Chapter Text
The Batbunker was quiet, the faint hum of computers filling the silence. Dick Grayson adjusted the gauntlet of the Batman suit, flexing his fingers to test if it was tight enough. Across the room, Tim Drake was stuffing the last of his equipment into his utility belt.
Normally, this was the time of night when Dick would be getting ready alongside Damian, trading some barbs. But tonight was just him and Tim.
Tim had returned to Gotham recently, and they had decided to patrol together for old time’s sake. It had started as a simple idea; a break from routine, a way to relive the companionship of their old patrols. But if Dick was honest, there was another reason behind it. A quiet, nagging worry that refused to fade, no matter how normal Tim seemed.
The Justice League was working tirelessly to bring Bruce back. Lost in time, as Tim had proved against all odds. And Dick had hope. He had to. Bruce would return, take up the cowl again, and Gotham would fall back into step. That was the plan.
But what then?
Bruce reclaiming the mantle would be a relief. In so many ways. The weight of Gotham’s expectations would no longer rest on his shoulders, the endless battle against crime no longer his to lead. He could just be Nightwing again.
And yet, he couldn’t ignore the anxiety that came with it. Bruce would come back, see the choices he had made, the things he had done in his absence. Would he disapprove? Or be disappointed?
Tim turned toward him, “It’s been a while since we did this together.”
His voice was even, casual, as he pulled his cowl into place, tucking away the longer hair he’d returned to Gotham with. Dick had never seen it this long. It suited him, though it was another reminder of how much things had changed.
“Yeah,” Dick admitted, watching him closely. “Feels good, though.”
Tim hummed in agreement.
“Alright,” Dick exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Time to have some fun.”
The private elevator carried them up in silence, the tension of the bunker giving way to the open night sky as the doors slid open to a secluded rooftop on top of the penthouse in the Wayne Foundation Building, where they were currently living. The city sprawled before them, vast and waiting.
Then, with practiced ease, they jumped.
Dick felt the familiar rush of air against his face as he soared through the night, the city stretching out beneath him in a blur of steel, stone, and lights. The wind howled past his ears, catching the edges of his cape as gravity pulled him down.
For a few heartbeats, he was weightless, suspended above Gotham in perfect motion. It was exhilarating. The kind of movement that felt like second nature, like breathing. Even after all these years, it never got old.
He couldn’t help but grin.
A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head slightly and saw Tim moving in sync with him, his silhouette against the glow of the city lights. As Tim landed on the next rooftop, the citylight illuminated his face -- and there it was.
Tim was smiling as well.
Dick felt something loosen in his chest. He had not seen it much in the last year and a half.
Tim seemed better. He was falling back into rhythm like he’d never left Gotham. His posture was lighter, his words more open. The raw, desperate edge that had clung to him in those first few weeks after Bruce disappeared was gone.
At least, it looked gone.
But Dick had seen Tim at his worst. He had seen the desperation that had driven him across the globe, the months he had spent chasing ghosts, the way he had cut himself off from everyone who tried to reach him. That kind of spiral didn’t just disappear.
What if Tim was better? Or what if he had just learned to hide things better, too?
Sometimes, Dick had trouble reconciling this young man with the 14-year-old who had debuted as Robin. The kid who had fought so hard to prove he belonged, who had been sharp and eager and always a little too observant for his own good.
And then Tim would smile like now, brief and easy, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed at all. Like they were still Nightwing and Robin.
They continued navigating Gotham the way they always used to, grappling hooks pulling them through the night sky. The city stretched out below them, alive with its usual cacophony of sounds. Even from above, Gotham felt restless and unpredictable.
But for all its chaos, Gotham was beautiful in its own way.
Patrolling felt good. Familiar.
Dick glanced over at Tim as they landed on a rooftop, taking a moment to pause.“You haven't gone rusty, even after all that time away from Gotham."
Tim flashed him a small smirk. "It's kind of like riding a bike. You never really forget how to do it.”
Dick hummed in agreement. He couldn’t imagine a life where jumping across the city was not second nature. That will always be a part of them.
The comfortable ease between them lingered until the sharp crash of breaking glass interrupted it.
Dick’s head snapped toward the source. A corner convenience store, its front window shattered, the broken shards gleaming under streetlights. The glow of a flashlight moved inside, shadowy figures in the aisles.
“Looks like we got our first contenders of the night,” Dick commented, before looking at Tim. “You ready for that?”
Tim nodded, and they moved. They landed silently on the roof of the adjacent building, their movements synchronized.
Dick flicked two fingers toward the back door. Tim nodded and slipped into the shadows. Dick moved toward the front, waiting a beat before dropping down to the sidewalk. The sharp scent of spilled beer hit him immediately.
Inside, three figures in ski masks moved hastily through the aisles, stuffing items into their bags. Their movements were erratic, careless. One of them barked out orders, voice taut from nerves.
Dick stepped forward, entering the store without catching their attention.
"You should put the stuff back," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’re not very good at this.”.
The closest thief whirled around, swinging a bat. Dick was already moving. His boot struck the man’s wrist, sending the bat clattering to the floor. The man staggered back into a shelf, knocking down bags of chips.
The second thief reacted next, yanking a gun from his waistband, panic in his eyes. But before Dick could disarm him, Tim emerged from the shadows.
Instead of taking cover or throwing a Batarang, Tim sprinted straight toward the gunman. No hesitation, no diversion. He closed the distance in an instant.
Just as the thief’s finger squeezed the trigger, Tim slammed his arm upward.
The gunshot cracked through the air. A spray of plaster rained down as the bullet buried itself in the ceiling.
Dick’s heart lurched, but Tim was already moving. He twisted the weapon out of the thief’s grip, swinging his bo staff into his ribs and sending him crashing to the floor. The thief wheezed in pain, gun clattering out of reach.
Dick exhaled, shifting his focus to the last guy, who had frozen in place. One swift sweep of his legs sent him to the ground.
When he looked up again, Tim was busy securing the other two thieves with a zip tie, his breathing steady, expression unreadable.
Dick could feel the knot of worry come back. Tim’s movements had been sharp and precise. But was it confidence? Or something else? Had he just completely thrown caution to the wind?
They finished tying up the thieves, leaving a call for the GCPD before grappling away into the night. The adrenaline of the fight lingered, but Dick couldn’t shake his unease. He kept glancing at Tim as they leaped, searching for cracks in the calm facade.
The tone of their patrol shifted abruptly again when they spotted flashing blue and red lights. Dick slowed to a stop on a rooftop overlooking the scene, Tim standing beside him.
Below, officers from the GCPD moved with grim efficiency, their voices hushed, their body language stiff. In the center of it was Commissioner Gordon, his trench coat flaring slightly in the wind.
A crime scene.
Tim crouched low, peering down. “Looks serious.”
“Let’s find out,” Dick said. They descended with silent precision, landing just outside the circle of officers. Gordon turned as they approached, unsurprised.
“Batman,” Gordon said with a curt nod, his gaze flicking briefly to Tim. “Red Robin.”
Dick stepped forward. “What do we have?”
Gordon motioned them closer, stepping away from the other officers. The body was slumped against the alley wall, one leg bent awkwardly. A white sheet covered his upper half, but blood still seeped from beneath, soaking into the cracks of the pavement. The air had a metallic tang.
Gordon lifted the sheet briefly, just enough for them to see. The man had a surprised expression, his glassy eyes wide open. The dark hole in his chest stood clearly against his white shirt.
“Name’s Henry Collins,” Gordon said, his voice low but firm. “Investigative reporter. Mid-50s.”
The Commissioner pointed to the bullet hole. His tone was grim. “Shot straight in the heart, execution-style. This wasn’t a mugging. This was professional.”
Tim’s gaze lingered on the body before shifting to the crime scene. "“Anything unusual left behind?”
Gordon hesitated, then took an evidence bag, laying on one of the GCPD cars. “This.”
Inside was a circular piece of metal, slightly larger than a coin. Dick stepped forward and picked up the bag, tilting it toward the light to study the object.
The coin was intricate, its surface etched with a fierce eagle, wings spread wide in a pose that radiated authority and power. Dick flipped the bag over to inspect the other side. It was identical, the same image repeated with meticulous precision.
Tim stepped in beside him, gaze sharp as he studied the coin. “That’s not one of the gangs sign. At least, not that I’ve seen.”
“Me neither,” Dick admitted, holding the bag up to the light. The intricate design caught the glow, and something about it set his nerves on edge.
Without a word, Dick tapped his cowl just above his temple, the faintest vibration confirming the high-resolution snapshot.
Gordon watched them carefully, arms crossed.. “Anything you recognize?”
Dick shook his head, giving the evidence back. “Not yet. But we’ll look into it.”
Gordon nodded, his face set with determination. “Alright. Let me know if you find anything.”
“Always,” Dick replied.
As they left the scene, the tension in the air followed them. Grappling to a nearby rooftop, they perched on the edge. Their earlier camaraderie and sense of nostalgia felt dampened.
Tim leaned on the ledge beside him. “What do you think? A signature? A warning?”
“Could be both,” Dick said, frowning. “Whoever did this wanted to make a statement. We just have to figure out what it means.”
TIm nodded, his gaze distant as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. “And who it’s meant for.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the city stretching out below them. The flashing lights of the alley had faded into the distance. Finally, Dick gestured toward the skyline.
“Let’s keep moving.”
They continued their patrol, but the rest of the night presented nothing of note. By the time they returned to the penthouse, the sky was beginning to lighten with the faintest hints of dawn. Both could feel the exhaustion creeping up.
Dick watched Tim for a moment, his tired expression and his worries crept back. But before he could say anything, Tim gave him a faint, tired smile. The same familiar smile that always managed to reassure him, even if just a little.
“Good night, Dick,” Tim said, heading toward his room.
“Good night,” Dick replied softly, watching him go.
Maybe I’m wrong about Tim.
Maybe.
A few hours later, Dick stepped off the elevator into the bunker, the cool air brushing against his face. He could hear the soft click of fingers on a keyboard.
Tim was seated at the computer, his eyes glued to the screen. Dick couldn’t help but notice how deep in thought he looked, brow furrowed, the faintest hint of tension visible in his jaw.
Dick made his way to the worktable, grabbing his cowl and a toolkit. His communicator had been giving him some static in his ear the previous night, and he figured he might as well fix it now. He settled in, unscrewing the small panel on the side of the cowl, the faint click of the screwdriver breaking the silence.
After a moment, his curiosity got the better of him.
“What are you working on? One of your cases?” Dick asked, looking up from his work.
Tim didn’t answer immediately, still focused on the screen.
“Not exactly,” Tim replied, the keys clicking rapidly under his hands. He leaned back slightly, shifting just enough for Dick to see what was on the screen. One side displayed the profile of the victim, and the other held a high-resolution image of the coin left behind.
“I’ve been digging into the victim of last night -- Henry Collins. Worked for the Gotham Gazette for over two decades. Specialized in investigative journalism -- exposing corruption, organized crime, corporate fraud. You name it.””
Dick looked up, interested. “That kind of career makes for a long list of enemies.”
“Exactly,” Tim said, his voice steady but laced with frustration. “There’s no shortage of people who’d want him dead. The corruption articles alone have ruffled a lot of feathers. But this…” He pointed at the image of the coin. “This feels personal. Whoever left it wanted to make sure we knew this wasn’t random.”
Dick abandoned his cowl for now and moved toward the computer, leaning over Tim’s chair.
“Any leads on the coin?”
Tim shook his head, the crease between his brows deepening.
“Nothing. I’ve cross-referenced it with every symbol in the Batcomputer’s database and the GCPD’s records. It’s a dead end. If anyone’s used this before in Gotham, it’s been under the radar.”
Dick frowned, crossing his arms. “That’s unusual.”
Tim glanced up at him.
“What’s the point of a signature if no one knows what it means?” Dick continued. His eyes narrowed slightly at the coin, as if willing the meaning to reveal itself.
Tim leaned back in the chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what’s throwing me off. Either this is brand new, or whoever’s behind it has been very careful.”
They fell into silence for a moment, both studying the image of the coin. The eagle radiated an air of authority and power and seemed to stare back at them.
“Eagles are a pretty common symbol,” Tim said eventually, breaking the quiet. “National emblems, organizations… it could be anything. The US uses it, Germany, Italy…”
“But the first real use of it as a symbol of authority?” Dick interrupted him. “The Roman Empire. The Aquila.”
Tim turned to look at him, his expression thoughtful. “The standard of the legions. The sign of dominance in Ancient Rome.”
“Yep,” Dick said, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “ Someone’s planting their flag.”
Tim nodded, “But who? And why now?”
Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s the million-dollar question.”
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The tension stretched as Tim’s eyes remained fixed on the screen, his mind clearly running through possibilities. Dick could almost hear the gears turning.
Then, with a sudden inhale, Tim’s head snapped up.
“Ancient Rome…”, his voice quiet but charged with realization. “The Roman Empire… The Roman…” He hesitated, then his expression darkened. “The Falcones?”
Dick felt his stomach drop at the word, the weight of it sinking in immediately. For decades, the name Falcone had been synonymous with fear and control in Gotham. Its organized crime had loomed over the city like a shadow. After his father, Carmine Falcone, the Roman, had been at the center of it all, ruling Gotham’s underworld with ruthless efficiency until he was killed.
Dick exhaled, forcing himself to focus. “You think someone’s trying to bring them back?” His tone was more cautious than skeptical, but the very idea made his chest tighten.
TIm was careful in his answer. “It could fit. The coin, the journalist… This feels close to their methods from back in the day.”
He hesitated. “And if that’s true… If someone really is trying to rebuild what the Falcones had… This could be bad. Really bad.”
Dick leaned back against the wall next to the computer, crossing his arms as he mulled over Tim’s words. “The Falcone family ruled this city unopposed for decades. Corrupt cops, judges, politicians… They had Gotham in a stranglehold.”
Tim nodded. “And if someone is reviving that power, they’re not going to stop at one body.”
If they were right, this was a ghost clawing its way, a monster Gotham had barely escaped from once before.
Dick straightened, determined. “If this is real, we need to move fast. Before they can reestablish themselves. Before this spirals.”
Tim nodded, his expression equally resolute. “Agreed.”
They exchanged a glance, the unspoken understanding clear between them.
This was a storm on the horizon, and they were standing directly in its path.
Notes:
Hello, here is the first chapter of my 'Dick and Tim working together on a case' fic!
So. I have the all thing written and edited. My plan it to post a chapter every week, normally on Tuesday (for me).
As for the fic, yes, we'll be talking about the Falcones because I wanted to use organized crime (and Harvey Dent!). I'm sticking to what happens in The Long Halloween and Dark Victory, so I'm ignoring any other changes, retcons or further stories about them. If you haven't read The Long Halloween, don't worry, you don't have to. I'm sort of doing a recap what's important next chapter and you can always ask me questions.
Earlier this year, I posted a one-shot that explored Dick's feelings about Tim's running away from Gotham and I see it as a sort of prequel for this fic, so if you want to read that, here's the link: No Results Found
I think that's all for now!
Chapter Text
Tim leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the screen. The image of the eagle coin loomed large on the screen, its wings spread wide.
Beside him, Dick stood silent with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Tim could tell he was turning this puzzle over in his mind as well.
This wasn’t just another case. This had history.
Finally, Dick broke the silence. “So, are we sure this is the Falcones? Or are we jumping to conclusions here?”
Tim frowned, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility that they were grasping at shadows, seeing a pattern in chaos. These last few months, he’s had quite the experience chasing after ghosts.
“Let me check something,” he said.
Tim pulled up the profile of Henry Collins, the investigative journalist whose body had been found in an alley. He scrolled through decades of articles on corruption and organized crime in Gotham.
But one article stood out.
Bingo.
“Collins published a piece on the Falcone family one year after Carmine’s death,” Tim said, scanning the text. “It’s a deep dive into their business. Names, methods, how they ran things.” He hesitated, skimming through the article. “No one did this before the Empire fell because they were scared. Too risky. But after that, Collins must’ve thought it was finally safe to expose them.”
He hesitated for a second, “Guess that wasn’t true after all.”
Dick stepped closer, peering at the screen. “So you’re thinking this was payback?”
“It fits,” Tim admitted. “Organized crime runs on fear and retribution. They eliminate their problems by making an example of them.” He gestured vaguely at the screen. “If someone is reviving the Falcone name, they’d want to send a message about what would happen if someone dug into their actions.”
His gaze flicked back to the screen. “But the timing… It’s weird.”
“Weird how?”
“It’s been fifteen years since Carmine died,” Tim said with a note of frustration. “The Falcone Empire collapsed. And no one has tried anything about them since. So why now? Why bring them back into the spotlight?”
Dick didn’t answer immediately. He just frowned, “And that eagle symbol, they’ve used it before?”
“One second,” Tim pulled up the Batcomputer’s archive. Within seconds, the database scanned for any mention of the eagle insignia and the history of the Falcones.
“Nothing.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Not that I can find,” Tim gestured to the empty results. “No recorded cases of this symbol being used by any Gotham crime family – Falcone or others. The Falcones usually stuck to roses.”
Dick didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at the screen, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about other sightings? Has this symbol popped up anywhere else?”
Tim’s hands moved across the keyboard again. A moment later, a hit came through, not from GCPD reports but from a public complaint. A pharmaceutical company had posted a brief notice on their website: Vandalism reported at the entrance. Unidentified graffiti found. There was an attached image.
An eagle. The same symbol.
Tim pulled up the company’s address and cross-referenced it with Gotham’s older maps. His stomach clenched.
No way.
“Okay,” Tim said, voice sharper now. “This is interesting.”
Dick leaned over his shoulder. “What?”
He turned the screen, tapping the location. “This pharmaceutical company -- its offices are built exactly where Carmine Falcone’s penthouse used to be.”
Dick blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Tim shook his head. “Nope. The old building was demolished after the earthquake. Rebuilt into an office skyscraper.” He turned back to the screen. “And now, out of nowhere, this eagle symbol shows up on its walls?”
A heavy silence stretched between them.
A murdered journalist who once exposed the Falcone family. A symbol appearing on the ashes of Carmine Falcone’s empire.
This can’t be a coincidence.
“Alright,” Dick said slowly, “but why the change? Why not stick with the roses? Or even falcons? It’s literally in their name.”
Tim considered it, “An eagle’s more recognizable than a falcon. And even back then, they liked the Ancient Rome image. ‘The Roman,’ ‘the Empire’; some of their old properties even had that faux-classical architecture.”
Dick nodded. “An eagle also carries more weight psychologically. People associate it with conquest. Which is what they’re trying to do.”
He glanced at the screen, the shadows under his eyes a little deeper than before. “We need to find out who’s behind that.”
Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The pieces were falling into place. But he had the sinking feeling that this was just the beginning.
Bruce had built his war on crime with the Falcone Empire as one of his earliest targets. The Roman had been the embodiment of Gotham’s old corruption. One of the reasons Bruce had chosen to become a symbol.
And now, Bruce wasn’t here.
The thought pressed against Tim’s chest, a little heavier than he wanted to admit.
There was a difference between reading about history and standing in the middle of it. And Tim felt out of his depth..
Breaking the silence, he asked, “How much do you know about them? The Falcones?”
Dick shook his head. “Not a lot. When Carmine was in power, I was still traveling with the circus. Gotham was just... another stop. I didn’t know much about the city itself. And by the time Bruce took me in, Carmine had already been dead for a year.”
Tim had suspected as much. The Empire had collapsed before Dick had even put on the Robin suit.
"So you didn’t know anything about them?"
“Not firsthand,” Dick said. “Bruce told me bits and pieces, but I just wasn’t there.”
Dick looked at him more attentively.
“You grew up here,” Dick pointed out, tilting his head. “What about you?”
Tim gave him a flat look. “Dick. I was three when Carmine died.”
Dick blinked. “Oh.” A pause. Then, almost sheepishly, “Wow. Forgot how young you are.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
There was a moment of silence before Dick asked, still sheepish. “I guess your parents didn’t tell you much about them, huh?”
Tim snorted. “No, the rise and fall of the mafia wasn’t really the subject of my bedtime stories.”
Dick chuckled as well.
But the truth remained. This had not been their war.
The only thing Tim remembered about them from when he was growing up was the way people still avoided their old estate. The building had burned down and people swore the ruins were haunted. Whether by ghosts of the family or those of their victims.
“Alright,” Tim exhaled. “ At least we both read Bruce’s report on how they went down.””
Silence.
Tim glanced over, catching the flicker of hesitation in Dick’s expression.
“…I haven’t, actually,” Dick admitted.
Tim stared at him, incredulous. "You haven’t – What?"
Dick shrugged. “When I was Robin, I wasn’t interested in reading old stuff. Bruce didn’t force me. And as Nightwing, I just never had the occasion.”
Tim looked at him in disbelief.
“You mean… He didn’t make you read reports?”
“Nope.”
“Did he… did he at least make you write them?”
Dick scratched the back of his neck. “Not until I was, like, sixteen?”
Tim felt his indignation rise. “Are you kidding me?”
