Chapter Text
Batman is never surprised. It’s part of the whole Dark Knight shtick. He’s prepared for anything and everything. Batman’s utility belt even has Bat-Shark Repellent™ inside it, courtesy of a 12-year-old Dick Grayson who watched Jaws at a sleepover even after Bruce told him not to and proceeded to fear that they would run into a shark during patrol. On the streets. Of Gotham. But Dick thought it was necessary for their survival, and Bruce encouraged making things that made Dick feel safe. His first child then proceeded to name it Bat-Shark Repellent™ because he was twelve and dedicated to the bit.
“We have a theme, Bruce, and we have to stick to it!”
It’s been mostly useless over the many years since. Still, Dick loves to enthusiastically remind everyone of the one time it saved Bruce’s life anytime a new family member questions the strange addition when reviewing the inventory of Batman’s utility belt. And while most days he can convince himself that he keeps it because that one time it did, in fact, save his life, the actual reason is probably that he misses his eldest son. It’s probably the same reason he carries a collapsible bo-staff and Stephanie’s favorite granola bars. A glowstick in Duke’s signature yellow and the organic dog treats that Damian buys for Titus. It’s why he still has the small divot on his armor’s right shoulder from where Jason used to hold on when he got tired of swinging by the end of patrol all those years ago.
Jason had seen Cassandra latch on to it the last time an all-hands-on-deck situation required every bat in Gotham’s attendance. Cass stepped up and took down double the number of robots, but she was hurt at end of the night; a broken ankle. She had latched onto the shoulder grip, and Jason had stopped the hurried walk towards his motorcycle so abruptly that Dick walked right into his back, and they both toppled to the ground beside the bike. Even then, Batman was prepared and pulled out the Bat-bandaids™ for Jason’s scraped cheek, regardless of Jason’s startled scoff and quick dismissal of the slightly ridiculous themed bandages. By the end of the night, Stephanie had bullied Jason into a plain patch over the cut after Tim had meticulously cleaned it. All the while, Jason was grumbling about needing to replace his helmet again. They really have to have a talk about how wearing explosives on your head is not a good idea and will one day give Bruce a heart attack.
God, Bruce misses his kids, despite seeing them on patrol or fighting beside them during that particular month’s big bad crisis. He misses movies and breakfast at the table after a late-night patrol. Bruce misses dinners with his children and commiserating glances at stuffy galas. He misses moments where they’re all together every minute that they are apart. Bruce knows it’s because he’s lost too many of them too many times, but he also knows he’s the luckiest father in the world because even when he loses them, he always seems to get them back.
The point is that Batman is never surprised—he has the shark repellent to prove it, which is probably exactly the reason why Tim waited until Bruce took off the cowl to render the older vigilante completely speechless. Tim’s always been considerate of things like that.
Bruce doesn’t really know how long he’s been spaced out, but he knows it’s been a while. Tim is still talking, though. He thinks he can safely blame the black folder clutched tightly in his gloved grip for his lapse in conscious thought. The folder is open, and he freezes more and more with each neatly typed and perfectly formatted line on that first document in the small stack of paperwork contained in the ever-professional folder.
Tim finally stops talking when the papers flutter to the floor, and the folder slips from Bruce’s slack grip. His face contorts to concern, concern for Bruce. He shouldn’t be concerned for Bruce. Bruce is supposed to be the one taking care of Tim. He locks eyes with Tim for the first time since the teenager handed him the envelope seconds, maybe minutes, maybe hours ago—Bruce can’t tell.
“Bruce, are you alright?” Tim asks, casting his gaze from Bruce’s face to the papers that litter the floor, “I—I can go get Alfred, just… stay here a moment”.
Tim turns to leave, but that sets alarm bells off in Bruce’s head that blare loud and fast and all-consuming, and they scream louder than any logic he could hope for.
If he leaves, he’s not coming back.
Tim is only one quick step away, still dutifully concerned when Bruce bursts into action. The knock-out gas retrieved from Batman’s utility belt is one of Tim’s own creations, and it is taking effect just as quickly as Tim promised. Not quite quick enough for Bruce to avoid Tim’s look of shock and betrayal before he slumps into the Bat Symbol on Bruce’s chest, but quick enough that Bruce only feels the gut-wrenching stab of it for a couple of seconds afterward. He catches Tim smoothly, dropping with his son to cradle him as he falls. Bruce realizes about halfway to the ground that that was probably not the best way to deal with either the situation at hand or his emotions about it. He elects to try and not think about it too hard and carries his son over to the medical cots to lay him down for what should be at least a couple of hours. The next thing he does is signal for an emergency meeting, immediately calling all Bats back to the cave. He crosses the cave back to the stack of papers scattered across the floor and drops to his knees to search for the one that started it all. It is not hard to find.
