark wood of the boat to the jetty at the rear of the house, ignoring the steward’s proffered helping hand. His shirt was sticking to the light sheen of sweat pooling in the small of his back, where the cool night air didn’t seem to penetrate. His tongue felt brittle, his mouth dry. The hulking mass of the building towered over those immediately beside and across from it.
It had an additional floor, Tim realised, frowning. He wondered how THAT had got past the council.
It was the windows, he decided after a long moment. Their scrupulously neat rows winked like hooded eyes down at him, menacing. Their reflections in the crafted cut of the water below lingered like red sniper sights: creatures in the depths.
There was something ancient and too-well-kept about the place. Like it was a model, or a crafted facade.
You couldn’t see inside, but you got the distinct impression somebody was looking out, at you.
He followed the immaculate steward inside, inhaling a waft of the heady, heavily scented flowers in the flower boxes at the edge of the lapping water. All various shades of purple and white, from cream to lavender to magenta. It seemed a - strange combination.
“White, meaning purity. Purple, implying regality. On purpose, or no…?” the young man muttered to himself, drawing a startled glance from his guide. He countered the man’s unease with a quick flash of a smile.
...perhaps he ought to start keeping Damian around just so he didn’t sound like a gibbering LUNATIC half the time. Talking to himself - definitely a habit picked up from Bruce.
He squashed that thought like a fat, agitated fly.
The foyer was enormous, the marble floors brightly shining, but it also seemed - strangely void. Of objects and of life. There pieces of art and statuettes and mirrors scattered everywhere, but no seats to speak of. No clocks quietly whiling away the hours.
To the left, a door had been left ajar, and Tim could see and hear a subdued celebration of some sort going on: the swish of dark fabric and the clinking of glasses.
Quiet laughter.
Large, gleaming black bows had been draped across the doorways, looming large like spectres. They were expensive velvet, and gleamed like the freshly brushed flank of a prized racehorse.
...a wake, the teenager realised, suppressing the urge to swallow. Not just a wake, but THE wake. Of the murdered man.
In the centre of the foyer was raised staircase. At the top, several workmen were carefully removing an enormous portrait. Tim recognised it as that of Alberto Caprotti, his flapping jowls and scarlet nose, spidered with tiny ruptured veins, discreetly removed by the painter.
An incredibly beautiful woman in a simple black mourning dress, hair swung up into a neat tail, was descending towards him “(i)Ah, mister Wayne? You’re expected, do come in.(i)”
The detective conducted a swift review of the archives of his brain: Carlotta Caprotti, the daughter. Taking a quick moment to inhale, he held out a hand “(i)I hope I’m not intruding at a painful time…?(i)”
...bit of a moot point there, Timbo, he thought sarcastically, in what sounded like Jason’s drawl. Disturbing.
The girl (woman? It was hard to tell, God knows Tim was no expert) cocked her head, lips quirking, and eyed the portrait as it passed with an utterly missable flash of utter contempt “(i)You’re not intruding. Please, follow me. My brother is upstairs.(i)”
...huh. Something was rotten in this state, Tim surmised: he was quickly getting the measure of this.
The decidedly not-sombre atmosphere
The instant removal of all images of the deceased
The clear ill will held by the daughter towards her dead Father
This wasn’t a wake. It was a party. A celebration. These people were happy that Alberto Caprotti had been murdered, and barely containing the urge to let that be known.
He felt the slow crawl of a shudder up his spine.
Carlotta Caprotti knocked neatly at a small, discreet door at the top of the stairs, opening it at a quiet assent given in English. She pushed the door open, toppled Tim inside without another word, and closed the door behind them with an ominous ‘sna-click.’
Gabriel Caprotti looked a lot older than his sister, tall, with the same dark hair and eyes but with lines etched deep into his face “Ah, Mister Wayne! A pleasure to meet you.” he thrusts out a hand bedecked with not a few rings, the cool kiss of their metal unwelcome against Tim’s palms “It’s a shame we couldn’t meet under better circumstances.”