Dick held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. Protocols weren’t really in place when I started.”
Tim groaned.
“That’s – ” He exhaled sharply, trying to rein in his frustration. “That’s so unfair. I had to read so many reports before I even put on the suit. Bruce drilled me on Gotham’s entire crime history. I had to know how to write my own reports. He was meticulous about it.”
“Sounds like him,” Dick was grinning.
Tim shot him a flat look, his irritation barely concealed. “You had it easy.”
Dick was clearly enjoying his reaction. “Look on the bright side. Now I get to read the whole thing from scratch, while you can just skim through it. That’s an advantage, right?”
Tim narrowed his eyes. Technically, yes. But it did little to temper his irritation at the blatant double standard.
He knew Bruce had refined his approach after what had happened to Jason, with Tim having a longer training period. But he didn’t think that Dick had just winged it that much for the first years.
Tim let out a long slow breath.
Move on, Tim. We have much bigger issues here.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk.“So, who do you think is behind this?”
Dick crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. “If it’s a family member, who’s left?” He hesitated. “What was his name? Viti?”
Tim frowned. “Johnny Viti? The nephew? No, he’s dead too. I think one of the sons survived. Alberto or Mario, I can’t remember.”
Dick hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Wait. Remind me which one was exiled for a time?”
Tim blinked. “Exiled?”
“Yeah, one of them. Either got sent away, or left, or something –” Dick gestured vaguely.
Tim sighed, rubbing his temple. A headache brewed at the base of his skull.
“I… I don’t know?” The details were blurred in his memory, mixing together.
They stared at each other, equally perplexed.
Tim let out a long sigh, feeling the headache settle behind his eyes. "Okay," he said, exhaling. "We’re not getting anywhere with this right now. We need to get the actual details straight, because otherwise, we’re just gonna confuse ourselves more.”
“Agreed,” Dick said.
Tim’s eyes flicked back to the screen. He sighed quietly. “So… time to do some reading?”
Dick looked at him, questioning. “When you say you read Bruce’s report, which one was it?”
Tim shot him a puzzled look. “What do you mean, which one?”
Dick leaned against the desk. “There were two versions of the reports on the Falcones. One of them is on the Batcomputer – that’s the one you read, right?”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“When Bruce started, he wrote, like handwrote, about his cases in journals”, Dick continued. “I remember he digitized everything at some point.”
Tim felt something coil tight in his gut. A quiet, creeping suspicion.
Dick continued. “One time, I was bugging him about something, and he told me to leave him alone. Said he had to update the Falcone report.”
That feeling in Tim’s stomach twisted a little tighter. That could mean anything. Or it could mean exactly what he was starting to suspect.
Tim’s voice came out cautious. “Do you think he removed something? Hid something?”
Dick’s jaw tightened slightly. For a second, he didn’t answer. Then, finally,, in a voice quieter than before, he admitted, “Maybe.”
Tim studied him, searching for something in his expression. Hesitation. Doubt. The hope that they were wrong.
Dick sighed. “It wouldn’t be unlike Bruce, but... I don’t know.” He trailed off, then met Tim’s gaze again. “I have the journals here if you want to check them out.”
Tim nodded. “Let's take a look."
Dick pushed off the console and walked to the far end of the bunker, toward a storage locker. But this didn’t contain their gears, this was some of Bruce’s belongings.
Tim followed, watching as Dick input a code and pulled the door open. Dick sifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out two thick leather-bound journals, the edges scuffed from years of handling. He held them for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers curling around the edges.
Tim watched him carefully.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
Dick glanced at him.
Tim gestured to the Batcomputer. “I’ll go quickly through the digitized version first, get a refresher, and then I’ll read those.” He nodded at the journals in Dick’s grip. “It’ll go faster that way.”
Dick hesitated. Just for a second. “Knock yourself out.”
Tim reached for them, his fingers brushing against the rough, aged leather. The weight of them was heavier than he expected.
A beat of silence settled between them.
Finally, Dick exhaled. “Alright, I’ll start from scratch. I’ll do my reading upstairs if you need me.”
Tim nodded absently, but his mind was already moving ahead. He went back to the console, carefully placing the journals next to him. As the elevator doors slid shut behind Dick, the faint click echoed in the large space.
Tim’s fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, skimming through the digitized report. The screen flickered as pages scrolled by, each one a snapshot of Gotham’s history. The Falcone family tree unfolded before him, a web of names and crimes that stretched back decades.
At the center of it all stood Carmine Falcone – the Roman.
Carmine had inherited his father’s empire, turning it into a well-oiled machine. His children (Alberto, Mario, and Sofia) and his nephew, Johnny Viti, were all deeply entrenched in his operations.
They had been untouchable for a time. Until that, one by one, Carmine’s associates began turning up dead. Panic and paranoia had seized his allies and family, pushing them against each other, carrying on the bloodshed.
Carmine had temporarily allied with his rival, Sal Maroni. In open court, Maroni hurled a vial of acid at Gotham’s District Attorney, Harvey Dent. But Harvey didn’t die. He became something else. Two-Face.
And soon after, he personally put a bullet in Carmine’s head, triggering the fall of the Roman Empire.
The struggle for power after Carmine’s death only resulted in more deaths. From Carmine’s immediate family, the only survivor was his son Mario. He had suffered a mental breakdown after the deaths of his siblings and burned down the Falcone estate. From what Tim could tell, he had spent most of the last fifteen years in and out of psychiatric hospitals.
Closing the digitized report, Tim reached for the first handwritten journal. The leather cover was worn, the edges softened by the years. He hesitated, his fingers brushing over the surface, before opening it.
The sight of Bruce’s handwriting hit him like a punch.
It was unmistakable; the neat, well-traced letters, the faint smudges of ink where the pen had pressed too hard. Tim had seen Bruce’s handwriting a thousand times. Case files. Wayne Enterprises documents. Notes for his high school.
Tim’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just sat there, staring at the page. The weight of it all – the loss, the grief, the hope – settled over him, heavy and suffocating.
A lump rose in Tim’s throat.
Bruce wasn’t dead. He was out there, lost in time, but alive. Tim had proven that. He had fought for it, bled for it, clawed his way to find the truth. But it had been hard. The loneliness. The doubt. It still haunted him when he was awake in the darkest of the night.
Not now.
He didn’t like to dwell on it. The memories were too raw, too close to the surface. Instead, he took a slow breath, trying to ground himself. He focused on the journal, on the words written in Bruce’s hand.
The first line jumped out at him: “Everything around me is a lie. Carmine Falcone is throwing a society wedding for his nephew Johnny Viti…”
The words were pulling Tim into a different time. This wasn’t the Bruce he knew. This was a younger Bruce, raw and idealistic, still believing that taking down the Falcone family would be the key to saving Gotham. That it would break the city’s cycle of corruption and crime.
There was a fervor in the words, a determination. Tim could almost see him, the younger Bruce he had only seen in pictures, hunched over this very journal, pouring his thoughts onto the page.
Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line. Gotham didn’t work like that. It never had.
The Bruce Tim knew had been tempered by loss and time. The fight was never straightforward, and the victories came with a cost. That was the lesson he had drilled into Tim. But here, in these pages, Bruce hadn’t learned that yet.
The words on the page weren’t just observations; they were raw. Unfiltered. Unlike the detached case files Bruce had trained them to write, this wasn’t a simple report. This was personal.
Tim’s gaze lingered over the handwriting.
I shouldn’t be reading this.
Bruce had never been one for emotional confessions, but here, in this journal, his thoughts were laid bare. His frustrations, his convictions, his hopes.
His fingers hovered over the edges of the page. He knew how this story ended. He knew better than Bruce had back then. Taking down the Falcones hadn’t saved Gotham. It had changed it. It had made room for something else.
He sighed and kept reading.
Bruce’s writing shifted slightly when he got to Harvey Dent, then Gotham’s District Attorney. There was something in the way he described him – respect, admiration, trust. He talked about how Harvey’s knowledge of the Falcone family was invaluable.
He had been an ally, a friend. Bruce had believed in him. Genuinely. He had thought the three of them – Batman, the then Captain Gordon, and Harvey – could change Gotham together.
Tim’s grip on the journal tightened.
Dick is gonna hate this.
Dick had told Tim about the night Harvey had played judge, jury, and executioner when he had just started as Robin. How he had repeatedly struck him with a bat. How Dick could have died there.
And still, Bruce had held onto the belief that somewhere beneath the scars, somewhere behind the madness, there was a version of Harvey worth saving. Dick had always quietly resented him for that.
Tim turned the page, pushing that thought aside. This wasn’t about Harvey or about the things Bruce had gotten wrong. This was about finding out what Bruce knew that they didn’t.
And so far, there was nothing hidden.
No secret codes. No erased history. No glaring contradictions.
Just Bruce’s younger voice chronicling the fall of the Falcone Empire.
Tim wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
Hours passed.
Tim barely looked up when he heard the elevator hum to life. A moment later, footsteps approached. Tim didn’t move as Dick strolled in, stretching his arms over his head before dropping into a chair across from him.
“Alright,” DIck said with a sigh, “Finished the report. And I updated Barbara. She’s running some background checks. She’ll let us know if she finds anything.”
His gaze flicked to the journal still open in front of Tim, sharp eyes scanning the handwritten pages.
“Found anything interesting?”
Tim hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet.”
Bruce’s faith in Harvey, the contrast between what Bruce had hoped for and what had happened? That wasn’t relevant. Dick didn’t need to hear it.
Tim shut the journal. “Nothing hidden so far.”
Dick studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go over what we’ve got.”
“Most of the big names went down with Carmine,” Dick continued. “That doesn’t leave many options.”
Tim considered carefully. “Two possibilities. Either some forgotten member of the family is trying to reclaim the throne. Or it’s a copycat using their name for power.”
Dick frowned. “A copycat wouldn’t be targeting a journalist from fifteen years ago.”
Tim didn’t disagree. But before either of them could continue, Barbara’s voice crackled through the speakers.
“Dick, Tim – you need to move. Now.”
Dick straightened immediately, already reaching for his cowl on the worktable. “What’s happening?”
“Restaurant on fire. On the 31st, next to O’Neil Street. Firefighters are already there.”
Tim’s brows furrowed. They rarely intervened in fires.
“Is it Firefly?”
“No, that’s not him,” Barbara replied. “But you’ll want to see what’s on the wall.”
The acrid bite of smoke clung to the air as Tim and Dick landed near the smoldering wreckage. Firefighters moved through the smoke,, their silhouettes outlined by the flashing emergency lights.
Tim’s boots splashed through a thin pool of water and he could feel the heat radiating from the charred remains of what had once been a restaurant.
Tim’s eyes flicked immediately to the charred brick wall near the entrance, where a symbol had been spray-painted in white.
The eagle. Again.
Tim turned to see Commissioner Gordon stepping out from behind a fire truck, his glasses catching the glow of the flames.
“I was hoping you’d show up”, he said, his voice tight.
“What happened?” Dick asked, his tone clipped.
Gordon gestured to the restaurant. “Someone torched the place. Left that symbol as a calling card. Sound familiar?”
“Commissioner,” Dick said, “we have reasons to think this might be connected to the Falcone family.”
At that, Gordon stiffened.
Tim carried on. “Henry Collins, last night’s victim. He wrote an article about the Falcone family fifteen years ago.”
Gordon exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses slightly askew.
“Goddammit.”
Gordon turned to look at the wreckage again. He was silent for a long moment.
“…This place used to be a Falcone front.”
Gordon exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on the burned-out shell of the restaurant, but it was clear he was seeing something else.
“Laundering operation,” Gordon continued, almost to himself. “Back when Carmine was still alive. Back when I was still a captain.”
That was thrice now. the two locations tied to Carmine Falcone’s empire. And the hit on the journalist.
Gordon ran a hand down his face, his voice tinged with frustration and something heavier. “We were free from these vermin for fifteen years. But of course, this city wouldn’t even give us that.”
There was an edge of resignation in his voice. Like part of him already believed it was true.
Before Dick could respond, Gordon’s radio crackled to life. A voice, tense and urgent, came through the static: “Commissioner, we’ve got movement on the perimeter. A black SUV, no plates. It’s heading your way.”
Gordon’s eyes widened. “What – ?”
The sound of screeching tires cut him off. Tim’s instincts screamed danger, but the SUV wasn’t coming for him. It was going straight for Gordon.
The SUV screeched to a halt, its windows rolling down to reveal the barrels of automatic weapons.
Dick lunged. In a blur of motion, he shoved Gordon behind the fire truck just as the first bullets tore through the air. Gunfire ripped through the street, the sound echoing against the surrounding buildings. Bullets hit the pavement, ricocheting in wild sparks.
Tim threw himself sideways, hitting the ground in a roll just as bullets tore through the space where he’d been standing.
“Go!” Dick barked. “I’ve got Gordon!”
Tim didn’t need to be told twice. He fired his grappling gun and launched after the SUV as it screeched away from the curb. He landed hard on the roof of the vehicle, the impact rattling through his bones.
The driver reacted instantly.
The SUV swerved left, then hard right, jerking violently as Tim’s stomach lurched from the force. His fingers dug in, his boots scraped against metal. Holding on became its own battle.
The vehicle was moving too fast, weaving through Gotham’s busy streets with deliberate precision.
They weren’t panicked. They were trained.
Another violent turn nearly flung him off, his grip nearly slipping. He reached out, trying to anchor himself --
The driver cut the wheel again, even sharper this time.
His instincts screamed. If he slipped, he’d be flung straight into the heavy, oncoming traffic.
He could either try to hold on. Or let go.
Maybe he could push it. Risk it. He would’ve done it before.
But he didn’t want to anymore.
Tim cursed under his breath and fired his grappling gun at the last second.
His line caught the side of a nearby building, pulling him up and away just as the SUV corrected itself and tore off into the distance. Tim landed clumsily on a rusted fire escape, breathing hard.
Gone.
Dammit.
They had known exactly how to get him off.
Tim exhaled sharply before activating his comm. “Batman.”
Dick’s voice crackled through the line. “Did you get something?”
Tim stared at the empty street. “They were professionals. They knew how to lose a tail.”
“Come back,” Dick said. “Gordon’s fine. Let’s regroup.”
Tim pushed off the ledge, grappling back toward the wreckage.
The doubt crawled in before he could stop it. Had he made the right call?
He wasn’t sure.
By the time Tim returned to the restaurant, the firefighters were finished putting out the fire.
He landed close to where Dick and Gordon stood near the fire trucks. The Commissioner had a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling up into the night air. His hands were steady. Not a trace of nerves.
Dick turned toward him immediately, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You okay?” Dick asked, his voice low but firm.
Tim nodded, though he could feel Dick’s gaze lingering on him, searching for something. He ignored it.
“They were after you,” Dick stated, turning back to Gordon.
Gordon exhaled, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Tim frowned. “You look like you were almost expecting it.”
“After a certain number of attempts on your life, you stop being surprised,” Gordon gave a tired chuckle while he took another slow drag. “And if you’re right about the Falcones, then I am a logical target. Spent a good portion of my days as Lieutenant and Captain here trying to bring them down.”
Then, his gaze shifted to Dick. Something in his expression grew distant. Pensive.
“He would know. We were in this together. Him, me…”, there is a slight pause, “and Harvey.”
There was a pained expression on Gordon’s face. Beside him, Dick stiffened. His lips pressed together, jaw clenched.
Gordon shook his head, already moving past it.
“Doesn’t matter”, he said, his tone slipping back into something almost nonchalant. This isn’t my first assassination attempt, and it won’t be my last.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t treat it seriously.” Dick objected.
“I am treating it seriously,” Gordon countered, adjusting his glasses. “But I’m not gonna hide in a safe house.”
Tim exchanged a glance with Dick. Gordon’s stubbornness was both a strength and a liability. He was a precious ally because he refused to back down, refused to be intimidated. But that could get him killed.
Dick, however, wasn’t giving up. “If they’re after you, they’ll try again. We need to figure out their next move before that happens.”
“And in the meantime,” Tim added, “you need extra security. Whether you like it or not.”
Gordon sighed, looking like he’d been seen every variation of this conversation. But he didn’t immediately argue. A small victory.
“I’ll talk to my people,” he said. “See what I can arrange.”
Dick didn’t look totally satisfied, but he nodded. “Good.”
No one spoke for a long moment. The air was heavy with everything left unsaid. The fire was out, but the damage had already been done.
This wasn’t over. And they all knew it.
Notes:
The plot thickens.
Like I said in the previous chapter, if you have any question on the Falcone history, you can ask. I did my best to recap it, but it's hard to know if it's clear enough.
I tried a sort of 'Bruce is haunting the narrative' aspect since it was his case and now, Dick and Tim are forced to deal with it, while also having to go through his stuff.
Reference: I mentioned the incident where Harvey Dent beats Dick. That's from Robin: Year One.
Okay, see you next week for the next chapter!
Chapter Text
Dick was crouched on the edge of a rooftop, his eyes scanning the street below and the burnt-down restaurant. Even from up here, the scent of burnt wood and smoke still clung to the air.
Tim was beside him, equally focused. His cowl hid his expression, but Dick didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking.
They’d been here for hours, watching, expecting the men hired to kill Commissioner Gordon to come back. But the street had remained empty. No sign of the attackers. The GCPD and firefighters had finished their cleanup minutes ago, clearing out the last of the smoking debris.
“They’re not coming back,” Tim said finally, breaking the silence.
Dick didn’t respond immediately. The attack on Gordon hadn’t been reckless. It had been deliberate and precise. These people weren’t amateurs. They had a plan.
The pattern was becoming impossible to ignore. A journalist murdered for exposing Falcone’s secrets. A public official targeted for trying to keep the city clean. The reclaiming of properties tied to a dynasty that had been dead for fifteen years.
Dick exhaled slowly, resting his arms against his knees. “We keep coming back to the same question,” he murmured. “Who the hell is pulling the strings here?”
“ Most of the family is dead,” Tim replied. “Carmine’s empire collapsed when he died.That just leaves Mario.”
Dick frowned.
Mario Falcone. The last surviving heir to the Roman Empire. But Mario had lost everything. He had watched his family die, one after another, and then had torched what remained of their empire himself. After that, he had disappeared, spiraling into a breakdown that kept him in and out of institutions. Becoming little more than a ghost.
“Mario is the most visible candidate,” Dick admitted. “But he’s been barely functional for over a decade. That doesn’t line up.”
Tim gave a short nod. “Yeah, I don’t know if he’s even capable of something like this. Or maybe… someone else is pulling the strings for him.”
Dick shifted his position slightly, scanning the cityscape as if the answer was hiding somewhere in the sky.
“The Chicago branch of the family also collapsed,” he said, thinking out loud. “When Carla and Johnny Viti were killed, the entire structure died with them.”
Tim hummed in agreement. “But the Falcones still had connections in Italy. The mafia is still strong there. Could be someone from overseas trying to stake a claim.”
Dick considered it. It made sense. Someone with resources, power, and the knowledge to resurrect the Falcone name.
“That’s our best lead for now,” Dick muttered.
But it doesn’t quite fit.
Tim broke the silence again, his voice quieter this time. “We’ve got a problem, Batman.”
Dick huffed out a tired laugh. “Just one?”
Tim ignored him. “We’re running out of leads. We have almost nothing to go on. No names, no solid suspects. The eagle symbol barely gave us results. The attack on Gordon gave us nothing except proof they’re professionals.”
Dick sighed. “Yeah. I’m aware.”
“So we’re stuck,” Tim said bluntly.
Dick didn’t respond. He hated that Tim was right. How they were chasing shadows without even knowing what they were running after.
“For now. Something will come out,” Dick straightened. “Come on. Patrol’s not over yet. We can’t waste the whole night waiting.”
Tim didn’t argue. They both knew that Gotham never slept; other crimes were happening that needed their attention. Assaults, robberies, and the usual chaos to deal with.
They split up after that, each taking a different sector of the city.. Dick moved through the shadows, his movements fluid and automatic. Compared to their investigation, the routine of patrol was grounding. A break from the weight of the case.
Except, it didn’t really feel like a break.
Somewhere in Gotham, someone was making moves in the dark. Someone was digging their hands back into something that should have stayed dead and buried. And they had nothing. Just an old ghost clawing its way out of the grave.
DIck stopped an attempted mugging in the Diamond District, disarming the attacker with ease. Routine. Simple. Muscle memory. But as he secured the man, his mind was elsewhere.
This was Bruce’s war.
It had been one of his earliest battles, a defining chapter in his crusade. Gotham had been suffocating under corruption, and Bruce had made it his mission to dismantle it, piece by piece.
When Dick had become Robin, the Empire was already falling apart. He’d never been at the center of that fight. He had been a kid, still trying to figure out what it meant to wear the cape. He didn’t have to make any of the calls. That had been Bruce.
And now it was him.
The thought sat heavy in his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something Bruce would have caught.
What if he wasn’t enough for this?
Not now.
Dick forced the thought aside. He wasn’t going down that road.
By the time he returned to the Batbunker, the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. Just another night in Gotham.