Jason doesn’t like being the first to arrive in the cave. It’s just that he was already upstairs with Alfred when they received the beacon. They were enjoying early morning tea together when their phones and Jason’s comm went off shrilly, the sound code reporting the emergency to be in the cave. More panicked than he expected, Jason lunges towards Bruce’s office for quick access to the poles while Alfred hurries across the manor to the main stairwell entrance. The second Robin distantly registers that his handprint still unlocks the hidden sliding door, and he files it away to brood about later. It's the 19th thing that makes his “brooding for later” list this week, and he knows he’s going to be spending more time than usual with his favorite gargoyle come the weekend. He can’t focus on it now, though, because Batman never calls for help. The stone in Jason’s stomach lurches with every second he takes to slide down into the cave, and the only good thing about his stomach dropping so completely is that it might speed up his descent into the manor’s depths. When he reaches the bottom and bursts into the main floor, he sees Bruce on his knees by the computer.
Jason covers the 20 yards of distance in seconds before Bruce, cowl-less, looks up at him from the floor, devastated. It’s so surprising Jason falls to his own knees, and they stare at each other just like that.
He’s suddenly 13 all over again. Alive for the first time, and not the do-over—breathing with lungs that haven’t been buried yet.
Batman and Robin just had a rough night, and his instincts scream to reach out and comfort his father, but that is not who they are anymore. Jason's not Robin anymore, and too much has happened for them to find ease in comforting one another. It feels like they just got to something stable, good in a way that’s eluded them for too long but far too fragile to test. So they just stare instead.
Jason is looking for an answer in Bruce’s face, and Bruce is just looking for answers. Bruce is clutching a piece of paper in both hands, surrounded by strewn documents, and Jason is at a complete loss—severely unused to Bruce looking so broken. His entire being exudes failure, and it’s wrong, wrong, wrong.
“…B?…B, what’s going…” he trails off for a moment, wondering if Bruce is in a state to answer any questions at all, “what’s going on?”
Wordlessly and slowly, Bruce takes one breath after another, composing himself. He hands Jason the slightly crumpled sheet of paper. Jason reads it quickly. Quicker than Bruce, but he reads it again and again and again. Finally, snapping with panicked urgency, “What the fuck is this?”
Bruce, utterly devoid of any inflection, forces himself to simply state the facts in front of him. “That is Red Robin’s two-week notice.”
An intake of breath behind them is what alerts the two vigilantes to Alfred’s presence, as well as that he had heard at least the last part of their very stilted conversation. They both turn to the Wayne family’s true patriarch, entirely at a loss. Alfred looks into the face of his son because Bruce is his and has been since two gunshots took away two-thirds of Alfred’s entire world. And then Alfred has to turn and look into the face of his grandson, who’s lost so much, who’s even lost his own life, and he just sees a little boy terrified of losing even more. They both look at Alfred like he has any answers when he knows that he doesn’t. That he’s just as lost, scared, and confused as they are, and Alfred doesn’t know how to reassure his two boys that everything will be alright when he may be losing yet another family member.
It’s a good thing Alfred Pennyworth is the very best of them, though. Because he may not have the answers, but he can clean up this mess.
The first thing Alfred does is deposit both men before him into chairs at the Bat-round Table™ that the group uses for meetings amongst the family. The second thing he does is begin the task of gathering the documents strewn across the cave’s floor. He only worries for a moment about finding the correct order when he realizes that Timothy had them numbered neatly in both the top and bottom corners on the right-hand side. At the computer’s large desktop, Alfred quickly orders the papers and feudally attempts not to read a single word on any of the pages. There are too many graphs, and the Butler doesn’t understand why that makes him as queasy as it does.
Once everything is correctly placed and stacked neatly, Alfred drops the entire stack in the copier to make precisely three more paper copies for Jason, Cassandra, and himself, as he knows they prefer to read physical files. Bruce may keep the original; he is the one who left the boot marks on what looks like pages seven and sixteen, after all. Alfred also downloads the information onto the file network for the digital copies to be accessed on the tablets he sets around the table for the more digitally inclined family members.