His English was impeccable. The detective smiled politely and held up a hand of refusal when the other man held up a decanter from the mini-bar “Yes, I’m very sorry for your loss, Mister Caprotti.”
Gabriel’s lips pursed, noncommittal “Hm. Yes. Well. Please, sit. I have a business portfolio ready for you to review…”
“We’ll get to that.” Tim replied, firmly, lacing his fingers as he sat “Can I be candid?”
Gabriel poured himself a generous helping of amber liquid into a diamond-cut glass “Please, do. I’d prefer it.”
“There seems to be a lot more relief than grief, in this house today.” Tim noted, evenly and without accusation, spreading his palms “Am I wrong?”
The other man swilled his drink and took a long draught, Adams’ apple bobbing gently “They told me you were observant. I’m impressed.” he gasped, gently, smacking his lips “No, you’re not mistaken. The situation is a little more - complicated, than at first it may seem.”
The detective eyed the criss-cross of faint white lines on the man’s knuckles: how his cuffs extended all the way to the bottom of his wrists “Your Father had somewhat of a reputation.” he commented.
Alberto Caprotti was a business mogul and, according to all the police reports Tim had hacked into - a serial abuser.
All the reports had come to nothing, of course.
“As does yours, it would seem.” Gabriel Caprotti shot back, his lips wrapping around the cold edge of the glass.
The young Wayne felt like he’d just been drop-kicked in the stomach: his head dunked in ice-cold water (both sensations he’d actually experienced). Somehow, he - the familiar cowl of the detective had slipped so easily over his head, he’d forgotten - the OTHER reason why he was here at all, in the first place.
...he’d known the rumours of...Bruce’s behaviour had been whispered widely, but to crop up here? Now? That interview he’d given with the lurid aftermath of their confrontation displayed proudly on his jaw couldn’t have blown up this much - could it?
...this was bad. REALLY bad. Or good, he had no idea which. Either way, he could feel the plates of his control spiralling out from beneath him, coming apart.
Gabriel took his stunned silence in stride, continuing “I’m sure you can relate. Living in the shadow of titanic men comes with it’s own unique set of pressures.”
Tim snatched the rags of his self control together, dragging his gaze up to meet his interrogatee “You’re aware your Father’s murder wasn’t an isolated incident.”
The other man stood, replacing his glass on the minibar with a soft ‘thunk,’ and filling it again, back turned; the crest ring on his little finger, overlarge and gaping, glinted “Indeed. I believe they’re calling them ‘gli angeli baciano,’ the Angel’s Kiss murders. A bit fanciful, if you ask me.”
Tim took a deep breath “...you feel your Father’s death was warranted?”
For some reason, he was desperate to hear that Gabriel was conflicted on this. Just - his own feelings, a maelstrom held back by the thick hooks of his ability to compartmentalise, were beginning to give way.
Unfortunately, the other man disappointed him “Not only his death. His suffering, too. He was a cruel man. That was no secret. Cruelty and success are often bedmates.” he turned, leaning back against the minibar, gaze cold and hollow “He got exactly what he deserved.”
Tim’s heart felt like it was beating from inside his throat, throttling his skull “You think he was targeted...because of his behaviour?”
Gabriel shrugged “That’s what the press seem to be leaning towards, no? The only thread between all of these killings is that the victims are far from innocent. Even the young ones.”
This had occurred to the young detective, also.
The man chuckled coldly “Even that Milanese star student turned out to be a serial rapist, no?”
Tim resisted the urge to drag a cool palm over his hot face: it wouldn’t do to show stress, here, and besides - wasn’t this supposed to be just a cordial business meeting?! “Do you think the killer should be stopped…?”
The question, more for himself than anyone, slipped from his lips unbidden. No stuffing it back inside, now.
“I’m not a priest, mister Wayne. Nor a judge. Not my place to say.” Gabriel Caprotti set his toast aside, and walked back over to the set of papers on his desk “Shall we get down to business…?”