Tim was already there, slumped in a chair at the Batcomputer, Bruce’s journal open in front of him. He looked exhausted.
Dick hesitated in the doorway, watching him for a moment. A part of him wanted to tell Tim to stop. To get some sleep. But another part of him… didn’t want to be the one reading those journals. Didn’t want to see Bruce’s thoughts laid bare.
It was too personal. Too raw.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Dick said finally, his voice quiet.
Tim barely looked up. “Just a few more pages” he murmured. “Then I’ll go to bed.”
Dick didn’t argue. Instead, he headed to his room, collapsing onto the bed. Sleep came quickly, but it was restless, filled with dreams of symbols painted in blood. Of Gotham slipping through his fingers.
And somewhere, just beyond his reach, Bruce’s voice.
Less than three hours later, Dick was jolted awake by a hand on his shoulder. He blinked groggily, his vision swimming as Alfred’s face came into focus.
Dick groaned, rolling onto his side.
“Master Richard.” Alfred’s voice was calm but firm. He wasn’t leaving without results. “It’s time to get up.”
Dick cracked an eye open and immediately regretted it. The lights of the room felt too bright, stabbing into his skull.
“Alfred,” He buried his face into the pillow. “Please tell me it’s an emergency.”
“Breakfast,” Alfred replied simply.
Dick let out a muffled groan.
Of course, he would choose today for that.
Any hope of Alfred showing mercy died right there. They loved him and he had saved their lives more times than Dick could count, but the older man also believed in maintaining some sort of proper conduct. Like dragging them out of bed for what he deemed ‘ proper breakfasts’ whenever he wanted.
Dick muttered something unintelligible but got out of bed anyway.
He stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, still half-asleep. Tim was already there, slumped over the counter. His hair was a complete mess, and his expression oscillated somewhere between exhaustion and deep existential regret.
Climbing on the stool, Dick realized with a sinking feeling that if he had only gotten three hours of sleep, then Tim had probably gotten even less.
Dick clenched his jaw, forcing himself to push past the exhaustion, but it was a losing battle. His entire body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was moving through fog. Instead, he reached for his coffee and tried not to fall asleep in it.
His eyelids drooped. Just a second. Or two --
A voice cut through the haze. Sharp, amused.
“You look like zombies,” Damian’s voice announced dryly. “Both of you.”
Dick blinked, snapping back to reality. He hadn’t even realized he’d zoned out, but Damian’s smirk and the barely restrained amusement on Alfred’s face told him everything he needed to know. They’d been making comments, probably snarky ones, about him and Tim while he was out of it.
He glanced at Tim, who had slumped further over the counter, his face half-buried in his hands. He looked like he was genuinely considering drowning himself in his cup of orange juice.
Great.
Dick groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks, Damian,” he muttered. “Always appreciate the support.”
Alfred took a sip of his tea, his expression the picture of innocence. “I do hope you’re both feeling… somewhat human this morning.”
Dick shot him a look, but before he could respond, he saw the newspaper lying on the counter. The headline jumped out at him.
Mayor Higuchi Backtracks on Key Policy Announcements, Cites ‘Unforeseen Circumstances’.
No.
Dick straightened, fully awake now. He reached for the paper, scanning the article quickly. The Mayor had been an advocate for transparency and reform since taking office. And now, out of nowhere, she was backtracking?
No explanation. No justification. Just a vague statement.
That wasn’t just suspicious. It was wrong.
Dick elbowed Tim in the ribs, and Tim made a noise that was half-startled, half-offended. “Hey!”
Dick slid the newspaper toward him, tapping the headline. “Look at this.”
Tim blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus. His eyes skimmed the page, and within seconds, his expression shifted. The same realization snapping into place.
“This isn’t like her,” Tim muttered. He was scanning for details, but there weren’t many. Just vague quotes, and nothing that made sense.
He glanced up at Dick, their silent communication instant.
“You think she’s being blackmailed?”
“Or threatened,” Dick said, his voice grim. “Either way, this can’t be a coincidence.”
Because this was exactly how the mob operated. They didn’t just kill their enemies or take revenge. They also pressured politicians and paid officials. Slowly sinking their claws before anyone realized it was happening.
Now, they were going straight for the city’s leadership. And if they had the Mayor in their pocket, how many others had they already turned?
Tim straightened, his exhaustion forgotten. “We need to talk to her.”
Dick nodded, his mind already racing. “I’ve met her before. At a charity gala last year. We could maybe use that and our name to get in.”
Tim tapped a finger against the table, considering. “She was interested in the Neon Knights projects. That might get us in.”
Neon Knights was a foundation run by Tiffany Fox, dedicated to keeping at-risk teens off the streets by providing them with shelters, centers, and community activities. Since coming back to Gotham, Tim had been working with them, in particular with Tam Fox, Tiffany’s sister.
Dick raised an eyebrow“. You think that’s enough?”
Tim shrugged. “She was talking about providing some funding last time I heard. It’s a solid excuse to get a meeting.”
Dick gave a small nod. It wasn’t a bad idea. If the mayor was being pressured, she wasn’t going to admit it outright. But they could read between the lines and watch her body language, her hesitation, how much she dodged their questions.
Tim pushed himself up from the table, abandoning his half-eaten toast. “I just need to check something with Tam first. If I mess something up, Tiffany will have my head.”
Dick smirked faintly, but his mind was elsewhere. He watched as Tim walked out of the kitchen, already pulling out his phone.
That left him alone with Alfred. At some point during their conversation, Damian had disappeared. The kitchen felt quieter without them. Dick exhaled, rubbing his temples, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion. But the weight pressing down on him wasn’t just fatigue.
It was his job to stop it. He was Batman. There was no other option.
But that was a lot.
“Penny for your thoughts, Master Richard?” Alfred’s voice broke through the silence. The older man was watching him, reading him like an open book. As he always did.
“Just… thinking,” Dick said finally, his voice quiet. “About the Falcones. About what we’re up against.”
Alfred regarded him for a moment, then reached for his tea. “You were not in Gotham then,”” he said at last. His voice was steady, measured. “You do not remember what it was like in those days.”
Dick looked at him. He knew the stories. But Alfred had lived it.
“How bad was it?” he asked.
Alfred took a slow sip before answering. When he spoke, his voice was measured, but there was something weary beneath it.
“ It was a dark time,” he said quietly. “The corruption was… pervasive. Judges were openly bought. Police officers turned a blind eye, or worse, actively aided the crime families. Businesses paid protection money just to survive. The city was under their thumb, and there was no escape.”
Dick’s stomach churned at the description. Hearing it from Alfred made it feel more real. More immediate.
Alfred set his cup down with a quiet clink. “Crime was not chaos, like it is now. It was order. Ruthless, suffocating order. The Falcones had control, and they maintained it through blood and power.”
This was an entire system trying to claw its way back into the city. And if they let it take root, if it reached the judges, the law enforcement, the city government, Gotham wouldn’t stand a chance.
Dick swallowed hard, his earlier doubts creeping back in. “And now they’re trying to come back.”
Alfred studied him for a moment. “And you’re wondering if you’re capable of stopping it.”
Dick had a small smile. Of course, Alfred could tell.
Alfred’s expression softened. “You have done what many would deem impossible, Master Richard. Time and time again.”
Dick let out a quiet breath. “But this was his fight.”
Alfred placed a hand on his wrist, his grip firm and reassuring.
“And now it is yours.” His voice was steady, unwavering. He gave Dick a moment to absorb the weight of those words before continuing. “Remember, Master Richard, the city is stronger now. Thanks to you. To all of you.”
Alfred’s words were steady, firm. Dick held his gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. He wasn’t reassured. Not fully. But Alfred had done what he needed to : remind him that giving up wasn’t an option.
Before he could say anything else, Tim reappeared in the doorway, his phone in hand. “Tam’s on board,” he said, his tone brisk. “She got us a meeting with the mayor in an hour. Maybe .”
Dick exhaled, shaking off the last remnants of doubt. Time to move forward.
“Alright,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get ready.”
The game was on.
As Dick stepped into the waiting area of Gotham City Hall, he tugged at his collar, trying and failing to smooth it out. He had forgotten his collar stays. Again.
He glanced at Tim, the edges of his collar curling as well. A small, amused smile threatened to pull at Dick’s lips.
At least they were matching.
Mayor Higuchi had only been in office for two years, but in that time, she had faced more crises than most politicians saw in a lifetime. Gang wars, economic downturns, rogue villains turning entire city blocks into war zones. And yet, through it all, she hadn't given up. From everything Dick had seen, she was trying. Really trying.
They didn’t have to wait long before her assistant called them in, and they stepped into the office. The space was bathed in natural light, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Gotham’s skyline. But Dick barely gave it a glance. His focus was on the mayor.
Mayor Higuchi greeted them with a polite but professional smile, rising from her desk to shake their hands. She was in her late forties, her dark hair always pulled back neatly. Always composed, always in control. Except today, something was off.
Her usual poise was frayed at the edges. Her movements were stiff, deliberate. And she kept glancing at her phone, fingers twitching like she was waiting for something. Something she wasn’t looking forward to.
Still, when she finally met his gaze, she gave him a polite, practiced smile.
"Mr. Grayson," she greeted. "It’s been a while."
Dick offered an easy grin. "Yeah. Last time we saw each other, I think it was at the Gotham Art Gala. You, Bruce, and Lucius spent the evening at one of the exhibitions."
She let out a small laugh. “Oh god, yes. I had no idea Lucius was such a connoisseur of Romanticism paintings. One comment, and suddenly I was getting a full lecture."
Dick smirked. "I bet Bruce was thrilled."
She shook her head, amused. “Oh, I caught him trying to slip away, but Lucius was on a roll. I figured if I was suffering through it, he could suffer as well.”
Her gaze flicked to Tim, assessing, and something unreadable passed behind her expression. "I don’t think we’ve officially met."
Tim straightened, offering a polite smile. "Tim Drake-Wayne. It’s a pleasure, Mayor Higuchi. I’ve heard a lot about your work for the city. "
She nodded, distracted. "I haven’t seen your father in a long time."
Dick kept his expression neutral. So did Tim.
"He’s… traveling," Tim said. "But he’s doing well.”
Mayor Higuchi hummed, clearly thinking about something else. Then, with a quick motion, she gestured to the chairs across from her desk.
"Please, sit."
Dick caught the slight tension in her shoulders as she settled back into her seat. Before the silence could stretch, Tim leaned forward slightly.
"I actually wanted to speak with you about Neon Knights," he continued, settling into his chair. "I know your office has expressed interest in our youth centers, particularly the one in the East End. It’s going to be a net positive for the community.”
Dick watched as Tim shifted seamlessly into his role.
The public persona Tim. He’d always been sharp, but this was something else.
Dick had given him pointers over the years, of course. How to navigate Gotham’s elite, how to play the charming heir when necessary. And Tim had seen him in action during the months they’d spent out of Gotham, navigating high-society events with ease. Dick hadn’t realized just how well Tim had absorbed those lessons.
But this? This was a performance, and Tim was nailing it.
Tim was engaging, confident. He spoke about the foundation with practiced ease, outlining the proposed benefits for at-risk youth, the impact on crime reduction, and the partnerships Neon Knights had been growing.
The mayor listened intently, nodding and occasionally interjecting with questions. She seemed genuinely interested.
But Dick couldn’t help but watch Tim.
Tim had never been one to seek the spotlight. Even at Wayne events, he’d been content to hang back, usually with one person he actually liked chatting to. He made friends easily, but he had never worked a room like this before.
And it made Dick wonder.
If he was this effective at playing this role, then what else was he keeping beneath the surface?
Tim was good at hiding things.
Dick pushed the thought aside.
We’re here for the mayor, not Tim!
Mayor Higuchi smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "I’ve always found what the Neon Knights are doing to be one of the more promising initiatives in the city. It’s exactly the kind of program Gotham needs".
Tim leaned forward slightly, his tone casual but probing. “We’re finishing up the pool and gym at the East End center, and we were hoping to discuss the possibility of partial funding for the programs there. Your office had expressed interest when the project was first proposed. Are those plans still on the table?”
The shift was immediate. The mayor stiffened. Her polite smile faltered, and her hands tightened around the edge of her desk. She glanced at her phone again, like she was expecting something.
"Ah, yes. That’s… a wonderful project," her voice was measured, but there was hesitation beneath it. " But as for the funding…I’m not sure if that’s possible right now.”
The mayor was nervous. More than nervous, in fact. She was scared.
Tim didn’t react, at least not outwardly. He pressed on, his tone light but persistent. “I understand budgets can be tight. Maybe we could discuss alternatives?”
He leaned back slightly. “What about future projects? We’re still searching for locations for more centers. Have you heard of any vacant properties we might be able to rebuild or convert?”
That question made her flinch.
"I…" She started, then stopped.
For a fraction of a second, she looked torn. As if debating whether to say something. Then, her jaw set, and she shook her head.
"I… I’m not sure. There’s been some… interest from potential investors in certain properties.It’s… complicated," she said carefully.
Dick’s breath caught. Potential investors. That was a red flag.
Tim was already pressing forward. "An investor? Do you know who?"
The mayor’s expression shut down. The hesitation in her voice was gone, replaced by something colder. "I can’t discuss that.”
She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.
"I’m sorry, but this meeting is over. Thank you for coming."
Her hands weren’t steady anymore. Dick caught the faint tremor as she reached for her phone. She couldn’t quite meet their eyes. “My assistant will show you out.”
Dick didn’t need to exchange words with Tim to know they were thinking the same thing. They’d pushed as far as they could for now. They already had their answer.
"Of course," Dick said smoothly, rising to his feet. He extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mayor."
Tim followed him, but as they turned toward the door, Dick caught something : one last flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
She wasn’t just scared. She was trapped.
Neither of them spoke as they moved through City Hall, their footsteps echoing against polished floors. Inside the elevator, the doors slid shut. Dick exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
"That wasn’t hesitation. That was fear."
Tim adjusted his sleeve, "And not just for herself. Someone has her in a stranglehold."
A moment stretched between them.
“This is bigger than we thought,” Dick muttered.
Tim crossed his arms. “The murders and the attacks were just the start. They’re buying influence.”
Dick’s hands curled into fists at his sides. "If they’re already pressuring the mayor, it’s only a matter of time before they go after others. Anyone who stands in their way.”
Tim’s expression was dark. “Well, it’s already working.”
The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out into the lobby, the bright sunlight a stark contrast to the tension hanging over them.
The Falcones were already corrupting Gotham again.
Notes:
I'll be honest, I really, really wanted to write a scene with Dick and Tim investigating under their public personas/as civilians. I essentially reverse-engineered it to fit in the story and this is how this chapter came to be. But I think it works pretty well in the end!
Dick is starting to feel the pressure of everything going on, isn't he? Sorry, it's not going to get better 🙂
The Neon Knights organization was introduced in the Red Robin series, in particular in #13 and #14. That's also where we see Tiffany, Tam having been introduced earlier.
Chapter Text
They returned to the bunker. Dick barely said a word before stepping out again, leaving Tim alone with Bruce’s journals.
Tim leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. The meeting with Mayor Higuchi played over in his mind.
She was scared. Not the kind of fear that came with the pressure of the job or bad publicity,. No this was the kind of fear where people were looking over their shoulders.
She was already compromised. They just didn’t know how badly yet.
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. At least he hadn’t said anything wrong about the Neon Knights that could put him in trouble. The organization was too important for his future plans as Red Robin.
Thankfully, Tam’s coaching on how to pitch investors had paid off.
Tim turned his attention back to the journal in front of him. The pages were filled with Bruce’s neat, precise handwriting. He had gone through most of it without finding anything new, but he wasn’t giving up yet.
He flipped to the last few pages, skimming through Bruce’s final entries. And then he saw it.
‘I might have an understanding why Selina always seemed to appear while I was investigating the Falcones. I suspect she is the Roman’s daughter.’
Tim froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Carmine Falcone. The Roman. Bruce suspected he was Selina’s father.
He reread those two sentences, as if the words might change, but they didn’t. Bruce had suspected it. And he’d never mentioned it. Not to Tim and not to anyone else, as far as he knew.
This hadn’t been on the digital files. Why? Did Bruce not want them to know? Or did he not want her to know?
Had he been wrong?
Tim stared at the journal as if the answer might materialize if he looked hard enough. He flipped through the remaining pages, searching for more details, but there was nothing. Just that one sentence, stark and unyielding.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his thoughts. Selina had always been an enigma, walking the line between ally and adversary. If Bruce was right, if she really was Carmine Falcone’s daughter, what did that mean for her? For them?
And more importantly, did this mean she was involved in this resurgence?
The sound of the elevator broke the silence, pulling Tim out of his thoughts. He glanced up as Dick stepped into the room. Tim let go of the journal, as if it might bite him, and turned to face him.
“Find anything?” Dick asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. He had always been good at reading people, and Tim knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Tim hesitated for a moment, then gestured to the journal. “Yeah. Something… interesting.”
Dick raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Interesting how?”
Tim flipped the journal back to that page and pointed to the sentence. “Bruce thought Selina might be Carmine Falcone’s daughter.”
Dick’s expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face. He leaned in, his eyes scanning the words. “This wasn’t in the other report,” he said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral.
“No,” Tim confirmed. He watched Dick closely. “Did Bruce ever mention this to you?”
Dick’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “No. First time I’m hearing it.”
Tim nodded, though the answer didn’t surprise him. There were things Bruce had shared with no one. If anyone might have known, it would have been Dick, but even he had been left in the dark on this one.
Dick crossed his arms, his gaze distant. “Did he write anything else about that theory?”
“No,” Tim admitted. “Just that one sentence. Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe…” He trailed off, not needing to finish the thought. Or maybe Bruce had his reasons for keeping it quiet.
Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Selina’s past has always been complicated. But if Bruce thought there was a connection…” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the idea. “Do you think she’s involved in this?”
Tim leaned back in his chair, considering the question. “I don’t know. She has helped us before, but she’s not exactly totally on our side. If she is Carmine’s daughter, she might know something about what’s happening. Or she might be caught up in it without realizing it.”
Dick’s expression darkened, skepticism creeping into his features. “It’s been fifteen years. If she wanted to rebuild the Falcone empire, she’d had plenty of time to try. This doesn’t feel like her.”
“Maybe,” Tim conceded, watching Dick closely. “But if there’s even a chance she has information, we need to ask her.”
Dick was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the journal. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. But I should be the one to talk to her. I’ve known her longer.”
Tim didn’t argue. Between the two of them, Dick had the better chance of getting her to open up.
Dick leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. “So, let’s say Selina has nothing to do with this. That still leaves the bigger problem.”
Tim knew what he meant. “The bigger problem being that we’re constantly one step behind.”
“Exactly,” Dick said. “We’re playing catch-up. We don’t know what’s coming next until it’s already happening. And we're not gonna stop them like that.”
Tim frowned. “ They have a pattern. They’re targeting people who worked against the Falcones. First, the journalist, then Gordon. If we can figure out who’s next, we might be able to intercept them.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. “You have someone in mind?”
“Maybe,” Tim said, already pulling up files on the Batcomputer. “The journalist. Someone had to give him intel for that article. If we can figure out who that was, we might find our next target.”
The screen flickered as Tim navigated through the GCPD archives, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. He looked to see if the journalist had made any sort of request concerning one of the suspects or collaborators of the GCPD. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for
“Andrew Pulkinen.” Tim tapped the screen. “He worked logistics at Falcone Imports. Five years before Carmine’s death, he flipped. Went to the GCPD with everything he knew about their money laundering operations.”
Dick leaned in, scanning the file with a sharp eye. “And?”
“The GCPD put him in witness protection,” Tim continued, his tone shifting. “But a couple of years after Carmine died, they lifted it.”
Dick let out a slow breath. “Because they thought it was safe.”
Tim nodded. “No Falcones left. No reason to keep protecting him. Except now…” He trailed off.
Dick finished the thought for him. “They’re going after anyone who ever worked against them. Pulkinen was a rat that got away.”
Dick’s expression was somber, but his voice remained firm. “Yeah, that tracks. But we need proof before we start making moves. Let’s see if Babs can dig up anything.”
He reached for a switch on the Batcomputer, and within seconds, Barbara’s image flickered onto the screen. Her expression was serious, but there was a flicker of relief when she saw them.
“I was about to call you,” she said, no wasted words. “What’s going on?”
Tim quickly filled her in on their theory about Andrew Pulkinen. “Can you check the surveillance cameras around his home? See if there’s been any suspicious activity?”
Barbara nodded, her fingers already flying across her keyboard. “Give me a second.” The screen split, showing live feeds from various cameras around Pulkinen’s neighborhood. After a moment, she zoomed onto one of the feeds. “There. Two cars have been circling the block at least three separate times in the last few days. They’re not even trying to be subtle.”
Dick’s jaw tightened. “That means it’s only a matter of time before they make their move.”
“I’ll keep monitoring,” Barbara said. “If they make a move tonight, I’ll let you know.”