When Alfred can finally take his seat at the table, Jason looks about ready to speak, in control of his faculties at last. Alfred discreetly checks his eyes for Lazarus green but finds clear blue, for now. He releases a breath. Jason is just opening his mouth when two of the cave entrances burst open in a cacophony of panicked sounds. All three Batgirls and Duke screech in on two bikes from the garage—fully costumed and seemingly ready for a fight, and the stairwell entrance is nearly ripped off its hinges by Dick and Damian. They don’t close the door behind them as they race down the stairs. Both groups stop to take deep, relieved breaths at the lack of physical threat. Dick even lets out a light laugh. His joy finally breaks Bruce out of the staring contest he’s been holding with his own cowl laid on the table in front of him to look at the rest of his family arriving.
The relief in the air slowly recedes as the new arrivals begin to take in the scene before them and the tense shoulders belonging to the three people already seated at the table.
Dick and Bruce lock eyes, and instantly, the younger man knows that look. Something emotional is going on—that’s bad, and Bruce undoubtedly doesn’t know how to handle it in a positive way. He's probably even started to handle it incredibly poorly if Dick reads the twitch in his father’s jaw.
Despite the recognition in their stare-down, Damian cuts to the core of the problem first. Looking between Grayson, his father, and the surrounding family, Damian demands, in a tone that could be contempt but is most likely just worry, “Where is Drake?… He always answers the beacon's quickest.”
No one says anything for some time. Enough time for Alfred to retrieve a collapsible wheelchair for Barbara. She takes his arm and sits gingerly, turning to Bruce in the silence after Damian’s question. They all turn to Bruce after Barbara does, looking for the answers he doesn’t want to give but knows he must.
“… He’s on a cot in the Medbay,” Bruce quietly confesses to the tabletop.
That doesn’t go over well.
A series of voices express their concerns, but it’s Dick who breaks through. Hand on the table in front of him, white-knuckled; his fingers are as strained as his voice, “Why is he in the Medbay, Bruce?”
Everyone stills at the question. Dick waits for bad news, a fight gone wrong, a lucky hit, a run-in with no backup—why does Tim never call for backup? Bruce doesn’t answer, though, and Dick realizes his father’s not Batman right now. He’s Bruce. He’s a dad right now. He’s Tim’s dad. And while it’s probably good that he’s feeling emotions, what the family actually needs is a report. He’s about to open his mouth, but Cass beats him to it. Cass, who saw it before Dick because, of course she did. Cass, who’s been reading Bruce since they stepped in the cave and has come to the correct conclusion just that bit faster. Dick is so very proud of her.
Her voice is firm and demanding, but with an undercurrent of care, “Batman. Report.”
It does what it needs to do. Batman starts at the beginning of patrol. Tim had asked to be with him on the main route. He doesn’t add his own feelings about the request into his words, but there’s a collective intake of breath around the table. Red Robin hasn’t patrolled with Batman in 3 years. Or Nightwing, for that matter. Dick feels the coils of jealousy wrap around him for only a moment before he banishes them away. He has to listen now. Batman goes into the events of the night. It’s good; they do good work. They do really good work. And then he gets to the cave.
Batman stiffens slightly, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but he trained all these eyes himself, so he knows the change in his own demeanor is noted and cataloged by everyone in the room. And so he tells them the rest. After writing up his initial report, he tells them about the casual way Tim had called him from the Batcomputer. He tells them about the plastered smile on Tim’s face and the words that Bruce still doesn’t understand, even now.
“I know this is overdue,” Tim had said, handing Bruce a black folder, the perfect size for the neat stack of papers locked inside, “but I just needed to take the time to oversee the transition smoothly.”
Bruce then tells them about the jumble of his thoughts as he opened the folder to see what Tim had meant, only to freeze at the very first sheet.
He looks up to the rest of his children and his family and says, “After reading the first page of Red Robin’s paperwork, I was compromised and did not hear the rest of his explanation.” He breaks the formal tone of his report for the first time to add softly, “I am sorry.” Batman then takes back over, his voice more sure, but his tone holds guilt. “Red Robin eventually noticed my distress and attempted to leave the cave. I believe he meant to get Alfred, but I panicked. Thinking if he left then, he wouldn’t return… I probably overreacted… I knocked him out with the new gas capsule he created four days ago and carried him to the Medbay…. Then I called you here for a meeting.”
Silence falls over the cave. Dick, Duke, and Stephanie take their seats heavily. Cass had sat down next to Bruce during his report, and Barbara had rolled to his other side. Damian, on the other hand, lunges for his tablet the second the report is over and seemingly mumbles while he reads to confirm his father’s story with the file in front of him.
“This is completely unacceptable; I do not understand Drake’s—” he stops speaking for a moment, cutting himself off. Damian stopps flipping through the files. He’s silent before, “We need to know what he was saying to you.”