Tim cleared his throat, head numb “Yes. Let’s.”
He came away from the meeting with a successful contract in the works, and a sense of unease large enough to fill the Halls of Justice or whatever the League’s spaceship clubhouse was called, these days. His head was spinning - not, it was SPUN. Totally, totally spun.
...did the Caprotti’s have something to do with their patriarch’s death? He had no idea. Not even a little. And no proof either way, besides. He needed more-
He stopped dead in his tracks in the foyer as the noise from the enormous television in the room to his right was blaring the evening news.
“(i)Another one?! Oh, my.(i)” an eldery woman was gasping, clutching at her wrinkled neck.
Drawn like a moth to halogen, Tim pushed the door a little ajar and squinted at the headline at the bottom of the screen: ‘Sensational! Public Execution at Art Gallery. Serial Killer Suspected’
A man raised his glass and toasted the headline, while another whispered conspiratorially “(i)So bold to do it in public, too! This angel has balls.(i)”
Bar the glare of the television, the stutter-sput of lit candles were the only light in the room. It gave the air a waxy, heavy feeling, with an acrid lace of smoke.
“(i)Is that a CHILD on the roof?!(i)” the elderly woman exclaimed, breaking the spell over Tim with a violent jolt.
There was only one child currently in Venice stupid and/or skilled enough to mount and traverse a fourteenth century rooftop.
Sure enough, grainy, wobbly footage fed onto the gigantic HD frame displayed three figures leaping like agile rats from roof to roof, sliding around chimneys and leaping over television dishes in a ragtag pursuit. One of these figures was suspiciously small and bedecked in Gucci sneakers.
...honestly? Tim seriously considered packing it all in that second and moving to Tibet to become a hermit, or something. Perhaps a software engineer for the KGB.
“(i)Excuse me, what building is that(i)?!” he barked at the startled assembly, instead.
The elderly woman opened and closed her mouth like a fish drowning on dry land, while one of her bemused companions automatically replied “(i)A church, I think in San Marco square.(i)”
Tim whirled on his heel with a squeak of rubber and not so much a courteous wave.
It wasn’t far: his heart felt like it was filling his chest and his feet squeezed and blistered, as he half stumbled, half ran down the cobbled street outside the front of the villa. Behind him, the winking windows watched him go, resentful.
...shit, he thought, yanking his tie free and tossing it. SHIT. His feet followed the meagre mind-map he’d constructed of the city streets over the past few days.
Art gallery. Of COURSE. The last venue had been a church, semi-public, but quiet. This was escalation. And of course, NATURALLY Damian and Jason would be there. That was just Tim’s God-damned luck, wasn’t it?! They couldn’t have just - gone to a homicide-free bowling alley, or something?!
He could hear the sirens now, wailing like banshees, the roars of a crowd like beasts baying at a matador.
He burst into the blindingly-lit plaza just in time to see the first figure of three make a near-impossible jump between two buildings, from church spire to hotel balcony, and be gulped up into the dark unknown beyond.
He opened his sore mouth to yell, but nothing came out.
He couldn’t see Damian’s expression, but he could see the soft kick of ceramic powder the boy’s toes disturbed as he skidded to a halt at the toppling edge of the church roof. The entire cacophony of skulls in the square seemed to inhale at once: the child seemed utterly unconcerned with them.
The brat leapt: seemed to hang, stumpy limbs flailing at gossamer air for a moment.
He didn’t make it.
….but Jason did, his bulk launched with impressive stamina clean across the gap, slamming painfully into the brat’s wild splay of limbs and colliding with the hotel balcony’s metal railings. He tumbled both their bodies over the edge with a last, undulating swing. They disappeared from view.
Quiet.
Tim had to get in there. And when he did, SOMEBODY was going to die. He wasn’t sure exactly who or how, but it would involve PAIN, and SUFFERING, and financial reparations, and-!