Tim was about to thank her when she spoke again, this time with a different edge to her voice. “And while we’re on the topic of suspect activity… I intercepted some interesting chatter. Something about a ‘cleanup operation’ at the old Falcone Imports warehouse in Tricorner Yards. You know, the one that’s now that trendy café? The Brew Crew? ”
Tim’s stomach tensed.
“The Brew Crew?” His brows furrowed. “Tam took me there last week. The food was really good.”
Barbara grinned. “Oh, so it was a date.”
Tim could feel his face heat up. “It wasn’t a date. We were discussing business.”
“Sure,” Barbara said, her tone dripping with skepticism. “By the way, their cheesecakes are amazing. You should try them next time.”
Dick cut in, but he sounded pretty amused. “Focus, you two. The Brew Crew -- what’s the chatter saying?”
Barbara’s expression turned serious again. “Whatever this ‘cleanup’ is, it’s happening now. I’ve got movement inside the café.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a psychological attack. They want to remind everyone who really runs Gotham. That the city shouldn’t try to move on from their reign.”
Barbara’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and urgent. “Hold on. Two cars just pulled up on Pulkinen’s street. They’re not moving. This could be it.”
Dick and Tim exchanged a glance, the unspoken agreement clear between them. The mob wasn’t waiting, and neither could they.
“We’ll split up,” Dick said, already moving toward the bunker’s vehicle bay. “I’ll handle Pulkinen. Tim, you take the café.”
Tim nodded, shifting into motion alongside him. “Got it.”
Barbara’s voice cut in again, her tone firm. “Be careful, both of you. These people aren’t playing around.”
“We know,” Dick said, his voice steady but tight with tension. “Keep us updated, Oracle.”
The comms went silent as the two sprinted toward their bikes. The sound of engines resonated through the bunker.
Tim swung his leg over his bike, gripping the handles. “Good luck.” His voice was barely audible.
Dick gave a curt nod. “You too.”
And then they were gone.
Dick crouched on the rooftop, his cape draped around him as he surveyed the scene below. Burnley was quiet tonight. Pulkinen’s apartment building was small, wedged between two slightly taller structures. Faded brick, a couple of dimly lit windows.
His gaze shifted to the two cars Barbara had mentioned. A man was leaning against a streetlamp with a cigarette between his fingers, scanning the area.
The other three were gathered near the cars, talking. Low voices, quick exchanges. Dick couldn’t hear them yet, but he could see the tension in their postures. They were waiting for a signal.
Four attackers.
Dick’s mind ran through possible strategies. He needed to get closer, to hear what they were saying. But he couldn’t risk being seen. Not yet.
He jumped down into a dark alley, landing in the shadows just a few feet from the parked cars, his boots hitting the pavement without a sound. He strained to listen, catching snippets of their conversation. Some words were familiar, but others were incomprehensible – Italian, maybe, but not the kind he’d learned. A dialect, then. Sicilian, if he had to guess. He cursed internally. Of course, they wouldn’t make this easy.
One phrase stood out, repeated a couple of times: “L’Aquila.” The Eagle. Like the coin.
What was it? An operation name? A nickname? A code? He filed the information away for later.
The man near the streetlamp threw his cigarette and muttered something into a talkie-walkie. The response was brief and unintelligible, but the man nodded and gestured to the others.
“ Andiamo ,” he said, his voice tight with urgency.
The group moved toward the apartment building. They were making their move.
Dick had to act now.
He let them go in first. Let them think they had the advantage.
The men started climbing the stairs of the building, their silhouettes cutting through the dim light.
When they reached the third floor, Pulkinen’s floor, Dick didn’t hesitate and fired his grappling gun. He crashed through the hallway window in a shower of glass, landing in a crouch as he threw a smoke bomb to the ground. A thick cloud rose, obscuring everything in gray.
The hitmen shouted in confusion, their voices panicked and disoriented.
“ Che cos'è ?!” one of them yelled. They weren’t from Gotham; they weren’t used to dealing with vigilantes.
Good. That meant they’d make mistakes.
Dick moved like a shadow, training and instincts taking over. He disarmed the first attacker with a swift kick to the arm, sending the man’s gun clattering to the floor. A fist in the jaw took him down, and Dick was already moving to the next target.
The second one swung wildly at him, a knife glinting in the dim light. Dick sidestepped easily before he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. The knife dropped instantly, and Dick sent him into the wall with a controlled kick.
The third attacker panicked and started firing blindly into the smoke, the gunshots deafening in the confined space. Dick rolled to the side.
Idiot. You’re going to hit your own men.
Dick closed the distance, and he hooked a foot around the man’s ankle and yanked. The henchman hit the floor hard, his weapon skidding away.
The last man was still standing, trying to spot him. Dick stepped behind him, grabbed the man’s forearm, and sent him flipping. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking him out.
The hallway fell silent, the smoke slowly dissipating. Dick stood amidst the unconscious bodies, his breathing steady but his heart still racing. He quickly restrained the attackers with zip ties.
He activated his comm. “Oracle, send a signal to the GCPD. The hitmen are down.”
The apartment door creaked open behind him. Dick turned, catching a glimpse of pale faces in the dim light. Pulkinen stood frozen in the doorway, his wife gripping his arm, trembling.
Dick looked at them, trying to steady them before they panicked further.
“They were here to kill you,” he said, voice firm but even. “Stay inside. Lock your door. Don’t open it for anyone except the GCPD.”
Pulkinen nodded shakily. “Th-thank you,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. Without another word, he closed the door, and Dick heard the sound of the deadbolt.
The sound of approaching sirens cut through the night. Moments later, the hallway was flooded with light as Gordon and Maggie Sawyer arrived, with their flashlights and their guns raised.
Dick stepped forward, his voice low. “Commissioner. Captain.”
Gordon’s gaze flicked to the unconscious attackers before settling on Dick. “Batman. What are we looking at?”
“An assassination attempt,” Dick said, gesturing toward the apartment door. “Andrew Pulkinen. He was a former Falcone informant. They came for him tonight.”
Captain Sawyer stepped forward, eyes scanning the restrained men. “Those are the guys?”
“Yeah,” Dick confirmed. “These men are professionals, but they’re not from Gotham. They were speaking in an Italian dialect. Sicilian, I think. You’ll need an interpreter.”
Gordon and Sawyer exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of annoyance and resignation. “Great,” Sawyer muttered. “Just what we need.”
“Right now, the priority is keeping Pulkinen and his family safe”, DIck continued. “I recommend putting them back in witness protection. At least until the situation is under control.”
Gordon nodded, his expression serious. “We’ll make it happen.”
Dick hesitated for a moment before looking Gordon in the eye. “Commissioner… Is it really a good idea for you to be out here? After what happened yesterday?”
Gordon waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve got Maggie watching my back. She is there to make sure I don’t get into trouble.”
Captain Sawyer looked like she disagreed with his definition, but didn’t correct it.
Dick nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Just be careful. Whoever’s behind this, they’re not playing around.”
With that, Dick slipped through the window and into the shadows. At least, for now, Pulkinen was safe. That was something.
Dick grappled to the nearest rooftop, the cool night air rushing past him as he swung. He landed lightly and for a moment, he just stood there, the city sprawling out before him in a sea of lights and shadows.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The hit had been stopped. But the relief was tempered by a gnawing frustration. He’d prevented an assassination, but he hadn’t gotten any closer to understanding who was behind it. The attackers were professionals, but they were outsiders. They didn’t know Gotham, and they didn’t know him. That had given him the edge tonight, but it also meant they were just pawns. The real players were still out there, hidden in the shadows.
He activated his comm, his voice low but steady. “Oracle, it’s done. The hit’s been stopped.””
Barbara’s voice came through immediately, her tone a mix of relief and curiosity. “Good job. Any leads?”
“Not much,” Dick admitted, his frustration creeping into his voice. “They were speaking in Sicilian, I think. I could only understand part of it, but they kept referring to something as ‘L’Aquila’. It might be a code. I recorded the audio on my cowl. Can you analyze it?”
“On it,” Barbara said. He could hear the clicking of her keyboard. “I’ll run it through everything I’ve got. Anything else?”
Dick hesitated, then added, “Your dad’s back on patrol. He and Maggie Sawyer are handling the scene.”
There was a pause, and when Barbara spoke again, her tone was sharp with disapproval. “Of course he is. Because sitting still for five minutes is apparently too much to ask.”
Dick smirked faintly. “You know how he is.”
“Yeah, stubborn as a mule.”
Dick wasn’t about to let that one slide. “Sounds just like his daughter.”
Barbara sighed. “Okay, I walked into that one.” There was amusement in her voice.
Dick chuckled, but his mind was somewhere else. “Any update on Red Robin?”
Tim stopped his bike a block away from The Brew Crew. The café stood dark, its modern facade a contrast compared to the other crumbling warehouses. The neon sign out front had been switched off hours ago, leaving the popular place looking deserted. But Tim knew better.
At first glance, it seemed quiet. But the side door was slightly ajar, and the lock clearly forced. And there, in one of the upper windows, a faint glow of light flickered, barely visible.
They were already inside.
Tim moved quickly, slipping through the side door with practiced ease. The interior of the café was a mess: tables overturned, chairs smashed, glass littering the floor. The air was thick with the scent of spilled coffee and something sharper, more metallic.
He grappled up to a steel beam, his movements silent as he positioned himself in the shadows. From his vantage point, he could see the full extent of the destruction. Papers and receipts littered the floor, along with broken light fixtures.
And then he heard it. Voices. Muffled, but unmistakable. They were coming from the kitchen and the office space.
Tim’s grip tightened on his bo staff as he listened. Whoever was here, they weren’t just vandals. This was calculated.
Tim remained perched above, barely shifting as the muffled voices grew clearer. Two men stepped out from the kitchen, their boots crunching over broken glass.
The taller of the two said, “You know, my grandma was Italian.” He was not from Gotham, judging by his accent. Chicago, maybe?
The other man’s eyes lit up, his response immediate. “ Ah, si? Di dove era? Napoli? Torino? Roma ?”
The American gave an awkward chuckle. “Hold up. I don’t speak the language. Never learned it.”
The Italian shrugged, switching back to English with a hint of disappointment. “Ah, too bad.”
They moved closer to where Tim was hidden. He shifted slightly, adjusting his position, making sure he remained hidden.
The American glanced around, his expression turning serious. “So, what’s the deal with this place, anyway? Why’s it so important to trash a café?”
The Italian’s face darkened, his voice dropping low. “This was not a caffè before. Once, it was the heart of the Falcones’ operations. Il capo, he worked here. This place… it was a symbol of their power. But now?” He gestured to the destruction around them, his tone bitter. “They have, ugh… ruined it. Turned it into… this. They must pay for this insult.”
Tim’s fingers twitched slightly against the beam he was gripping.
We were right.
Someone was really trying to revive Falcone's Empire. Before, they only had circumstantial evidence. But this conversation had made it clear.
The American raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “And destroying it is gonna fix that?”
The Italian pointed to his head. “It’s about memoria . People forget too easily. When people hear the Roman’s name again, they will remember.”
Before the American could answer, two more henchmen emerged from the office, holding toolboxes. “Everything’s ready,” one of them said, his voice tight with urgency. “We need to get the hell out of here. Now.”
Tim waited until the sound of their footsteps faded, then dropped silently to the ground. There had to be something here. Something that could tell him more about their plans.
He slipped into the kitchen. The room was a disaster: appliances smashed, and debris littering the floor, the scent of burnt plastic heavy in the air.
And then his eyes landed on the real problem.
A bomb.
It sat near the center of the room, crude but effective. Charges were positioned along the walls, their wires snaking toward a detonator hooked to a support pillar. The timer on the device was counting down, the red numbers glaring in the dim light.
3:11… 3:10… 3:09…
Tim crouched in front of the detonator. He quickly realized this was going to be an issue. He didn’t have the tools to disarm it. If he tampered with it, it would probably explode in his face.
The café was going to blow up, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
At least, I have time to get out.
Then, his eyes caught something else -- jagged black letters scrawled across the ruined kitchen wall: “From the Roman.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. The henchmen’s conversation had already confirmed their theory, but this was tangible proof. He touched the side of his cowl, snapping a picture.
He turned toward the office, intending to take a quick look before getting out, but then he smelled it.
Gas.
Tim’s body went still for half a second. His pulse, steady before, now spiked. He inhaled again, and this time, he was certain.
His eyes darted to the pillar where the detonator was hooked. A pipe had been ruptured, its contents leaking into the air. The scent was sharp and unmistakable, and it was growing stronger by the second.
Tim’s heart rate spiked. Gas plus a bomb was a bad combination. A very, very bad combination.
As if on cue, a small spark erupted from the detonator’s wires, the brief flash of light illuminating the room. It wasn’t enough to ignite anything, but it was a warning. A spark could ignite the gas at any moment and set off the whole bomb.
Shit.
Tim didn’t hesitate. He turned around and sprinted through the ruined café, dodging overturned chairs, jumping over the broken counter.
He didn’t have three minutes anymore. He had seconds.
Faster! Move!
He reached the door just as the first explosion rocked the building. The force of the blast projected him forward, the heat on his back as he crashed onto the pavement outside, rolling across the asphalt.
Tim forced himself to turn, his ears still ringing from the blast, just in time to see the café engulfed in flames. The structure groaned, its walls buckling under the weight of the fire, before collapsing in on itself with a deafening roar. Smoke and debris shot into the air, engulfing the street in a thick haze.
Tim sat up, breathing hard. The pavement was rough under his palms as he braced himself, his heart still hammering against his ribs. The heat was intense, and the acrid scent of burning metal and scorched wood clung to his lungs. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through him, his mind racing as he processed what had just happened.
He wasn’t injured. Nothing broken. No burns. His cape was torn, his suit scuffed, but he was whole.
Alive.
There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared if he made it out alive. When the risk, the danger, the sheer recklessness of it all had felt like the only thing that made sense. But now? Now, every breath felt like a victory.
His earpiece crackled.
“Red Robin?” Oracle’s voice came in sharp, alarmed. “What just happened? I just picked up a –”
“I’m fine,” Tim cut in, exhaling as he forced himself to his feet. “The place blew up. They set charges. I couldn’t stop it.”
There was a beat of silence, then a sigh. “You gave me a scare. You’re not hurt?”
“No, I got out.” His voice was steadier now. “But I got my confirmation. It’s them.”
“Alright,” Barbara replied. “Batman wanted to regroup, but you’re both on opposite ends of the city. I’m sending you a rendez-vous point.”
Tim took out his display communicator from his belt and saw the coordinates pop up on his screen. Not too far.
“Got it,” he said.
He took one last look at the burning wreckage. Then, with a sharp exhale, he headed toward his bike.
The rendez-vous point was an abandoned building deep in the Narrows. The scent of damp decay clung to the air, a sharp contrast to the lingering smoke still clinging to Tim’s suit.
He spotted the Batbike already parked outside. Dick was there.
Tim pulled up beside it. He stepped inside the building, his boots crunching on debris, and found Dick waiting for him.
Dick turned as Tim entered, his eyes narrowing as he took in his appearance. The torn cape, the scuff marks, the faint smell of smoke; it all told a story.
Dick’s expression tightened.
“You okay?” His voice was clipped, but the concern was unmistakable.
Tim nodded. “I’m fine. Just a little singed.”
Dick didn’t look convinced, his gaze lingering on the damage to Tim’s suit. “What happened?”
“The café’s gone,” Tim said. “They planted a bomb. But you should see this.”
He pulled out his display and showed Dick the picture of the inscription on the wall. “The henchmen also confirmed it. It really is the Falcones.”
Dick sighed. “At least, now we know for sure.” He seemed to ponder before continuing. “That would line up with what I found. I stopped the hit on Pulkinen. The attackers were speaking in an Italian dialect, probably Sicilian.”
That’s interesting.
“There was an Italian at the Brew Crew too,” Tim noted. “But also Americans – guys who sounded like they were from Chicago. They weren’t locals.”
Dick folded his arms. “So, a mix of the original mafia guys and hired mercenaries? But that doesn’t matter right now. If we want to stop them, we need a name.”
Tim hesitated. He knew Dick would hate this. But he had been thinking about it since he started reading Bruce’s journals. They couldn’t ignore this option any longer.
“There’s someone who might know who’s behind this,” Tim said carefully. “Someone who knows the Falcone family inside and out.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who?”
Tim met his gaze, unwavering. “Harvey Dent.”
Dick’s reaction was immediate. His jaw clenched, shoulders going rigid, and even under the cowl, Tim could see his expression darken.
“No.”
Dick started pacing, his boots kicking up dust on the abandoned warehouse floor.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Tim said, crossing his arms, his voice unwavering. “He was the DA, Dick. He built cases against the Falcones. He knows their operations, their connections, their weaknesses. If anyone can give us insight into what’s happening now, it’s him.”
“No,” Dick repeated. “We are not involving Harvey.”
Tim felt his frustration spiking. “You’re not even listening to what I’m saying –”
“I am listening,” Dick cut in. “You want to talk about people who knew the Falcones? Fine. Let’s talk to someone who isn’t in Arkham. There has to be another way.”
Tim let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Because everything we’ve done so far has worked flawlessly.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
Dick’s glare sharpened, his jaw clenching.
“Harvey’s a liar. A manipulator. And he put a bullet in me last time I saw him as Nightwing,” DIck shot back, eyes narrowing. “I am not bringing him into this.”
Tim clenched his jaw. He knew that. He knew all of that. A significant part of him even agreed. But that didn’t change the reality of their situation.
He stood his ground. “I get it, but we don’t have better leads! Right now, we’re trailing behind the mob.”
Dick turned to face him fully. “Even if Harvey knows something, Tim, his information is fifteen years old. You don’t think it’s a little out of date?”
Tim didn’t hesitate. “No. They wouldn’t change their techniques.”
That made Dick pause.
Tim pushed forward. “Old crime families are attached to their ways. They’re gonna be using the same infrastructure, the same methods.”
He saw something shift in Dick’s expression – he wasn’t convinced yet, but he was thinking.
Tim hesitated just an instant. “And we both know that Harvey still has contacts in the underworld.”
For a long moment, Dick was silent. Tim could practically see the internal battle waging behind his eyes. The instinct to shut this idea down was still there, but he wasn’t rejecting it outright anymore.
Tim decided to push further.
“I’m not stupid, Dick,” Tim said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “I know Harvey’s dangerous. I’m not saying we should trust him. I’m saying we use him.””
Dick let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Dammit.” He ran a hand down his face, frustration written in every movement. “I don’t like this, Tim.”
“I don’t either,” Tim admitted. “But if there’s even a chance he knows something, we have to try.”
Something clicked in Tim’s mind then.
“Also, I’ll handle him alone. You can’t come.”
Dick’s head snapped up. “Why not?”
Tim crossed his arms. “Batman was Harvey’s ally. He knew Bruce and Bruce probably wouldn’t ask some of the questions we need answers to. If you go in there as Batman, Harvey will know something’s off.”
Dick’s expression darkened again, his jaw tightening. Tim could feel Dick closing off again. So he played his last card.
“You said it yourself, we’re playing catch-up. We got lucky tonight to guess their targets, but what about next time? More people will die. If there is any chance, we have to take it”.
In the silence that followed, Tim could almost hear Bruce’s voice, and he knew Dick did as well. How protecting lives was the most important thing.
Finally, Dick exhaled. “Fine.” Tim barely had time to process the relief before Dick fixed him with a pointed stare. “But on a few conditions.” His voice was firm, allowing no room for argument.
“First, you don’t tell him anything about our case. No details, no hints. You keep the questions vague and let him do the talking.”
Tim nodded, but the unease lingered. Harvey Dent wasn’t the kind of man you manipulated easily. If they wanted real information, they might have to give something in return.
“Second,” Dick continued, his eyes locked onto Tim’s, “You keep your distance. You don’t let him get inside your head. You go in, you get what we need, and you get out.”
“I know,” Tim said, just as firm.
But Dick wasn’t done. His grip tightened on Tim’s shoulder. “I mean it, Tim. Harvey’s a manipulation master. Don’t underestimate him. You think you’ve saved someone from him, and the next thing you know, he’s drowning them.”
There was a dark look in his eyes. A memory
“…I can handle it,” Tim said, voice steady.
Maybe steadier than he actually felt. But he needed Dick to believe it. Because if Dick had any doubts, this would be over. He understood the reservations, the history. Harvey had left a lasting impression on Dick. But they couldn’t wait anymore.
Dick studied him for a moment, his gaze searching. Finally, he exhaled sharply and stepped back. “Alright. While you’re in Arkham, I’ll talk to Selina, like we said before. Better to cover all our bases.”
Tim gave a small nod in agreement. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the only one they had.
They left the abandoned building together, the night air cool against their skin. Dick paused beside his bike, his hand resting on the handlebars. “Be careful. And if anything feels off, you get out of there.”
They exchanged a final nod before mounting their bikes. The engines roared to life, the sound cutting through the stillness of the night. Dick glanced over at Tim, his expression unreadable under the cowl. “See you back at the penthouse.”
Tim nodded, gripping the handlebars. “See you there.”