“I’m already in the feed.”
Thank God for Barbara Gordon. She spins her tablet to the center of the table and cleanly taps the play button.
From the feed angle, the camera catches Tim quietly kneeling by Red-bird as he removes his file from underneath the bike’s seat. The vigilante stares at the folder for an entire minute while Batman types up the nightly report. Tim stands and purposefully places himself after a couple of seconds of deliberation. He ends up leaning against the Batcomputer™ counter, his posture over-casual, and he only moves once Batman finishes the report and tiredly takes off his cowl.
“Hey Bruce, do you mind going over some paperwork I brought for filing.” They see Bruce turn to look over with a tired smile.
“Of course.” Bruce reaches out his hand for the folder, and Tim neatly deposits it into his grip.
“I know this is overdue, but I just needed to take the time to oversee the transition smoothly,” Tim explains. It’s painfully manicured like Tim is justifying something. Bruce understands now he was trying to say that he needed time to prepare Gotham for his permanent leave. That Tim felt he needed to justify how long he’s stayed, despite what? Did he feel unwanted, unappreciated—unloved? Bruce has the sudden crushing feeling of needing to know. Of needing to fix it. So this time around, he refocuses and tries to take in what happened next.
On the feed, Bruce opens the file and freezes. Tim, not noticing the stiffness in favor of further business, pulls a tablet from seemingly nowhere to have a copy of the files for himself.
“So the paperwork at the top is really just for your filing system, document 1 is the bare bones notice, and the next two pages outline the responsibilities and tasks I performed for the Gotham vigilante scene for the six years I’ve been in active duty. The pages after those first few are actually the more important ones. I’ve separated them by still active Gotham vigilantes, who I’ve been integrating into the responsibilities I mentioned on pages two and three over the past year and a half. You’ll find each section outlines the steps I’ve been taking to train them to adopt the additional work into their schedules. The next two weeks will be their final stages of transition. I’ve also—” Barbara pauses the feed, eyes wide as everyone at the table takes in the last minute of video and sound.
Stephanie releases a sigh, “okay… we definitely need to finish watching this, but I just. I need a minute” she gets up from the table and walks away. Muttering something about “a year and a half” and “idiots in cowls.”
Cass shadows her; Steph always forgets to be careful when she’s overwhelmed. Cass can tell that while Steph is definitely upset, sad, and confused, the thing she’s feeling most is anger. A rage that is boiling just beneath the nail beds at her fingertips, begging for violent release. When Steph stops her jerky pacing along one of the center training mats and lets out a growl that ends with an attack on an unsuspecting punching bag, Cass takes her hands. Stills them from their shaking at Stephanie’s side and mirrors them digit for digit, splayed out between the two of them, openly. Steph’s hands are slightly larger than Cass’, and the blonde’s fingertips curl over Cassandra’s black-clad ones tightly. They breathe together for a while, sharing space. They try to get ready to go back to the video feed and the stack of mocking paperwork that somehow is supposed to convince them to let go of Tim.
Back at the table, Damian sits very still. Over the last few years, he’s gotten more comfortable in silence. Comfortable enough to develop habits like passing the time with small and idle movements. He’ll tap tables with his fingers, bounce his feet, even wring his hands if his mind wanders to something that may worry or confuse him. These small movements show how much he’s grown while with his family, becoming comfortable in his own body and feeling safe enough to take up space. His ability to grow habits that remind him and everyone who loves him just how human a boy raised to be steel can be. But now he’s still, and that’s not good. He’s so still that it rings strange, like he’s not at home—like he doesn’t feel safe. He’s so still, and his expression is so blank, and Barbara doesn’t know what to do.
Dick and Jason are lowly speaking away from the group, and the other girls left for the training mats minutes ago. Duke is standing between Bruce and Alfred, lost but valiantly giving them each a point of contact—his hands on either of their shoulders. But no one else is noticing Damian’s stillness or what it must mean.
She decides to suck it up and interrupt the youngest bat’s train of thought. She doesn’t even consider being subtle, rolling beside the 14-year-old, physically pulling him into her chair with her, and hugging him very tightly. He still hasn’t hit a growth spurt, so it’s not very hard, and he's surprised enough not to put up a fight. He’s stiff for so long. Long enough for Barbara to second guess her decision, but when she loosens her grip, Damian surges into her just a bit—panicked. So she tightens her arms again and moves his head to her shoulder with her hand. He curls, lifting his feet to the armrest of her chair and finally wrapping his own arms around her.