“(i)Out of the way. Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!(i)” he heard his own voice bark with startling authority, shoving the crowds asunder and storming through the foyer of what was definitely not their hotel.
...fuck. FUCK. He was going to kill BOTH of them.
A startled policeman, cigarette dangling from his glistening lip, held up a forlorn hand blocking his way “(i)Sir, we cannot allow-(i)”
“(i)Who was asking?(i)” Tim rebuffed with cold vitriol, shoving helplessly at the man’s unmoving flank. He heard his own voice fruitlessly yell “JASON! Damian!”
The elevator pinged cheerily.
“...it under control, Todd, you heathen!” came a familiar, rasping growl, quickly cut off by a pathetic bout of hacking.
The figures emerged like a deformed chimera, the older leaning heavily and ridiculously on Damian’s bony shoulder “Oh sure, half pint! Actually, how about NO pint, cos that’s about as much sense as you’re displayin’!” Jason shoved a thick finger in the boy’s face “I shoulda just left you to splatter like a soggy crepe on the street, you little shi-”
“ENOUGH!!!” Tim roared, the very last thread of his patience snapping like a spider’s cough.
The receptionist gaped and the policemen suddenly became very intrigued in looking elsewhere as the teen strode boldly past them, snatching both of his stray brother’s wrists, one twiglike, one trunkish “(i)Get me a taxi.(i)”
One appeared as if summoned by the devil himself “Both of you. Get in. Now.”
The cop by the door suddenly awoke from his petrification, stuttering as the young detective shoved at Jason’s receding butt “(i)Sir, we must interview!(i)”
“(i)Later.(i)” Tim snapped, and slammed the taxi door shut.
The muffled clamour receded very, very slowly.
He fumed. It was unbearably hot, and the leather was sticking to his palms, clenched around the rim of the seat. For some reason, he’d gotten into the back, squashed in the middle between the other two. He could feel the push of Jason’s muscly bicep gently swell and contract as he breathed, unevenly, caught the whiff of nicotine and cheap cologne.
Damian was scowling furiously at the floor, dusty and cowed.
Somehow, it all just made him MADDER.
“...you’re hurt.” he noted, after a very long silence, turning to glare accusingly at their eldest.
Jason shrugged with a weak smile, fumbling with the roller to roll the window down: it was stuck fast “Eh. Bruised ego maybe.” Tim’s eyes narrowed and he hastily added “Fine, fine. Bruised RIBS, like overdone barbeque. No breaks, I swear! Jesus on a popsicle…”
More silence.
“I…” Damian’s small, reluctant voice reverberated like a prayer in a church “I’m. Sorry.” he said, stiffly.
Tim inhaled slowly, tilted his head back, and pinched the bridge of his nose: counting back from twenty, as Kon had once encouraged him to. Come to think of it, the Titans (the old guard - or was it middleish guard…?) had been some of the few to ever really see him lose his temper. Jason, perhaps, had once or twice.
Not Damian. He winced, hating how that thought alone punctuated his ire like a soggy balloon. The brat didn’t SEEM afraid, but…
Hell, he still didn’t know him well ENOUGH.
Damian licked his lips, frowning slowly “I said-”
Tim exhaled in a slow, soft stutter, and sank his fingers gently into the brat’s hair, ruffling firmly, like he was wrangling an animal “Not now, kid. Please. Just. Give me a moment.”
It seemed to break the tension, just a little.
They traipsed, worn and strung out like three parallel lines, taut and ready to snap, back into their sanctuary at the hotel.
Damian scuttled to the TV stand without a word, withdrawing the first aid kit and gauze from Jason’s duffle. With rare tact, Jason silently stripped his jacket and shirt off and sat on the edge of Tim’s bed, surrendering himself to their youngest’s careful ministrations. Tim could hear them sniping and murmuring softly, and suddenly felt fiercely jealous of their easy conspiracy.
Tim washed his face in cold water in the bathroom sink and guzzled three pints of bottled water from the mini fridge in a row. It centred him.