With that, the roar of the engines filled the air as they took off in opposite directions, disappearing into the Gotham night.
Notes:
Finally, in the next chapter, we are going to see Harvey and Selina! They were very fun to write.
I know that in the comics, Selina's parentage is... messy. But I decided to stick with her being Carmine's daughter.
Also I am so sorry for any Italian, even more to any Sicilian. I am using all of the mafia clichés and I know it's not exactly like that (though while I was writing this fic, I saw an article coming out about the Sicilian mafia, and I was like 'no way').
For the references here, Dick's line about thinking about saving someone and Harvey drowning them is from Robin: Year One. The 'he put a bullet in me last time I saw him as Nightwing' is a reference from Nightwing (1996) #147-148 (The Great Leap) by Tomasi.
Also, last week I was supposed to tell you that from this chapter on, I will alternate the POV because I need Dick and Tim to be at different places. But I, huh, forgot, so sorry about that.
Also, this is kinda where I lose my pacing. I severely underestimated how many words my plan for each chapter would end up at. This means that the next chapters are respectively 8k, 10k(?!) and 7k. Oops. I tried to rework it and cut the chapters differently, but I was not happy with the results. So. You're gonna get big chapters. Hope you are alright with that.
Chapter Text
The air inside Arkham was thick, stagnant, like something that had been left to rot behind locked doors. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, some flickering in and out, casting shadows. The walls were a sickly green, the paint peeling in places to reveal the gray concrete beneath. The entire building seemed to breathe in a way that put Tim on edge.
Like it was alive, watching.
The security guards he passed looked either exhausted or on edge, their hands hovering near their belts. One of them nodded at him, a silent acknowledgment, but the tension in the man’s shoulders didn’t ease.
Somewhere in the distance, a patient was screaming, echoing through the halls. Another voice joined in, this one laughing, a sound that was somehow worse than the screams. Tim didn’t flinch. He had been here before, but it never got easier.
He passed cell after cell, each one a small box with a reinforced glass. Some of the occupants were silent, their faces pressed against the glass. Others were more animated, hitting the glass or shouting obscenities as he walked by.
Tim ignored them all, his focus on the folder tucked under his arm. He had made a detour to one of his safehouses before coming here, printing out copies of their evidence and compiling a family tree of the Falcones.
He knew bringing it was a risk. Dick had made that clear. But Tim had his own instincts, and they told him that was the wrong approach. Harvey Dent had been a district attorney before anything else. He worked in facts, in paperwork, in tangible proof. If Tim wanted anything useful out of him, he needed to bring something real to the table. He wasn’t walking into this empty-handed.
He reached Harvey Dent’s cell, a dull light illuminating the small room beyond.
For a moment, the man inside didn’t acknowledge him. Harvey was sitting on the cot, his fingers working the coin over his knuckles in a fluid motion. His lips curled slightly, the motion causing a twitch on the damaged side of his face.
Tim stepped closer, just enough to make his presence known.
Harvey tilted his head slightly, but didn’t fully turn. His voice was lazy, almost disinterested. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”
“Red Robin.”
That got Harvey’s attention. His fingers stilled over the coin as he finally got up, stepping closer to the glass. His gaze roamed over Tim in an unnerving, methodical way. Assessing, weighing, dissecting. Then, slowly, an unsettling smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Ah. The previous Robin.” He clicked his tongue. “Heard there’s a new one now. Thought maybe you’d finally kicked the bucket.” His voice was gravelly, rough like sandpaper, but the tone was casual.
Tim didn’t answer, didn’t give him anything.
“But you’re still standing,” Harvey continued with a sharp grin. “Guess that means you got promoted.”
Not exactly how that went down.
“Shame, really. I never got to finish the job with the first Robin. Had him right where I wanted him, too. Me bat in hand, him begging for mercy.” His grin widened, “But he got away.”
His scarred eye gleamed with something darker. “Then the Joker took care of the second one.”
Tim’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. Harvey was trying to get under his skin, and he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
The coin danced between his fingers. “But hey, these things have a way of working out. Red Robin, Robin… close enough, right?” His voice was darkly amused. “And the way I see it? That means it’s only a matter of time before I get my second chance.”
Tim’s grip tightened slightly on the folder in his hands. Harvey was testing him, prodding for a weak spot, waiting to see what would make him flinch. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly as he slid the folder through the small chute at the side of the glass.
Harvey blinked, his head tilting slightly. He took the folder and flipped it open. His gaze skimmed the first few pages, fingers turning them with disinterest. Until something changed.
His expression sharpened. His grip on the folder stilled, and his eyes focused on the documents. The casual, detached act disappeared, replaced by something colder,.
“What is this?” Harvey asked, the gravelly aspect and the amusement from before were gone. He looked up at Tim, his mismatched eyes narrowing.
Tim met his gaze without flinching. “Evidence. Someone’s trying to revive the Falcone Empire,” he said, his tone steady. “No one knows them better than you.”
For a moment, Harvey said nothing. The silence stretched between them, and then, slowly, a shadow passed over his face.
“And why should I help you?” he asked, his voice sounding again like gravel. “What makes you think I give a damn?”
Tim had expected this. Prepared for it.
He chose his words carefully. “Because, as Harvey Dent, you spent years trying to take down the Falcones. You didn’t give up, even when witnesses disappeared or corrupt politicians and judges stood in your way. “
He let the words sink in before pressing further.
“And when you couldn’t do it the legal way, Two-Face did.”
Something flickered in Harvey’s expression. A glint of something dangerous.
“You were the one who killed Carmine Falcone”, Tim said, his voice firm. “You made sure the Roman Empire fell.” He let the weight of it settle before finishing, “You hate the Falcones. On this, both sides of you agree.”
For a moment, Harvey said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes bore into Tim’s. He looked like he was re-evaluating him, seeing something he hadn’t before.
“Smart kid,” Harvey muttered, his voice almost approving. “I like you.”
Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his coin. He flipped it once before catching it. He didn’t even check the result.
Harvey exhaled and finally looked down at the folder again, flipping another page. “Alright,” he said, his voice almost professional. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Tim exhaled slowly, watching as Harvey examined the documents and decided to question him. “Some of the men implicated are from Italy, Sicily probably. Can it be someone from there?”
Harvey considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “Maybe. But that’s the easy answer, kid.”” His mismatched eyes gleamed. “No, this is someone who’s been here before.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting one forearm against the glass. “You want to rebuild an empire?” he said, voice smooth. “You don’t bring in outsiders.” His voice dropped slightly, like he was telling a secret. “This city eats them alive.”
Tim absorbed that. It made sense. Gotham was a beast that didn’t take kindly to strangers, and its criminal underworld was even worse.
Harvey flipped through the folder again, stopping on the family tree. His expression darkened as he studied it. “This is incomplete,” he said finally, tapping the page with his finger.
Tim frowned. “What do you mean?”
The family tree was straight up from Bruce’s files.
“This is missing someone,” he muttered, flipping the page. “Carmine wasn’t his father’s only son.”
Is that another game?
Harvey ran a finger down the page, stopping just below Carmine’s name. “Vincent Falcone had another kid. A bastard. Antonio Caruso.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed as Harvey continued, his voice growing more distant, like he was reaching back through time.
“Vincent cheated on his wife with a maid,” Harvey said. “Antonio was the result. But here’s the thing. Vincent recognized him. Brought him into the family. Raised him in the house.”
Tim frowned. That was rare. Most bastards got swept under the rug, hidden. “And Carmine didn’t like that.”
Harvey huffed a dark laugh. “Hated it,” he confirmed. “Antonio was fifteen years younger, but that didn’t matter. He was a walking reminder that Vincent Falcone didn’t give a damn about his wife. That he’d humiliated her and gotten away with it.”
“And Carmine let him operate under the family?” Tim asked.
“For a while,” Harvey said. “Then Vincent Falcone dies, and Carmine takes over as the Roman”. He paused, just long enough. “And what’s the first thing he does?”
Harvey leaned forward slightly, his grin sharp and knowing. “He exiles Antonio.”
Tim exhaled through his nose, his mind racing. “Because he could be a threat?”
Harvey’s lips curled slightly. “Because he existed. ”
Carmine had been brutal, pragmatic, but family had always mattered to him. If he’d exiled Antonio, this was personal.
Tim’s instincts flared. This fit. They’d been looking for someone with deep personal ties to Gotham and the Falcones, someone who had the knowledge and the motive to rebuild the empire. Antonio Caruso checked every box.
Harvey leaned against the glass, his fingers still resting on the folder. His expression shifted, something thoughtful across his scarred face.
“This was all before my time as DA,” he said, his tone almost contemplative. “When I took office, I tried to find out where Antonio went. But he’d vanished. No trace. It was like he never existed. Everyone forgot about him.”
Years gone, forgotten by the city. But not dead.
Tim’s gaze flicked back to the folder and extended a hand toward the chute, his voice firm. “Give me the folder back.”
Harvey didn’t move.Instead, he tilted his head. “Why isn’t Batman here?” he asked, curious, but with something underneath it. “We worked together to take down the Roman. He knew some of this. So where is he?”
Tim hesitated for a fraction of a second, then straightened. “This is my investigation,” he said. “Batman’s not involved.”
Harvey chuckled, shaking his head. “Nice try, kid,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I know the guy out there isn’t my Bats. So who’s under the cowl now?”
Tim felt disgust at the way Harvey said it, the possessiveness in his tone. But there was also something else there. A flicker of something Tim couldn’t quite name. Regret?
He forced himself to stay calm, his expression neutral. “Does it matter?” he asked, his voice clipped.
Harvey chuckled again, low and dark. “Guess not.”
He closed the folder but made no movement to return it. Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t argue. Harvey had seen the evidence. There was no point in fighting over the folder now. He turned to leave, his cape brushing the floor as he moved.
“One more thing,” Harvey called after him, his voice cutting through the silence.
Tim paused but didn’t turn around.
“Take them out,” Harvey said, his tone cold and deliberate. “Whoever’s behind this… Take them out.” Harvey’s tone was eerily calm, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “The Falcones don’t deserve a second chance. And neither does anyone trying to bring them back.”
Tim didn’t respond. He walked away with the weight of Harvey’s words. He stepped out into the night, but even as he breathed in the fresh air, he couldn’t shake his feeling of unease.
Dick pulled up outside Selina’s apartment, cutting the engine of the Batbike. Gotham at this hour was caught between two worlds; the criminals were retreating to their hideouts, but the city hadn’t quite woken up yet. It was a fleeting moment of silence before the cycle started all over again.
He barely noticed. His mind was too tangled in everything that was happening.
He had already been on edge. The weight of Bruce’s impending return weighed down on his shoulders. This had been looming over him for days. He’d spent months trying to live up to the mantle of Batman, second-guessing every decision. And now he was revisiting those decisions, not knowing if Bruce wouldn’t look at Gotham and think Dick had failed it. That Dick had failed him.
And now, this . The Falcones. A case buried in the past, clawing its way to the surface, dragging with it the weight of Bruce’s early years as Batman.
How do I justify my choices when this was his case first?
There was Tim, too. Dick’s grip tightened on the handlebars as he thought about the explosion at the café. Tim had gotten out in time, but it had been close. Too close. Was it recklessness? Or was Tim pushing himself too hard, trying to prove something? Dick didn’t know, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
And now Tim was in Arkham, talking to Harvey Dent. The thought made Dick’s stomach churn. Harvey wasn’t just dangerous; he was a manipulator who thrived on playing people, getting into their heads, and twisting them up.
He should have shut that whole thing down. Tim was sharp, methodical, but Harvey was a different level of dangerous.
Harvey wasn’t redeemable.
Dick knew that better than anyone.
The way he had let him think the judge was saved before drowning the man. The sick amusement in his voice. The weight of the bat slamming into Dick’s ribs and head, again and again, like it was just a game. The way he’d laughed, the way he had enjoyed it. The way he’d treated him like an insect under his boot, something to be crushed just because he could.
Tim’s too smart to fall for Harvey’s games .
But Tim, for all his resourcefulness, was still young.
Dick exhaled, trying to shake it off. He couldn’t deal with that right now. Couldn’t do anything about it, not until Tim got back. But the anxiety kept gripping him.
He turned his gaze up toward Selina’s apartment window. The lights were still on.
He grappled up, landing soundlessly on the ledge. For a moment, he hesitated, then he knocked. The curtain shifted, and the window unlocked.
Selina stood there, dressed in silk pajamas. She didn’t look surprised to see him. If anything, she looked amused.
“It’s you,” she said, her voice low and teasing. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. “I heard you won’t be keeping that costume much longer.”
Dick stepped inside, his cape brushing the floor as he moved. “You heard right,” he said, his tone neutral. “Bruce is coming back.”
A small, pleased smile crossed her lips. “Good,” she said simply. “I always did prefer the original.”
Dick didn’t respond to that. He wasn’t here to share memories. Instead, he crossed his arms, his expression serious. “There’s another reason I’m here.”
Selina raised an eyebrow. “I figured as much. You wouldn’t come knocking in the middle of the night just to say hello.”
She turned and sat back on her couch. She reached for the wine glass that was on the coffee table, the wine slushing gently as she leaned back against the cushions. She looked far too comfortable for someone who had let Batman into her home.
She glanced back at him. “So? What’s so important to discuss at this hour?”
Dick didn’t answer right away. He watched her carefully, reading her body language. “Have you heard about the attacks in the last few days?”
Selina shrugged, her expression nonchalant. “Bits and pieces. I don’t exactly keep up with the news. Why? Should I be worried?”
“We have reason to believe someone’s trying to revive the Falcone legacy.”
For a split second, she froze. It was barely anything. Some tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened just slightly around her glass.
Then, just as quickly, she recovered. Her expression smoothed out, returning to that effortless nonchalance. When she spoke, her voice was neutral. “That’s… not great.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. He knew a deflection when he heard one. She was hiding something.
His gaze stayed steady, locked onto hers. “Be honest with me,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “What were your links to the Falcones?”
Selina’s expression tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I was a socialite back then,” she said, her tone clipped. “The Falcones were at a lot of the same events I attended. Galas, charity events, private parties. They were impossible to avoid.”
Dick didn’t move. “And as Catwoman?”
She took a slow sip, then set the glass down with deliberate ease. “I was there when Carmine died,” she admitted. Her tone was distant. “But that’s it.”
Dick studied her carefully. She was measured, controlled, but he could feel the tension beneath the surface. She was expecting him to take that answer and move on.
“We found a note from Bruce,” he said.
That, finally, made her expression falter. Just slightly.
“He suspected you were Carmine Falcone’s daughter.”
Selina froze. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She stared at him, then let out a sharp, breathy laugh, one with no real humor behind it.
“Bruce thought what ?”
Dick didn’t let up.His voice was steady. “He suspected it. He wrote it down, kept notes. He never mentioned it to you?”
Selina’s jaw tightened. “No,” she said, voice clipped.
“Is it true?”
Selina inhaled sharply, like she was weighing whether or not to answer. Then, something in her just dropped. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the tension shifting into something more resigned.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice quiet but laced with frustration. “I thought… I thought I might be. For a while, I was sure of it.”
She stood up abruptly, pacing the apartment. Her fingers ran through her short hair.
“I spent six months looking for answers. I went to Italy, searched through old records, questioned people who might have known. You know what I found?” She turned to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and bitterness. “Nothing. Not a single damn thing.”
There was something raw in her voice, despite her carefully crafted exterior.
“I buried all of that,” she said, her tone still intense. “It’s been fifteen years. Why would it matter now?”
Dick studied her carefully.
“If you don’t know,” he said, “then why did you steal from him?”
Selina smirked faintly. “Because if he was my father, then he owed me,” she said simply. “And if he wasn’t, then he was just another rich bastard with too much money.” She shrugged. “Either way, it wasn’t staying in his pocket. And he wouldn’t call the police.”
She crossed her arms. “I did try, you know,” she admitted. “I went to those receptions. Tried to get close, tried to understand. But after I saw how they treated each other…” She shook her head. “They were awful. To each other, to everyone.” She left out a quiet, bitter scoff. “Didn’t take long to figure out I didn’t want to be part of that.”
She looked back at him, her green eyes unreadable. “I stopped looking. Moved on.”
Dick didn’t speak for a moment. He just watched her. He had seen Selina lie before, but there was no deception in her eyes.
“I believe you,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you never got the answers you were looking for.”
Selina looked away, her jaw tightening. “Yeah, well,” she said, her tone bitter. “Life’s full of disappointments.”
Dick hesitated for a moment, then pressed further. “Do you know who could be behind these attacks?”
Selina shook her head, her expression serious. “No. The only one left is Mario, and he’s… not exactly the type to pull something like this.”
That wasn’t surprising, but it wasn’t exactly helpful, either.
He pressed further. “What about your parentage? Is there anyone still alive who might have answers?”
Selina let out a short, bitter laugh. “If I knew that,” she said quietly, “I’d have an answer about Carmine.”
Fair enough.
Dick studied her for a moment, then sighed. “If the person behind this finds out about your connection to the Falcones, real or not, you could become a target,” he said. “They might see you as an heir to the empire.”
Selina’s lips curved into a smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can take care of myself, Batman. I’ve been doing it for a long time.”
Dick nodded, though his expression remained serious. “Just be careful, Selina. Whoever’s behind this is dangerous.”
She didn’t respond, her gaze drifting to the window. He could tell she was done talking. And maybe that was fair.
Dick turned to leave, his cape swirling behind him as he moved toward the open window. But before he stepped out, he paused and looked back at her.
“One more thing,” he said. “The note Bruce wrote? It was from almost fifteen years ago.” He held her gaze, steady and deliberate. “And even after that, he kept seeing you. He didn’t care about who your father might have been. He believed in you.”
Selina didn’t say anything. She just nodded, barely, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. Dick saw the emotion there, just for a moment, before she turned away.
He didn’t press further. Instead, he stepped out onto the ledge and grappled into the night, the cool air rushing past him as he swung through the city. The sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon. It had been a long night, and it wasn’t over yet.
As he landed near the Batbike, his comms crackled to life. “Batman,” Barbara’s voice came through, her tone businesslike. “I’ve got the translation.”
Dick climbed on the bike, his movements quick but deliberate. “Go ahead”
“I ran the recording through every Sicilian dialect database I could find,” she said. “It wasn’t easy; there aren’t a ton of great resources. But I got it.”
The line was silent for a second before Barbara continued. “ It was mostly chatter about the operation. But the way the henchmen were talking about L’Aquila, it wasn’t just a codename. It was a who , not a what.”
Dick’s fingers tapped against the console. “So it’s a person.”
“Yeah. And there was weight behind it. Respect, maybe even fear. ‘The Eagle’ is the one calling the shots. ”
Dick tightened his grip tightening on the handles. “We need to find out who they are. And fast.”
Tim cut the engine of his bike and stepped into the bunker. He felt the exhaustion settle into his limbs. Between the explosion at the café and his visit to Arkham, the night had stretched impossibly long.
Across the room, Dick was halfway through peeling off the Batman suit, the cowl already discarded on the table. He glanced up as Tim entered, his expression going through a range of emotions before settling into something unreadable.
“You alright?” Dick asked, voice measured. His eyes scanned Tim from head to toe, lingering on the still torn edges of his cape. He wasn’t just checking for injuries; he was looking for something deeper. It bothered Tim, but he was too tired to get into it right now.
Tim shrugged off the scrutiny, avoiding Dick’s gaze as he moved toward the worktable. “Yeah,” he said.
He didn’t mention the folder. Didn’t mention the information he’d handed over to Harvey. Not yet. Maybe never. Hopefully never.
Instead, he set down his utility belt on the table and exhaled slowly. “Harvey knew something,” he said, beginning to take off his own cowl. His tone was carefully neutral. “Antonio Caruso. Ever heard of him?”
Dick frowned as he placed his gauntlets on the workbench. “No.”
“Half-brother to Carmine Falcone. Their dad had a thing with a maid,” Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Carmine exiled him when he took over. No one’s heard from him since.”
Dick leaned against the table, processing that. “That tracks. Someone with the right connections, a personal grudge, and who knows Gotham inside and out.”
Tim nodded, “Yeah.”
A beat of silence passed before Tim added, “Oh, also, Harvey knows you’re not ‘ his Bats’.” He made air quotes as he said it.
Dick’s reaction was immediate, his face contorting in disgust as he made a fake gagging noise. “Oh, gross.”
Tim smiled faintly. “That was my reaction too.”
Dick muttered something under his breath before shaking it off. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Alright. At least we have a lead.” His voice had shifted into something more focused. Then, his expression softened slightly. “Selina, by the way, may or may not be Carmine’s daughter, but she’s not involved in any of this.”
Tim considered that for a moment before shrugging. “At least that’s one thing off our list.”
Dick sighed before turning toward the elevator. “Yeah. But Caruso just got on it.”
Tim followed, stepping into the elevator beside him. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, and for a moment, there was silence between them as they ascended. Tim let his head rest against the cool metal of the elevator wall, the last threads of adrenaline disappearing. His limbs felt heavier now, his thoughts slower, weighed down by everything the night had thrown at them.