When everyone wanders back to the table, Damian doesn’t mention how he had to tap her three times to get her to let go, and Barbara doesn’t mention the single tear she felt seep into her blouse from her shoulder.
As everyone settles back in their chairs, Barbara once again plays the footage.
“I’ve also outlined an itinerary for the next two weeks that’s organized once again by current vigilante in the same order as the more robust files detailing the work I’ve already done with them, starting with Nightwing and ending with Robin. The next papers give a brief overview of my upcoming prospects in San Francisco, Central, Metropolis, and Keystone, whereupon I’ll assume a different alias so as not to confuse the Gotham brand and a no longer active position with these new territories. The Young Justice team is currently coming up with new pseudonyms that will better fit future branding with the team.”
“And the last papers include an itemized list of all the access codes and passwords I’ve been granted while boarding in Gotham, so it will be pertinent to scramble that system as I’m familiar with the current rotation and combination patterns.”
“Lucius will receive a similar file in a few hours detailing my withdrawal plan as Majority Shareholder at Wayne Enterprises; you have a copy of that file upstairs in your study, as does Dami—” Tim finally notices Bruce’s blank stare, watches as papers flutter to the floor, and pauses quietly. His tongue clicks. The hum of the computer and chatter of the bats above are the only noise breaking the resounding silence in the dark expanse around the two of them. He slowly puts his tablet on the computer's counter, eyes never leaving his frozen mentor.
Gently, Tim reaches out—he’s so hesitant to touch, and seeing it from this perspective is eye-opening. It’s hard to see just how distant Tim’s been when the young man is a master at forcing perspective. But here, on the outside looking in, Bruce can tell that Tim doesn’t know if a reassuring hand is welcome. It is, but his own son doesn’t know he can hold or be held, so that too is probably Bruce’s fault.
Tim’s hand shakes, and he brings it back to himself before speaking, “Bruce, are you alright? I—I can go get Alfred, just… stay here a moment, okay?” He turns away.
But Tim never leaves. Instead, he’s knocked out with a small gas capsule, just as Bruce had told the group before. They watch Bruce catch Tim as he falls unconscious, and just as he starts to carry him away, Barbara stops the feed.
No one says a word for a long while until Damian roughly shoves his chair back and throws his tablet into the dark depths of the cave, smashing the bright screen as it tumbles violently into darkness. The young teenager lets out a frustrated shout before storming away and upstairs. A minute later, they know the youngest boy’s door has slammed harshly shut even though they can’t hear it.
Bruce burrows his face in his hands as he lets out an exhausted sigh.
“Timothy should be awake in a couple of hours. I’ll wait here with him so you can all collect your thoughts.” Alfred shoots Bruce a seething look, but Bruce can not see it with his face obscured by his palms.
“This isn’t actually happening, right?” Duke asks warily—like he knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it voiced.
Bruce doesn’t know how to react. Looking at his ward—his son, he doesn’t want to fail Duke. He doesn’t want to tell him he doesn’t have the answers, but he doesn’t want to lie to him, either. Dick cuts in instead. He doesn’t have to lie because he’s always been optimistic to a fault, “No, of course not. We’ll make sure.”
It’s quiet for a while, Dick seems so confident, but something rings wrong in that unwavering conviction.
Alfred chooses to speak up then, his voice grave, and his accent gives a particular steel to his words, “You can all certainly try to convince Master Timothy to stay and to tell him that he’ll always have a place here, but he’s well past being able to make his own decisions. And we will not be taking that autonomy away from him. If he stays, it will be his choice. And none of you are to take that away from him when he has more than earned the right. Do we understand?” He waits for their small nods. Alfred sighs then and takes on a much less stern tone, “With that being said, we have a whole lot of convincing to do, so I suggest you all head to your rooms to get some rest. I’ll call the schools in a couple of hours to notify them of Duke and Damian’s absences, and then I’ll call Mr. Fox to relay that Timothy will not be in the office today. I expect everyone to be back here in 4 hours. Go to your rooms.”
Alfred had left no room for argument, so they all followed instructions and made their way to the manor upstairs. Half of them join Miss Gordon in the exposed elevator, but the others make their way to the stone stairs for the journey to their rooms. Once all of the children disappear, Alfred turns to Bruce and follows him to the medbay. He knows that this—this is going to be a long morning and that there is very little chance that he’ll be able to get his son to rest.
Alfred prepares a damp cloth and removes the hair and sweat from Timothy’s forehead. He checks over the monitors and sits beside his boys. In two hours, he’ll need to start taking care of business, but for now, he gets to sit with Timothy and take a breath.