He gasped, softly, leant against the desk and levelled a pinning gaze on the defendants sat neatly next to one another on the bed, alert like men at parade rest “One of you - I don’t particularly care which, right now - is going to explain.” he squeezed and released the empty plastic bottle in his hand, menacing “Quickly and efficiently.”
“Damian and me-” Jason immediately blurted, but said brat interrupted rudely “Damian and -I-.”
Their oldest rounded on the kid “Fine, you fucking tell-”
WUNCH. The plastic in Tim’s clenched fist buckled further. The sound was met by twin winces.
Damian picked up the recantation “Todd and -I- attended the exhibition of Caravaggio’s work at the art gallery tonight. While there, we…” he trailed off, gaze suddenly turning strangely hollow “...I.”
Tim frowned, the ire melting from him, fast. Something was wrong. Like, really, actually wrong. Fuck. He should’ve - just. Should’ve, could’ve. Didn’t.
“There was a creeper.” Jason interjected smartly, folding his bearlike arms and then wincing as it aggravated his wrapped ribcage.
The teen blinked “A- a what?”
Jason jerked his chin down at Damian’s bowed head “A creeper. Creeped on the kid.”
...oh. OH. No wonder both of them looked, upon closer inspection, like somebody died, came back, and tore a chunk out of their mortality.
“Holy-” Tim breathed, swallowing the urge to dash across the space between them - but he didn’t want to freak the brat out more than he already clearly was “Damian? Are you alright?”
“I am unharmed.” their youngest returned, robotically.
Jason rolled his eyes and gave him a gentle shove, barely enough to rock him from his toes “You’re freaked to fuck, batling.”
“That is about the summation of events, yes.” Damian muttered, dryly, before glowering up at the man “You were more freaked to fuck than I!”
“...language.” the young detective interjected, fruitlessly: his head was beginning to hurt, again “I’m guessing there’s more?”
He resolved to speak to them both about this, later. Christ. How did Dick DO this…? Did he keep a running checklist of Awkward Heart to Hearts, time tbc, place tbc, crying and punching the wall optional…?
“...when the murderer struck again.” Damian was saying, chest puffed up as if reporting back from a skirmish “He hung the victim from the sixth stairwell, and while Todd engaged in a pointless game of catch the corpse-”
“He was still ALIVE, ya bum!” Jason snapped, cheeks scarlet “And let it be noted that YOU scarpered like a rat with its butt on fire when I specifically told you NOT to!”
Damian had the decency to look at least a little guilty at that. Tim sighed. Yet ANOTHER conversation to save for later.
“Did he survive?” he enquired, instead.
Jason’s usually smooth features wrinkled with a tumult of emotions for a moment, before settling into their practiced feigned ease “Nope. Neck snapped. Good fucking riddance.”
Sensing more, Tim coaxed with a gentleness that alarmed even himself “Because?”
Their eldest’s knuckles twitched “He was the creeper. From...before.”
Damian lifted a hesitant hand, as if intending to place it on Jason’s knee. Instead, it hung, awkwardly suspended between them in mid-air, undecided.
“That makes sense.” the young detective said, after a long moment “I’ve discerned motive. It seems that every victim of the killer so far has been, convicted or otherwise, some form of-” he swallowed “Abuser. Physical, emotional...or.”
He trailed off. Jason was scowling at the muted television behind Tim’s head.
“I think we got bigger problems, Timberella.” he said, eyes gaunt, jabbing a thick thumb at the screen.
Tim’s head snapped around so fast he felt the muscles in his neck crack: displayed in bright neon colours at the bottom of the screen was the bold headline: ‘(i)The Angel’s Kiss Strikes in Two Cities! Body found in Fontana di Trevi, Rome.(i)’
“There’s more than one killer.” the detective muttered, numbly, half to himself despite his audience.
“Well, shit.” Damian commented, succinctly.
Tim let him have that one.