“We should get some rest before we start digging into Caruso,” Dick said, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked as drained as Tim felt.
Tim repressed a yawn. “I’m fine, I can carry on.”
Dick shot him a look. “Not tonight. We’ve been at this for hours. You almost got blown up, I had to stop an assassination attempt, interrogate people, and we’ve been running on fumes since Alfred dragged us out of bed for that damn breakfast. We’ll hit this fresh in the morning.”
Tim exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fine,” He paused, then muttered, “But make sure Alfred doesn’t do that again.”
Dick smirked. “I’ll leave a note.”
The elevator doors slid open, and the warmth of the penthouse greeted them, a stark contrast to the bunker. Dick headed straight for the kitchen, grabbing a sticky note and scribbling something down. Tim caught a glimpse as he passed:
Sleep needed. Do not disturb unless Gotham is literally burning.
Satisfied, Tim trudged toward his room, barely keeping his eyes open. The last thing he registered before sleep took him under was the muffled sound of Gotham waking up beyond the penthouse windows.
The penthouse was quiet when Tim woke, the light of the afternoon filtering through the curtains. His body protested as he sat up, stiff from exhaustion.
He pulled on a fresh shirt and made his way to the kitchen, where the scent of coffee lingered faintly. Dick was already up, sitting at the breakfast bar with a steaming mug in one hand while his other hand rested near his laptop. He still looked tired, but his expression was focused.
Dick glanced up as Tim entered. “Morning,” he greeted, nudging a second cup of coffee toward him. “Sleep okay?”
Tim grabbed the cup and slid onto one of the barstools. “Yeah. You?”
Dick took a sip, then set his mug down with a wry smirk. “Enough to function.” He gestured at the screen. “Started digging into Antonio Caruso.”
Tim took a look at his screen. “What did you find?”
Dick set his mug down and crossed his arms. “Not much yet, but so far, Harvey seemed to have been honest. Antonio was the illegitimate son of Vincent Falcone and disappeared from Gotham twenty-five years ago. But I didn’t have the time to dig deeper yet.”
“Alright,” Tim said. “Then we split this up. You continue with Antonio’s life here in Gotham and his connections with the family, and I’ll try to find out what happened after he left.”
Dick gave a small nod. “Deal. We regroup in a couple of hours, compare notes, and figure out our next move.”
Tim took another sip of coffee, then stood, grabbing his mug.. “I’ll be in the bunker if that’s alright.”
They had work to do.
A couple of hours later, the hum of the elevator signaled that it was time to compare what they had found. Tim leaned back in his chair as Dick stepped into the bunker, his expression still sharp with focus.
“Productive afternoon?” Dick asked, crossing his arms.
“I’d say so,” replied Tim. “You want to go first?”
“Sure,” Dick shrugged. “Pull my files.” Tim navigated through the system, opening Dick’s folders.
“Antonio wasn’t just the result of an affair,” Dick continued. He clicked on one of the files, showing an old, grainy picture of a man standing beside a young boy. Antonio Caruso and his father, as Tim could guess. “Vincent Falcone actually raised him and gave him a pretty big role in the family. Put him in charge of Falcone Imports when he hit his twenties.”
Tim’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That was their biggest front, wasn’t it? Officially importing Italian wine and designer clothes, but in reality…”
“Smuggling. Weapons, drugs, contraband. Every cliché from a mafia movie.” Dick clicked to the next image. This one showed Antonio, older now, standing in front of the Falcone Imports warehouse. His posture was stiff, his eyes cold.
Tim’s stomach twisted slightly. That was the same warehouse he hadn’t been able to save last night.
He forced himself to refocus. “So Vincent trusted him with the most important part of the Empire,” he mused. “That’s a pretty big deal.”
“Exactly,” Dick said, his tone sharp. “And from what I could tell, Antonio was good at it. It was a prestigious position, and he handled it like a pro.”
Tim exhaled sharply. "And Carmine hated that."
“Oh yeah. Vincent put more faith in his bastard son than in his golden boy. The moment Vincent died and Carmine took over, he exiled Antonio Caruso. Just… gone.”
Tim leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. “So Caruso has the knowledge and the desire to rebuild what he thinks should have been his. That tracks.”
Dick nodded, his expression dark. “Some of his targets were people who wronged the family, but others are very personal.”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Like the café."
Dick nodded. "Falcone Imports used that location for years. It was his before Carmine kicked him out. And now it’s a café where people order lattes instead of laundering money. This was revenge . "
A silence settled between them. Dick was the first to break it.
“Digging into his time in Gotham, he… well, let’s just say he had a reputation.” He ran a hand through his hair, expression darkening. “Pretty ruthless. There were rumours that Vincent entrusted him with the… ‘disciplinary actions’. Most of those people’s bodies have never been found.”
That tracked with some of what Tim had found. But it was still disturbing.
“Charming,” he said dryly.
Dick matched his sarcasm. “Yeah, definitely the guy you’d want to grab a drink with.” Then he clicked on another image. “I found something else. Not sure if it matters…”
The screen displayed an old mansion. The structure itself was blackened, its skeletal remains standing stark against the overcast sky. It looked like something straight out of a gothic horror novel.
"Is that the old Falcone estate?" Tim asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Yep. Antonio grew up there. Carmine and Carla as well. They only moved to the penthouse when their father got older and needed regular medical care. But before that, the estate used to be the heart of their operations.”
“And then Mario burnt it down,” Tim completed.
“Uh-uh. That place… It’s where it all started. And it’s where it ended. The rise and fall of the Falcones. Kinda ironic.”
Tim took a moment, considering "You think Antonio went back?"
Dick shrugged. "It’d fit his pattern. The guy is obsessed with reclaiming what was taken from him. But at the same time, that place had been mostly ashes these last fifteen years. Is there even anything left?"
Tim leaned back, thoughtful. "Even if it’s abandoned, he might still have left something behind. Or maybe there’s something there he wants back. We should check for any recent activity."
Dick nodded. "Yeah, wouldn’t hurt." There was still tension in his posture. “Well, that’s what I got.”
“Alright, my turn,” Tim said. He pulled up his own files. “I couldn’t find anything on Antonio Caruso after he left Gotham. No official records, no digital traces. Nothing. But,” he said, pulling up one of his files, “I did find someone else.”
On the screen was a grainy photo of a man in his forties, sitting at a restaurant terrace, dressed in an expensive suit. His face was partially obscured by shadows, but Tim had compared it to old photos of Caruso, and the resemblance was undeniable.
“This is Antonio l’Aquila ,” Tim said. “The Eagle.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the name I heard in the hitmen’s conversation. And the coin.” He leaned further, taking a better look at the picture. “Yeah, no, that’s Caruso, for sure.” He looked back at Tim. “That nickname… Is it because he’s American? Or because of the Roman Empire?”
Tim shrugged. “Both? I don’t know. Either way, he didn’t just survive. He thrived. He climbed from low-level enforcer to second-in-command of the Sicilian mob in just over a decade.”
Dick let out a low whistle. “That’s fast.”
Tim nodded. “Very efficient, too. The reports I found say he took out rivals, expanded territories, and strengthened the organization under his leadership.”
Dick crossed his arms. “Well, if he was good enough to run Falcone Imports in Gotham, he was good enough to run the mob somewhere else.”
“Exactly,” Tim said, his tone grim. “But here’s the thing: in the last year and a half, there have been fewer of his appearances. At the same time, I found entries on US soil of someone matching his description, but under different names each time.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “He’s been moving back and forth. Building connections, laying the groundwork.”
Tim nodded. “And he didn’t come alone. The Sicilian mob gave him men. But it wasn’t enough. He’s been hiring mercenaries, too. That’s why we’ve been seeing outsiders, like the guys at the café.”
Dick exhaled sharply. “This isn’t just some half-baked plan. This has been in the works for years. The Sicilian mob wants to expand, and they’re using Antonio Caruso’s connections to take control of Gotham.”
Dick’s gaze flicked to the screen, clearly alarmed. “He’s got resources, manpower, and a personal vendetta. This isn’t gonna be easy.”
Tim sighed as he stared at the screen. “How do we even stop it? We don’t even know where their base is. And how do you take down the mob without…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.
“Without crossing lines,” Dick finished, his voice low. His expression was grim. “We don’t kill. But Antonio’s not playing by those rules.”
Tim looked at him. “Then what’s the plan? ”
“First,” Dick said, his tone firm, “we inform Gordon. He needs to know what we’ve found. Then we check out the Falcone estate. We might find something – anything – that can lead us to him.”
Tim exhaled sharply. “Alright. But we need to move fast.”
Dick pressed his lips into a thin line. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
They moved quickly, gathering their gear and double-checking their equipment. The tension between them was palpable, but neither of them addressed it.
Just as Dick fastened his cape, his comms crackled to life. The alert tone was sharp, jarring in the quiet of the bunker. He tapped the side of his cowl, his expression hardening as he listened.
Tim studied him closely, his stomach knotting at the shift in Dick’s posture. “What is it?”
Dick’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping to something low and grim.
“Harvey Dent just escaped from Arkham.”
Shit.
Tim’s stomach dropped, his chest tightened, a cold knot forming in his gut. He didn’t need to ask how or why. He already knew.
This was his fault.
He had ignored Dick’s warnings. He had told himself it was necessary, that the ends justified the means.
Now there was a walking disaster loose in Gotham. And it wasn’t just the mob they had to worry about anymore.
Dick was pacing, sharp and restless. His movements were too controlled. Like he was barely keeping himself from snapping. His cape trailed behind him with each turn, his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He had yanked down his cowl.
Tim hesitated, then forced himself to speak. His voice came out quieter than he intended.
“This might be on me.”
Dick stopped mid-step. Every muscle in his body went rigid, like someone had flipped a switch. His head snapped toward Tim, eyes narrowing.
“What do you mean?” His voice was sharp, demanding.
Tim squared his shoulders, forcing himself to hold Dick’s gaze. He had made his choice, and he wasn’t going to flinch from it now.
“I gave Harvey some information,” he admitted. “About the case.”
Dick’s reaction was slow, calculated. His posture didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. The shift was subtle, but Tim saw it: the crack forming beneath the surface.
When Dick spoke again, his voice was eerily controlled.
“What did you tell him?” The words were quiet, but there was an edge that made Tim’s skin prickle. “Did you… did you show him anything? And why didn’t you tell me?”
Tim hesitated. This was about to get bad.
Dick’s stare sharpened, colder than before.
"What did you tell him?" he asked again. His tone had hardened.
Tim kept his posture steady, but his fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“I told him crimes were happening linked to the Falcone name,” he admitted, keeping his voice even. “I showed him some evidence. I thought I could control the situation --”
“Control the situation?” Dick interrupted, his voice rising. “You went behind my back without telling me and gave Harvey Dent -- Harvey Dent , Tim -- a reason to get involved in this mess?”
Tim could hear it now. The control was slipping, inch by inch. Like a dam about to burst.
"You know he’s gonna come after Caruso, right?” Dick pressed on. “And we’ll have to stop him. Stopping the mob was hard enough without that!"
Tim pressed his lips. He knew Dick was right. He had made things more complicated. They didn’t get to choose who they saved. But Dick acting like he had just made everything worse for the hell of it? That was pissing him off.
“I thought it was the best shot we had at stopping this before it got worse!” Tim shot back, his voice rising to match Dick’s.
Dick let out a short, bitter laugh, fingers running through his hair in frustrated motions.
“Oh yeah?” he muttered, pacing for half a second before turning back toward Tim. “And in exchange, we’ve got a ticking time bomb running loose in Gotham.”
He met Tim’s gaze, frustration flashing in his eyes.
“Good trade, Tim.”
Tim clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He knew he’d made a mistake. But Dick’s tone was sharp, condescending, like he was scolding a child. It set something off inside him.
“What are you saying?" Tim snapped, his voice sharp. "You know Harvey wouldn’t have given me anything otherwise! And now, we at least have a solid lead!"
Dick scoffed, shaking his head. "There would have been other ways!"
Tim let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh yeah? Where were your other ways, then? At least I did something!" His voice rose, cutting through the space between them. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I’ve been doing this for years!”
Dick took a step forward, closing the distance between them. His finger jabbed towards Tim’s chest.
"Do you? Because this is the same reckless crap you’ve been pulling since you came back. Running into situations without thinking about the consequences!"
Tim’s body moved before he could think; his hand shot up, knocking Dick’s away. The air between them turned electric.
"Consequences?" Tim shot back. "I’ve made it this far without getting myself killed, haven’t I? Stop treating me like I’m still a kid!"
Silence.
The two of them stood there, inches apart, tension thick between them, both breathing hard.
Tim’s jaw clenched. His eyes locked onto Dick’s, sharp and unyielding.
“You don’t trust me.”
Dick let out a breath, shaking his head, exasperation written all over his face. “It’s not about that.”
“Yes, it is.” Tim’s voice dropped, his words edged with something cold. “I’ve seen how you look at me these days. You don’t trust me to make decisions. You don’t trust me to handle myself.”
Dick opened his mouth, then stopped. Tim saw the hesitation, saw how he wasn’t sure how to answer that.
For a split second, something flickered in his expression, something just beneath the anger. Dick’s eyes darted to the floor, like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Dick didn’t deny it.
Underneath Tim's fury, he felt something else, something hollow and gut-deep that twisted hard inside him.
He truly doesn’t trust me.
For a second, it almost took the wind out of him. But instead, it just made everything sharper.
Dick’s face hardened, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get it, Tim.”
Tim narrowed his eyes, his pulse hammering. “Or maybe this isn’t even about me, is it? This is about you.”
Dick stiffened, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he didn’t respond.
Tim saw the opening and went for it.
“You’re scared,” he pressed, picking apart the truth from between Dick’s silences. “Scared that Bruce is going to come back and tell you that you did everything wrong.”
Dick’s face darkened. His composure cracked. “Don’t.”
Tim ignored him, because now he was angry too.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the tension between them. “You didn’t even want the cowl. You took it because you had to. You’ve been walking around with that weight on your shoulders. And now you’re taking it out on me because you don’t know what to do with it."
Dick’s expression twisted, his voice low, dangerous. “Shut up, Tim.”
Tim glared back. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that! You’re so busy doubting yourself that you can’t even see all the good you’ve done as Batman. But sure, keep pretending this is about me.”
Dick took a step forward. Tim could see the tension in his jaw, the sharp, frustrated breath he let out.
“I said shut up.”
Tim refused to flinch. His breath was coming fast, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he stood his ground.
“Or what?”
The air between them felt stretched too thin.
Dick’s fists clenched at his sides, his breathing sharp, controlled, but barely. Tim could see it, feel it, the contained energy vibrating off of him.
Tim’s heart pounded, but he didn’t step back. His jaw set, his eyes locked onto Dick’s.
Dick stepped closer.
Tim didn’t move.
His mind barely registered anything beyond the heat of the moment, the anger twisting between them like something alive. They were toe-to-toe now, and for the first time, Tim actually wondered –
Are we really about to throw punches? Over this?
The realization hit him in the gut. His anger still burned, sharp and alive, but suddenly, it wasn’t worth it.
Tim let out a slow, controlled breath . Forced the fire in his chest to settle. Then, deliberately, he took a step back.
His hands reached for his cowl.
“This is pointless.” His voice was flat now, stripped of emotion. “I’m done here.”
Dick took a step forward, the tension still radiating off of him in waves. “No, we’re not.”
His hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist. Tim’s instincts kicked in immediately. He twisted out of Dick’s hold.
His eyes locked on Dick’s, his voice low and edged with warning. “Don’t.”
Dick hesitated for a half-second. Just long enough.
Tim’s fingers reached into his belt, fast and practiced. A Batarang flashed between them, sailing past Dick’s shoulder, embedding itself in the wall behind him with a sharp, metallic sound.
A warning.
Dick’s stance shifted, eyes snapping to Tim, expression unreadable. But Tim wasn’t going to wait for whatever came next.
His boots hit the floor in controlled strides as he moved toward the elevator. The doors slid open just as he reached them. He stepped inside, his movements precise.
Dick turned sharply, like he was about to follow, but Tim had been faster.
The last thing Tim saw was Dick’s face, angry, frustrated, and something else he couldn’t quite place, before the elevator doors slid shut between them.
Notes:
I'm sorry? (No, I'm not.)
Please, don't hate me 🥺
Okay, there is a lot to talk about in this chapter (Harvey! Selina! Our new villain!) but let's focus on that fight.
I like writing conflicts. I like characters to be flawed and a little hypocrite.
I hope that, having the dual POV, you can see that neither Tim or Dick is completely right. Or completely wrong (at least, this was my intention). They just have only their own perspective and it ends up clashing when they don't understand the other.
In particular, I want to stress that Dick has been under a lot of pressure and he was bound to just snap at one point. But he doesn't feel good about it. You'll see 🫣
Also, I know the last two chapters have been mostly from Tim's POV, but I swear the next chapter is essentially from Dick's POV.
See you next week!
Chapter 6
Notes:
Warning: Blood, Survivor's Guilt, Past Passive Suicidal Ideations
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dick stood in the bunker, his entire body vibrating with frustration. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
The fight with Tim replayed in his mind, each word sharp and cutting. Dick shook his head. Tim could be so damn frustrating. That stubbornness, always acting like he had everything figured out, like he was the only one who saw the big picture.
Things were already hard enough without Tim making them worse. Dick had warned him, hadn’t he? He’d told him not to go, not to give Harvey Dent anything. But Tim had ignored him, just like he always did when he thought he knew better.
Dick ran a hand through his hair. He had to calm down. But the anger in his chest was tangled with something else, something heavier.
He was mad at Tim, yes, but he was also mad at himself. He should’ve said something earlier. Should’ve pulled Tim aside days ago and talked to him. About the recklessness, the way he threw himself into danger without a second thought. But instead, Dick had let it build until it exploded in his face.
He was the one who escalated it. He’d pushed too hard, said too much.
And when Tim had called him out, looked him in the eye – You don’t trust me – Dick hadn’t even been able to deny it.
The question lingered in his mind now. He wanted to say that it wasn’t true, that of course he trusted Tim.
But… did he?
Do I trust Tim now? With himself? With the work?
Dick swallowed hard. He should. Tim was capable; he’d proven it over and over. But Dick had seen what happened when Tim spiraled, how easily he pushed himself to the breaking point while pushing others away.
So no, he wasn’t sure he trusted Tim right now. And that, more than anything, made his stomach churn.
Is he going to run again?
The thought hit him like a punch.
His breath caught in his throat, and the anger faded, leaving only something raw and aching in its place.
Last time they fought, Tim had vanished. No contact. Just gone.
For months, Dick had chased every possible lead. Every morning had started the same way: staring at global databases, scrolling through arrest reports, flight records, hospital logs. Morgue reports. Every damn morning, he’d wake up and start again, his stomach in knots, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
He’d told himself Tim was fine, that he just needed space, but the fear had been relentless. It was only months later that Tim finally sent a message. Just a number. A contact for emergencies. No explanation.
Only then had Dick finally exhaled. Only then had the grip around his lungs eased, just a little.
He couldn’t go through that again.
Dick’s fists curled tight at his sides. He forced himself to breathe, deep and steady.
Get it together.
He gave himself a mental shake, pushing the thought aside. He didn’t have time to spiral. The case wasn’t going to solve itself, and Gotham didn’t care about his personal problems.
He straightened his shoulders and grabbed his cowl from the table, the weight of it familiar in his hands.
Gordon needed to know what they’d found. Antonio Caruso was out there, rebuilding the Falcone Empire, and they couldn’t afford to waste more time. Dick moved toward the Batmobile, his mind already shifting to the next steps.
Whatever else was happening between them... Whatever mess they’d made, it would have to wait.
Tim cut through the Gotham skyline in sharp motions. The city blurred around him, the lights of skyscrapers and the traffic noise fading into the background. It would be a perfect night for patrol, the kind he usually loved. Just enough wind to make the gliding effortless, the air crisp and cool.
But he wasn’t patrolling. He was escaping.
His grip on the grappling gun tightened, his knuckles aching from the force. He welcomed it. It was better than thinking.
The fight with Dick was still fresh. Every word, every accusation. The way Dick had looked at him. The way he hadn’t answered when Tim asked him if he trusted him.
Tim’s jaw clenched.
After everything they’d been through. Years of working together, of backing each other up in the field and in life. Of saving each other’s lives. Of hanging out in and out of costumes. Dick had always been there, steady and sure. When Tim had stepped into the Robin mantle, it was Dick who had believed in him. Who told him he could do this, that he had what it took.
When Tim doubted himself, it was Dick who reassured him.
So hearing that silence now… seeing it in his eyes? This was devastating in a way Tim hadn’t expected. That hurt more than he wanted to admit. It cut deeper than anger.
What’s the point of all this if not even Dick believes in me?
Tim exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip as he flung himself toward another ledge. He wasn’t going to let this break him.
His boots hit a gargoyle hard, the stone scraping beneath him as he landed and crouched low. Gotham stretched out beneath him, but it all felt muted.
Harvey was out. And it was because of him.
He had thought he could handle it. But he’d misjudged. Stirred up Harvey’s resentment, and now, he was loose in Gotham. The blood that would be spilled was on him.
The worst part was that he still believed he was right. Harvey had been their best shot at information, and without him, they’d have nothing. But he hadn’t considered the consequences.
Tim looked at the city below. He needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to land, to breathe, to think. But then, he realized: he had nowhere.
His first instinct was to go back to the apartment. The one he had lived in with his dad and Dana. But it wasn’t his home anymore. That life was gone. His dad was gone. Dana was gone.
His second instinct was Wayne Manor, but he pushed the thought away. Barbara and Stephanie had made the Batcave their base for now, and he didn’t want to see them. Didn't want to face their questions or worse, their pity.
Bruce wasn’t there either.
Tim stayed on the gargoyle, but he felt untethered, like a kite cut loose, drifting aimlessly in the wind. The fight with Dick, the guilt over Harvey, the weight of everything he’d lost… It all pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.
He wasn’t the same person he’d been not so long ago, but the scars were still there.
It never really went away.
Nights like this, it all came creeping back in. The past. The grief. The things he told himself he’d buried.
His father’s face flashed into his mind, sharp and painful. The guilt was there, like it always was.
At one point, he’d wished every single day that he could trade places with his dad. That he could be the one rotting in the ground instead.
Some days, he still did.
Tim’s throat felt tight. He forced himself to swallow it down. There had been a time -- too recent -- when it had consumed him completely. When he’d stopped caring whether there was a next morning.
He didn’t feel like that now. Not exactly. But sometimes, he could still feel the ghost of it.
Tim closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through it. He wasn’t that person anymore. He’d clawed his way out of that place. He had pulled himself out, rebuilt himself from the wreckage, piece by piece.
And yet, right now, he didn’t know what to do. Where to go.
He forced himself to move. He pulled out his comm display, typing out a message to Alfred: Needed some air. I’m fine.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself. He didn’t want them to think he’d run away again.
At a loss, Tim found himself swinging back toward the building where he’d lived with his dad and Dana, back when things had been simpler. Back when he still had something closer to a normal life.
He perched on a rooftop across the street and stared at the apartment window. The kitchen light was on, casting a warm glow into the night. He could see the new owners moving around inside. The walls, once a soft beige, were now painted a deep green. In the living room, their couch was in a different spot than theirs.
He shifted his position, his eyes scanning the rest of the apartment. His old bedroom window came into view. There was a mobile hanging from the ceiling, a soft blue glow from a nightlight casting shadows against the wall. A nursery.
Tim’s breath caught in his throat. He stared for a long moment, fingers clenching into fists.
It didn’t feel haunted. There were no ghosts here, no lingering traces of the life he’d lived. Just… a life that wasn’t his anymore.
And maybe… maybe that was okay. Maybe it being someone else’s was good enough.
He stayed a moment longer, his chest tight in a way he didn’t want to name. Then he pushed off the rooftop, grappling line firing upward, and let the city carry him away. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay here.
It wasn’t until he landed on a nearby rooftop that he realized where he was. The GCPD building loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette stark against the night sky. Had he come here on purpose?
TIm spotted the Batmobile, its sleek black frame gleaming under the streetlights. He hesitated. He could walk away, he could just turn around, and disappear into the city. He didn’t owe Dick anything right now. Not after what they had said to each other.
And for a second, the thought was tempting.
But he couldn’t. The case was more important than their fight. Gotham still needed them. Both of them.
He dropped down from the rooftop, landing lightly on the pavement near the car. He straightened, crossing his arms as he waited. The night air was cool, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his chest.
A few minutes later, Dick stepped out of a window of the precinct and landed smoothly on the pavement. The sight of him reignited the anger in Tim’s chest. He forced it down.
Dick froze when he spotted him. For a second, something flickered across his face, surprise, maybe even exhaustion, before his jaw clenched, his shoulders stiffening like he was bracing for another fight.
Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re here.” His voice was flat, careful. “I was with Gordon.”
Tim shrugged. “I’m just here for the case. Are you still going to the Falcone Estate?”
A beat of hesitation, “Yeah.”
“I’m coming,” Tim said, his voice firm.
Dick didn’t argue. He just opened the driver’s side door and slid into the Batmobile. Tim followed, climbing into the passenger seat.
The drive to the Falcone estate was suffocating.
The noise of the Batmobile filled the space. Neither of them spoke, neither so much as looked at the other. Tim sat rigid in his seat, eyes fixed on the city.
And when they pulled up to the estate, the tension didn’t ease.
The remains of the Falcone mansion loomed in front of them, half-standing, half-collapsed. The structure was skeletal, portions of walls reaching toward the sky. The wind moved through the empty corridors with a hollow whistle.
Tim stepped out of the Batmobile, his boots crunching against gravel, and let his gaze sweep over the ruins. He remembered the rumors from when he was a kid: how the other children had whispered that the place was haunted, how they’d dared each other to go there but never actually did. Standing here now, in the eerie quiet, Tim understood why.
Tim glanced at Dick, but his face was unreadable, his eyes hidden behind the cowl. They moved cautiously through the estate. The wood groaned beneath their weight with every step, like the house itself was protesting their presence.
Tim’s eyes scanned the room. He was looking for any sign of recent activity. Footprints, disturbed dust, anything that might point them toward Caruso. But so far, there was nothing. The place was abandoned, frozen in time.
He saw a faint carving in the wood floor, partially hidden. He knelt, brushing away the dirt to reveal a rose, its petals delicate and precise. The old symbol of the Falcones. A contrast to the brutality they inflicted on Gotham for decades.
Behind him, footsteps approached. The wood creaked in protest as Dick moved to his side.
“Find anything?” Dick’s voice was even, unreadable.
Tim opened his mouth to answer –
The floor beneath them gave way with a sickening crack. Tim barely had time to register the rush of air before he was falling. His stomach lurched, his instincts screaming at him to grab onto something, anything, but there was nothing to hold onto. Just darkness, rushing up to meet him.
Dick’s instincts kicked in. His hand went for his grappling gun, but there was no time.
His lower back slammed into the floor, the impact reverberating through his spine. Pain burst through him, sharp and immediate, radiating outward in waves. His vision blurred, his ears ringing with the shock.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
His chest locked up, like all the air had been knocked clean out of him. He gasped, but it felt like his lungs refused to cooperate.
The pain in his lower back was sharp and throbbing. He knew there was nothing broken, nothing more than bruising – but damn, it hurt.
The air was damp, heavy with the scent of old wood and ash. Dust swirled around him, catching in his throat as he tried to breathe. He couldn’t see anything, not even his own hands in front of his face.
Another shaky inhale, and his lungs finally responded.His brain was trying to catch up, and for half a heartbeat, panic clawed at the edges of his mind.
Tim, where is he?
The thought cut through the haze like a knife. He blinked, forcing his head to clear.
Then, he heard a low, pained curse muttered under breath, followed by the sound of shifting debris.
Relief hit Dick. Tim was close, and if he was swearing, he was at least conscious. He was moving.
Dick exhaled a shaky breath, his pulse still pounding. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up fully despite the protest from his lower back.
“You okay?” Dick asked, his voice still rough from the fall.
Tim let out a strained breath. “Something got me in the face,” he muttered, his voice tight.
Dick frowned. He didn’t like that answer. He fumbled for the flashlight on his belt, his fingers clumsy as he turned it on. The light cut through the darkness, illuminating Tim’s face -- and the blood.
A jagged gash ran along Tim’s cheek, just below the edge of his cowl. The wound was around two inches long, the edges raw and uneven. Blood had already begun to trail down his jaw, dark and slick against his skin. It was deep enough to require stitching.
Dick sucked in a breath through his teeth, steadying himself.
Tim, meanwhile, was patting the ground around him, his movements deliberate. His fingers closed around something, and he held it up into the light. A rusty, long nail, its tip sharp and bloodied.
“Found the culprit,” Tim said dryly, though his voice was strained.
Dick’s stomach twisted. The alarms in his head were blaring now. “Tell me you’ve had your tetanus shot,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended.
Tim hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Of course,” he said, but then he paused. “I think? …I have to ask Alfred.”
Not a good answer.
Dick’s jaw tightened, his worry spiking. He could see Tim trying to hide a wince. The wound had to be stinging like hell.
Dick shifted, biting back a groan as his back protested the movement. He forced himself toget up, his legs unsteady beneath him.
“I’m fine,” he said when Tim glanced at him, concern flickering in his eyes. “Nothing’s broken. Just… my back’s not feeling great.”
Tim nodded, his expression unreadable as he pushed himself up. He pulled out his own flashlight, the beam joining Dick’s in the darkness.
Dick looked at Tim, hesitating, then said, “Look… I’m sorry about the floor. I shouldn’t have come closer.”
He had known the building was unstable. Adding his weight had pushed it past its breaking point. The fall, the injuries, being trapped -- this was on him.
But Tim ignored him, didn’t even look at him. He was busy trying to wipe out some of the blood, muttering something under his breath. Dick could only catch something about ‘Cass being right about full-face cowls’.
The tension radiating off Tim was unmistakable. He was still pissed.
Dick exhaled through his nose and forced himself to let it go. For now. They had bigger problems than their fight. First, they had to get out of here.
He turned his flashlight toward the hole they’d fallen through. The wooden boards and collapsed beams were tangled together in a precarious heap, debris piled high and blocking any path.
“No way we’re getting out that way,” Dick said, his tone grim. “Iif we try to clear it, the whole place could come down on us.”
Tim didn’t argue. Instead, he swept his flashlight across the room, the beam illuminating the damp stone walls. The basement was larger than Dick had initially thought, with a heavy wooden door on one side.Tim gestured toward it.
“Mob estates like this always had escape routes,” Tim said, his voice calm but clipped. “There’s a good chance this basement leads out somewhere. Probably to the side of the hill.”
Dick shrugged, the movement sending a sharp pang down his spine. “Worth a shot. Not like we’ve got a lot of options.”
Tim didn’t wait for further confirmation. He pushed forward, and Dick followed. The air grew heavier as they walked through rooms, thick with dust and lingering dampness. It settled in Dick’s lungs, making his throat feel raw.
The rooms they passed were old, most of them empty, but not all. In one of them, Dick’s flashlight flicked over shelves lined with dusty wine bottles, the liquid inside still sealed and untouched after fifteen years. In another room, there were crates filled with weapons and stacks of money, probably counterfeit. All of the crates bore the Falcone Import logo.
“Looks like Mario didn’t bother cleaning up before he torched the place,” Dick said, his voice low.
The basement seemed to stretch on endlessly, room after room filled with remnants of the Falcone empire.
Neither of them spoke.
Dick could feel the unspoken frustration, the tension still lingering from their fight. But the longer they walked, the more something else was bothering him -- his back.
Every step sent another dull, throbbing pang up his spine, radiating, stiff and relentless. He was trying to push through it, but it was getting harder to ignore, and his pace had slowed down.
Tim noticed. Of course he did.
He stopped abruptly, turning to face Dick with a frown. “You sure you’re alright?” he asked, his voice low but laced with concern.
“I need a break,” he admitted.
Tim didn’t argue. He only nodded, stepping aside as Dick lowered himself onto a wooden crate with a quiet exhale. The relief was immediate. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, and let out a slow breath.
Tim stood nearby, his flashlight casting long shadows across the room. He reached up, using a corner of his cape to dab at the blood on his cheek..
Dick watched him for a moment. “That’s not exactly hygienic, you know.”
Tim shrugged. “That's all I’ve got on me.” He pressed down on the wound again, his jaw tightening as he fought back a wince.
Dick shifted on the crate, grimacing as he felt another flare of pain. He sighed, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. His gaze went back to Tim, who was still standing a few feet away, not looking at him.
The tension between them was still there, but it was shifting from sharp and angry to just… there. Exhausting.
The silence stretched until Dick finally broke it. His voice was careful. “We should probably talk about what happened in the bunker.”
The words landed between them like a stone dropped into water.
Tim stiffened, barely perceptible. He didn’t respond right away, hesitation flickering across his face, and for a moment, Dick thought he might just walk away. But then Tim let out a breath, and he sat down beside Dick, angling himself slightly so they were facing each other.
Close enough that Dick could see the exhaustion in his posture, the way his fingers curled lightly against his knee. Still, Tim’s gaze stayed off to the side, avoiding his completely.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, finally, Tim broke the silence. His voice was measured, firm, with an undercurrent of something heavier. “I should have told you I gave evidence to Harvey.”
Dick glanced at him, surprised by the directness. Tim wasn’t dancing around it, wasn’t making excuses.
He glanced at Dick, then away again. “I made a call, and it backfired.”
Dick nodded slightly, appreciating the honesty. He wasn’t looking for an apology; this wasn’t about that. It was about everything else wrapped around it.
But then, Tim shifted, and he finally looked at Dick, eyes dark and serious.
“But the rest…,” Tim’s voice was still quiet, but there was something sharper. “You’re not being fair.”
Dick tensed. He knew where this was going. He opened his mouth to respond, but Tim didn’t give him the chance.
“You don’t trust me. Not like you used to.” Tim’s voice was still controlled, but there was hurt there now. Hurt that Dick couldn’t ignore.
Dick shook his head, the denial coming instinctively. “That’s not true.”
“Well, that’s what it feels like.” He didn’t sound angry anymore. Just tired. Worn out in a way Dick hadn’t realized until now.
Dick pressed his lips together as he struggled to find the right words. Because Tim was right but he didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to explain the tangled mess of fear and guilt that had been driving him.
Tim didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he reached up and pulled down his cowl, hesitating before he peeled it away from his face. The gash on his cheek was still bleeding slightly, and the exhaustion in his eyes was impossible to miss. It was a deliberate move, a gesture of vulnerability, and it caught Dick off guard.
Dick hesitated for a moment, then reached up and pulled off his own cowl. This wasn’t a conversation they were having as Batman and Red Robin.
This was just them.
The cool air of the basement brushed against his face, and he rubbed a hand down his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low, rougher than usual. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Tim. It’s… complicated.”
Tim raised his brows. “Complicated how?”
Dick’s fingers curled in his gloves, his gaze dropping to the floor. He hesitated, then said, “I shouldn’t have said some of those things earlier. At least… not like that. I’m sorry.”
Tim blinked. He looked at Dick like he hadn’t expected the apology, but he didn’t interrupt. He was waiting, letting him speak.
Dick forced himself to keep going. “I’ve been worried about you,” he said. “…And I should’ve said something sooner. Instead, I just kept waiting. Until it blew up in both of our faces.”
Tim’s expression didn’t change much. But there was something in his eyes. Something that made Dick feel like he was seeing straight through him.
Dick sighed. “I didn’t realize how bad things got for you after… After everything.”
He hesitated. Then, carefully –
“…I should have seen it. After we lost Bruce…” His throat closed, and he had to push through it. “I should have been there for you more. And I wasn’t.”
The regret sat heavy in his chest. It wasn’t just something he was saying to clear the air. It was something he felt down to his bones.That had been eating away at him for months.
He didn’t need to spell it out; they both knew what he was talking about.
Tim’s breakdown after Bruce’s death. The months when he had spiraled, when he had pulled away from all of them. The desperate search for proof that Bruce was still alive, the obsession that had driven him halfway across the world.
Dick hadn’t pushed enough. Hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t been there when Tim needed him most.
Tim’s expression flickered, something passing through his eyes that was gone too quickly for Dick to name. He then just looked down.
The basement was silent except for the occasional drip of water somewhere in the distance.
Tim didn’t respond right away. He shifted on the crate, his hands curling and uncurling where they rested on his knees like he was debating how much to say. If he should say anything at all.
Finally, Tim spoke.
“…It was bad. The last two years.” He shook his head, like he didn’t even have the words to describe it.
Dick’s stomach twisted. He knew. He’d seen the signs, even if he hadn’t fully understood them at the time. But hearing Tim say it out loud was different.
“After we thought Bruce was gone,” he continued, with a slight waver in his voice, “I was at my worst.”
Dick looked at him, but Tim wasn’t meeting his gaze. It was fixed on his boots, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look up.
“There were times…” Tim’s voice caught, and he hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “Times when I didn’t care what happened to me.”
The words settled between them like a weight, sinking deep into the quiet space.
The words landed in Dick’s gut like a punch, unexpected and heavy. He stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. A mix of emotions surged through him – grief, guilt, fear – but he couldn’t untangle them. All he knew was that it hurt. It hurt to hear Tim say it, to know how close he’d come to losing him without even realizing it.
His throat tightened, something thick rising in his chest.
Tim still wasn’t looking at him, and for a long moment, Dick didn’t know what to say.
“…Tim.”
It came out soft, pained, barely a whisper.
He didn’t know what else to say. What could he say? This was devastating, and the weight was crushing him.
Tim finally looked up. His expression was difficult to read, his eyes shadowed in the dim light of their flashlights. But there was something raw there, something worn down and tired.
“I am not like that anymore,” he said, and there was a quiet conviction in it. He didn’t hesitate this time. “Connor and Stephanie came back. Bruce is coming back. But… some days, it still weighs on me.”
He offered a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “At least not every day feels like the end of the world anymore.”
Dick breathed out, his shoulders slumping slightly. He understood. More than he wanted to.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, studying Tim carefully. He wanted to believe him. But there was a part of him that needed reassurance. Something that told him Tim had made it back to the shore and wasn’t still halfway underwater.
“Are things really… better?” he asked.
Tim hesitated just for a second. Just enough to wonder if he was about to lie.
“It’s not…” Tim paused, the next words quieter. “It’s not perfect. But I’m getting there.”
Dick searched his face, looking for any sign that Tim wasn’t being honest, but he found none. His expression was open, vulnerable in a way that Dick hadn’t seen in a long time.
Dick hesitated, then reached out, resting a hand on Tim’s arm – not saying anything, just anchoring him, letting him know he was here.
A long beat of silence stretched between them, filled with something different. Grief maybe. Or regret.
Dick exhaled slowly, his hands dropping back into his lap. He stared at them for a moment, trying to ground himself.
“When you disappeared…” His voice came quieter than he expected. He scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the thickness in his chest settle deeper. “It was hard. Not knowing where you were, if you were okay…”
The memory of it still sat raw in his chest.
“I can’t go through that again.” He forced himself to meet Tim’s gaze. “I can’t lose you too.”
His throat felt tight.
“…Not after Bruce.”
Dick let the words sit there, because there was no way to soften them. No way to make them hurt less. His mind flashed back to those months: the endless searching, the cold mornings where there were still no answers, the gnawing fear that he’d failed Tim just like he was failing Bruce
Tim’s expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. A quiet understanding. And guilt too.
Dick hesitated before speaking again, his voice more reflective.
“…I didn’t exactly have it together either,” he admitted. “I thought I had to prove I could handle everything. But mostly…I was just trying to hold it all together.”
He didn’t say it outright, but it was there, in the words unspoken. Holding it all together had been much harder without Tim.
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.
Dick let out a breath, nodding in quiet acceptance.
Tim watched him carefully, and then with certainty, he said, “I’m not leaving again.”
Dick’s gaze lifted to his, searching.
“I mean it, Dick.”
Dick watched him closely, his chest tight with a mix of hope and caution. He wanted to believe it. Needed to. But the memory of the silence, the disappearing act, the distance that had grown between them; it clung like a shadow, impossible to ignore.
And yet… There was something in Tim’s voice that made Dick feel like maybe… just maybe, he could.
Dick hesitated, thoughts catching on the same loop they’d been spinning in for weeks. Tim had always been sharp, deliberate, methodical. But now… now it felt different. Less measured. Less cautious
He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to risk undoing the fragile calm they’d finally reached. But the question had been eating at him for too long.
“…But you’ve changed,” he said, voice almost tentative.
Tim raised his eyebrows, his expression questioning.
Dick kept going, almost to himself, like he was still figuring it out as he said it. “Back when you were Robin, you told me you were scared of being too cautious. And now…” He frowned slightly. “Now, it feels like…”
Like Tim was trying to outrun something. Like he wasn’t afraid of what happened to himself as long as he got results.
Tim’s expression shifted, understanding in his eyes and the ghost of a wry smile tugging at his mouth.
“Dick, I was 14 when we had that conversation,” Tim said, tilting his head slightly. “I’m not the same person I was then. Are you the same as when you were Robin?”
The question landed heavier than he expected.
No, he wasn’t.
He had spent years growing, redefining himself. He had become Nightwing, and now Batman, two completely different identities from Robin. So why would it be so hard to accept that Tim had grown, too? That the boy he once knew, the one who double-checked every decision, wasn’t the same anymore?
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”
Tim gave a slight nod. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve had to make some hard choices these last months,” he admitted. “And yeah, I took risks. But I know what I’m doing.”
For a moment, Dick just looked, really looked at him. The kid he’d known was still there, but he was older now. Hardened in places. Softer in others. The weight of everything they’d been through was written in the lines of his face, in the shadows under his eyes.
His little brother had grown into someone who could make those hard calls, who could carry the weight of them. And maybe, Dick needed to trust that.
Tim gestured to the basement around them. “I’m still figuring things out, especially the Red Robin thing,” he admitted. There was a hesitation in his tone, like he was weighing his next words carefully. “But I need you to believe in me.”
He looked at Dick then, his gaze vulnerable. “Do you? Believe in me?”
Of course he did. That had never been the question. But this wasn’t about whether he thought Tim was capable. That had never been in doubt.
This was about something deeper. Something harder to define.
This was about believing that Tim knew himself, that he knew what he was doing, even when the stakes were high and the risks were real.
And after everything tonight, the raw honesty, the hard truths, the pain neither of them had been willing to name before, Dick realized something.
Tim wasn’t lying.
Dick knew Tim. If he was still drowning, he wouldn’t be telling Dick any of this. He would’ve hidden it, buried it deep, not wanting to be pitied or coddled. That’s what he did when he wasn’t okay.
But right now, Tim had laid everything bare.
He wasn’t lost. Not anymore.
He searched his face, looking for any sign that he wasn’t being honest, that he was just saying what Dick wanted to hear. Tim didn’t look away. His expression was open, and there was no trace of a lie in his eyes. Just something raw, something that made Dick’s chest ache.
Dick let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders finally starting to loosen. After a long pause, he nodded. “Yes. I do.”
The words settled like an exhale, like something neither of them realized they’d been holding onto had finally let go. Tim breathed out, his shoulders relaxing.
Dick offered a small, tired smile, and Tim returned it.
Tim’s expression softened, and after a moment, he spoke again. “I was a jerk earlier,” he admitted, his tone carrying a note of regret. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you either. But…” He hesitated, then continued. “I meant it when I said you’ve done a great job as Batman.”
Dick gave a faint smile, a flicker of warmth breaking through. “Thanks,” he said. “But you were right about one thing. I do think too much about what Bruce will say. Especially with this case.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the floor. “The Falcones were his first big enemy. If Caruso gets his way… it’ll feel like I failed him.”
Tim nodded, his expression thoughtful. He got it. The weight of Bruce’s legacy, the pressure of living up to it… it wasn’t something that could be easily shrugged off.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair, sighing. His back still ached, a dull throb that pulsed with every shift of movement.
“It’s hard to take an identity that was already established by someone else.”
Tim’s expression barely shifted. “Oh, how would I know how that feels?” he deadpanned.
Dick blinked, then let out a short laugh, the sound surprising even himself. He shook his head, a fond smile spreading across his face. Tim was grinning now too, the kind of grin Dick had seen a thousand times before. The one that had always been there, since Tim was just a kid.
Dick bumped his shoulder playfully against Tim’s, and Tim bumped him right back.
This was familiar, comforting, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a lightness between them.
The silence settled, clear like the air after a storm. Dick sat there, his breathing slow and deliberate. His mind felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.
Tim was the first to break the silence. “We should probably get out of here.””
Dick nodded, but he didn’t move right away. He needed a second to pull himself together. Tim stood first, dusting off his cape before turning toward him. Without a word, he extended a hand toward Dick.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against Tim’s as he took his hand. The pull sent a sharp flare of pain through his lower back, and he bit back a groan, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to stand.
“Give me a second,” Dick muttered, his voice strained. He braced himself against the wall, as he waited for the worst to pass. He could feel Tim’s eyes on him, but he didn’t say anything.
Dick watched as he took a step away, shifting his weight idly, until his foot knocked against one of the crates. Intrigued, he bent over, peering at it. At first, Dick wasn’t sure what had caught his attention, but Tim pushed the lid.
“Dick,” he called, his tone sharp. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Dick forced himself to move, his steps slow and deliberate, and his gaze followed Tim’s flashlight into the crate.
Inside were rows of thick books, neatly stacked. Their leather spines bore handwritten labels.
Ledgers.
Tim opened one carefully. Under the flashlight, the pages were filled with names, dates, transactions.
A direct line into the Falcone empire’s inner workings.
Dick reached in, running his hand along the row of books, noting the way they were categorized in chronological order, stretching back years before the family’s downfall.
“This is a record of everything they had,” Dick murmured. “And everything they were running.”
Tim was already scanning them. “We need to take some of these back,” he said, voice sure.
“The last two years before the fall,” Dick said, his tone decisive. “That should give us enough to work with.”
They managed to separate the four ledgers corresponding to that time period. Dick reached to carry two of them, biting back a wince as he lifted them. After everything else that had happened tonight, at least now they weren’t walking away empty-handed.
They continued walking, their flashlights casting light against the damp stone walls. They didn’t talk. They were too tired, trying to conserve every ounce of energy just to keep moving.
Dick shifted the ledgers in his arms again, searching for a better grip that didn’t pull on his back. There wasn’t one. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, his pace slower than usual but steady. Tim wasn’t faring much better, the gash on his cheek had finally stopped bleeding, but it still looked raw.
Finally, they reached a door.
It was old and rusted. Dick stared at it for a moment, his back screaming at the thought of forcing it open. He glanced at Tim, who was already setting his ledgers down on the ground.
“I’ve got it,” Tim said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped up to the door as he prepared himself. Dick didn’t argue.
Tim slammed his shoulder into the door. Nothing. He adjusted his stance, then drove into it again. The rusted hinges groaned before finally giving way, the door creaking open just enough for them to squeeze through.
“Attaboy,” murmured Dick.
Tim huffed, rolling his shoulder slightly as he picked up his ledgers.
And finally, finally, they were outside, into the open air.
Dick inhaled deeply, the crispness of it filling his lungs and washing away the stale, damp smell of the tunnels. It was a relief to be out of that place. The stars were faint but visible through Gotham’s light pollution, and the faint breeze stirred their capes.
Tim stood beside him, tilting his head back slightly, eyes closed as he let the wind wash over him. For a moment, neither of them moved. They just stood there, breathing the fresh air, after being buried underground.
Then, Dick reached into his belt, pulling out the remote to call the Batmobile. A moment later, they heard the familiar hum of the motor as it approached. The sound grew louder, and the vehicle came into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness as it navigated toward them on autopilot.
Dick let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had never been so happy to see the damn car in his life.
He slid into the driver’s seat. The familiar feel of the leather seat, the hum of the engine, the faint glow of the dashboard… it all felt like coming home. He managed to find a space for the ledgers behind their seats, where Tim was also piling up his.
As the doors closed, he let his head fall back against the headrest with a quiet exhale.
Tim grimaced slightly, looking at his reflection in the rear view mirror. “Let’s not do that again.”
Dick placed his hands on the wheel, starting their journey back to Gotham. “Deal.”
Dick was sitting on the couch in the dimly lit penthouse, with an ice pack strapped to his lower back. It was cold and numbing, but not enough. The pain still lingered, a throbbing ache that made every movement a challenge. He’d taken painkillers, but they hadn’t kicked in yet, so for now, he was just stuck with it.
He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Across the penthouse, he could faintly hear Alfred moving things around, probably finishing up with Tim’s stitches.
His gaze drifted down to the open ledgers spread out before him on the coffee table. He should be focused, get a head start on whatever they’d just uncovered, but his mind was slow.
The books in front of him were in surprisingly good shape, considering they’d been sitting in a forgotten basement for over a decade. The pages were yellowed and slightly warped from time, but aside from a few bug-eaten holes and faded ink in places, they were still legible. They’d been lucky.
Dick’s eyes skimmed over the pages, his mind only half-focused. The Batcomputer in the bunker could analyze the content of the ledgers if they scanned them, but that would mean scanning each page separately, and it would take hours. For now, it was probably faster to go through them manually.
Flipping through the pages, he noticed the handwriting changed occasionally, but most of the entries seemed to come from the same hand. Maybe Carmine’s personal secretary?
The sound of footsteps drew Dick’s attention. He glanced up just as Tim walked into the living room, moving a little stiffly. A fresh bandage covered his cheek, stark against the dim lighting, and his mouth was set in a tight line as he walked.
“How’s the cheek?” Dick asked.
Tim shrugged, sinking into the armchair across from Dick. “Fine. Alfred stitched it up, but he insisted on the tetanus booster shot. So that’s fun.”
Dick huffed. “Better safe than sorry.”
Tim nodded, his gaze drifting to the ledgers on the coffee table. “Find anything yet?”
Dick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Not really. I’ve only skimmed through them so far. Different handwritings, but most of it is from the same person.”
Tim nodded and reached for one of the books, flipping it open. His movements were slow, like he was fighting to keep his focus. “Any idea what we’re looking for?”
“Not sure. Just something that might give us a lead, I guess”.
Tim made a quiet noise of agreement, and they both settled in again, focusing on the ledgers.
The minutes stretched on. Dick tried to push through it, but his exhaustion was making his thoughts sluggish.
Just another thirty minutes. That’d be enough for tonight.
But at some point, he realized his eyes had been fixed on the same page for – how long? He blinked, forcing himself to refocus, but the words blurred together.
He glanced up at Tim, only to find him in the same state. His head had dipped forward, the ledger slack in his lap, his eyes closed despite himself.
Dick sighed.
Yeah. We’re done for the night.
He cleared his throat. “Tim.”
Tim jolted upright, his head snapping up as he blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the drowsiness.
“Sorry,” Tim muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alfred said I might crash after the shot.”
Dick shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not doing much better.” He shut his own ledger, pushing it onto the coffee table. “Let’s call it quits for tonight, alright?”
With a quiet groan, Dick pushed himself to his feet. His lower back screamed in protest as he straightened. He reached around to peel off the now-warm ice pack, tossing it onto the table.
Tim stood too, stretching out before glancing over. His eyebrows lifted when he saw his bruised back. “Damn,” he said, his voice tinged with something between awe and concern. “That’s gonna be one for the books in a couple of days.”
“Not exactly the kind of record I’m trying to break.” He paused, then added, “Speaking of records… kind of funny that out of everything, what almost took us out tonight was some rotten planks of wood.”
Tim snorted, “Truly Gotham’s finest.”
They shared a tired laugh. Without another word, they both turned toward their rooms.
Dick dragged himself down the hall. His body was sore, his head still foggy, but as he collapsed onto the mattress, he exhaled a long breath.
Relief.
For the first time in what felt like a long time, Dick let himself relax. And as sleep started pulling him under, he knew that no matter what was waiting for them next… they were good.
The next day began chaotically.
Alfred had let Dick and Tim oversleep, insisting they needed the rest after the night they’d had. Dick couldn’t argue. The extra hours had helped. Between the sleep and the painkillers he took upon waking, he felt functional. His back still ached, but the swelling had gone down, and he could move without wincing at every step. Tim looked better, too. Still a bit pale under the bandage on his cheek, but more alert than the night before.
They were both acutely aware of the ticking clock and the hours they had just lost. Caruso’s war for control wouldn’t wait, and they needed something, anything, that could tip the scales before things escalated beyond their reach.
Which was why they had enlisted Alfred and Damian’s help in going through the ledgers. It was the best they could do.
Now, they were in the Batbunker, surrounded by the volumes and a copious amount of differently colored Post-its Alfred had brought. Each of them was focused on their assigned ledger, the room mostly silent.
Dick’s detailed the operations of Falcone Imports. The entries were meticulous, but they were also endless. Page after page of transactions, shipments, and accounts. Important, probably. But it wasn’t helping them.
Across the table, Damian was fidgeting. The ten-year-old’s fingers tapped against the table, his leg bouncing slightly as he skimmed a page before flipping to the next with barely concealed impatience.
Dick suppressed a sigh. He got it. This kind of slow, methodical detective work wasn’t Damian’s strong suit. He thrived in action, in movement. Sifting through pages of financial records probably felt like torture. And, to be fair, Dick was starting to feel the same way.
If he could just move a little faster, he might be able to take Damian’s ledger off his hands and free him from the task altogether.
He turned back to his own book, flipping to a new section. This one was different: a list detailing hidden property assets. Each entry included an address, a date of acquisition, and the name of the buyer. Sometimes it was a person, sometimes a company. None of the properties were in the Falcones’ name, buried under layers of false ownership.
It wasn’t just a couple of safehouses. This went on for pages. Gotham was massive, but the sheer number of assets was impressive.
Dick’s pulse quickened as he scanned the entries. This was it. This could be the clue they needed to find Caruso’s base of operations.
His voice came sharp and certain. “I think I found something.”
Tim was at his side in an instant, leaning over. “What is it?”
“Hidden properties,” Dick explained, his fingers tapping one of the pages. “If Caruso’s as obsessed with the Falcones’ legacy as we think, he’d want a base with some kind of historical significance.”
Tim frowned, “How many locations are we talking?”
Dick flipped forward a few more pages, showing the seemingly endless list. “Too many.””
Dick grabbed the ledger and moved toward the Batcomputer. They scanned the pages, the Batcomputer whirring as it digitized the entries. The screen lit up with a world map, dozens of red dots marking the locations of the properties.
Tim took the lead, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “First, let’s eliminate anything outside of Gotham.” The map updated, the number of dots shrinking significantly. It centered on Gotham’s location.
“Good,” Dick said, leaning forward. “Now, take out anything purchased after Antonio was exiled. He wouldn’t be in a place acquired by his half-brother.”
Another chunk disappeared.
Tim sat back slightly, studying the data. “Caruso’s got a lot of men,” Tim said, his tone thoughtful. “He’d need a large space. I’m eliminating the smaller properties.” Restaurants, shops, and other small venues disappeared from the map.
The results shrank again. The first flickers of real progress.
Dick tapped his fingers against the edge of the console. “Filter out anything that had commercial use in the last five years.”
Tim nodded, applying the filter. “I’m also removing anything that got city-funded renovations. If Caruso’s trying to stay under the radar, he wouldn’t want the oversight.”
More locations vanished. The map thinned significantly.
Dick exhaled. “That gets us to... what, a dozen?”
“Give or take,” Tim said, glancing at the remaining list. “Mostly warehouses, a casino, two vineyards, and a theater.”
“Warehouses are too generic,” Dick said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “They don’t fit Caruso’s style.”
“Yeah.” Tim nodded. “He’s not subtle. Let’s focus on the rest.”
The vineyards were reduced to overgrown fields, and sagging buildings that looked like they hadn’t been touched in a decade. The casino had been gutted after its roof collapsed six years ago.
That left the theater.
It was a massive structure, its grandeur still visible despite years of neglect. Built in the 1950s, it had been one of Gotham’s most frequented venues until the 1980s, around the time it was acquired, according to the ledger. Its decline had been gradual but steady, with customer numbers dropping over the years. It had struggled on for a little while after Carmine’s death before finally closing its doors. On the surface, the timing didn’t seem suspicious. Just another dying business in a crumbling part of the city.
But something about it felt off.
Dick frowned as he clicked through the city records. “The Gotham municipality had plans to renovate it,” he noted, “but nothing ever came of it. But look at this.”
He pulled up recent photographs of the theater’s exterior.
Tim leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “That’s… new windows?”
“And reinforced doors,” Dick added. He flipped through older images from city archives, comparing the differences. “Someone’s been working on this place.”
Tim started searching through the city database.
“No permit?” Dick guessed.
“No permit,” Tim confirmed. “Someone has been operating under the radar.”
Dick pulled up surveillance footage from the area around the theatre. The camera angles were limited, but they caught glimpses of activity. Dick’s breath caught as he recognized one of the men, one of the henchmen he’d restrained during the assassination attempt on the informant.
“That’s one of Caruso’s men,” Dick said, pointing at the screen.
Tim leaned in, his expression grim. “This is it. This is Caruso’s headquarters.”
It all lined up. The theater’s history, its connection to the Falcones’ golden era, the off-the-books renovations. Caruso had chosen this place not just for its size and functionality but for its symbolism. A way of reclaiming the family’s legacy on his own terms.
Dick turned to Tim, his voice low but urgent. “See if you can find any plans for the theater. Blueprints, schematics… Anything that can give us an edge.”
Tim nodded, already moving to the Batcomputer. His fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up archives and city records. “On it.”
Dick exhaled, his mind already running through possibilities. The building was old, so there were probably underground access points, and at least one fire escape they could use. If they could get a full floor plan, they could --
Oracle’s voice came through the comms. “Heads up. I have a hit on Dent,” she said, her tone sharp with urgency. “Street cam picked him up in the East End.”
Dick’s stomach dropped. The East End was known for its underground activities and shady connections. If Harvey was there, it wasn’t for a friendly visit.
“Shit,” Dick muttered.
Oracle kept going, her tone tight. “Wait, he – he just stole a car.”
“Where is he going?” Dick asked, his pulse quickening.
Oracle’s fingers clicked over her keyboard. “Probably to Upper West Side.”
That was where the theatre was located.
Dick and Tim exchanged a look, the same realization dawning on them at once.
“He knows,” Tim said, his voice tight. “He’s going there to finish what he started.”
Dick’s jaw clenched. Harvey wasn’t just going after Caruso. He was going to kill everyone in that building. Anyone who got in his way. No matter their degree of implication.
“We have to move. Now,” Dick said, his tone grim. “Before this turns into a massacre.”
They were out of time. The careful planning, the scouting… it all went out the window. They had no choice but to move now, unprepared and out of options.
Dick grabbed his gear, his movements quick but deliberate. Tim was beside him, slipping on his cowl, checking his belt. There was no time for hesitation. They had to beat Harvey to the theatre.
The mission had shifted. It wasn’t just about stopping Caruso anymore. It was about saving lives.
Bruce’s words echoed in Dick’s mind as he secured his escrima sticks, as he prepared to run straight into the chaos.
You save the life. No matter what.
Notes:
Hey, you've made it to the end of the chapter, congrats! It was a long one and I'm sure some of you were internally screaming for me to wrap it up after Tim and Dick got back to the penthouse. But, listen, I needed to get back to the plot so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The truth is I've been nervous about this chapter. That conversation between Tim and Dick in the basement is the emotional core, the scene that mattered the most to me. And I can only hope it works for you, that it sounds honest but not too cheesy at the same time. In a way, this chapter is sort of my love letter to their relationship.
The mentions about Dick looking for Tim across global databases when he had disappeared, that's not canon. That is a reference to my one-shot ( here if you are interested). On the other hand, the discussion where a younger Tim said he was afraid of being too cautious is canon (Nightwing (1996) #25).
Anyway, thanks for sticking with me. Next chapter, things are going down!
Chapter Text
The Batmobile roared through Gotham’s streets. Dick’s hands were tight on the wheel, guiding the vehicle between cars with inches to spare. He leaned hard into a sharp turn, the tires screeching against asphalt. He accelerated, overtaking a delivery truck so closely he could see the driver’s tattoos in the side mirror.
“Hold on,” he muttered under his breath.
Next to him, Tim was silently bracing himself against the door.
Dick tapped the comms. “Oracle. Update on Harvey?”
Barbara’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Still following him on surveillance. He’s passing Robinson Park now. You’ve got about twenty minutes on him.”
Dick pushed the Batmobile a little harder.
“He’s keeping to speed limits,” Barbara added, her tone having something he didn’t like.
Tim frowned. “He doesn’t want to get pulled over. Not before he finishes what he’s planning.”
Not good .
If Harvey was keeping that much control over himself, it meant he was saving all his anger for Caruso and his men.
Barbara hesitated. Dick caught it immediately. “What else?”
“I’ve been pulling footage of the theater the past few days. Trying to estimate numbers.” She paused, as if wondering whether to tell them. Dick took another sharp turn.
“Babs. How many?”
“”Probably around a hundred men,” she said finally.
Tim swore under his breath. Dick didn’t blame him.
“You want me to call in reinforcements?”
Dick exhaled. “No. Not yet. This case is ours. We finish it.” He hesitated, then added, “But stay ready. If it goes south, we’re gonna need backup fast.”
“Copy that,” Barbara said. There was a beat, then a little more quietly, “Be careful. Both of you.”
Dick nodded, “Always.”
The line clicked off, and there was only silence.
Dick pulled into a narrow alley a couple of streets away from the theater and turned off the engine. They moved quickly. They fired their grappling guns and soared, landing on a rooftop overlooking the theater.
The building stood like a half-forgotten monument in the night, its once-grand facade worn down. Here and there, repairs patched over some of the damage.
At the front entrance, several armed men stood guard, shifting restlessly, rifles slung loosely over their shoulders.
DIck grimaced. There was no way they could get in through the front without attracting every man in the building.
He tapped Tim lightly on the shoulder and jerked his head. They moved silently along the rooftop and dropped into a deserted alley behind the theater.
The back entrance stood in front of them. Not guarded, but no less secure.
Dick crouched beside the door. Fine wires gleamed faintly under the dim alley lights. An alarm system. Probably linked to every window, too. Triggering the alarm would sign their death certificates.
He could feel his frustration build. Every second they wasted was a second closer to Harvey turning this into a massacre. They needed to be inside now.
“Batman.”
He turned. Tim was crouched beside a ventilation grate, examining it intently.
“I can sneak in through there,” Tim said, keeping his voice low. “Crawl through the ducts, find the control room, and disable the alarm system from inside. Then I’ll open the door for you.”
Dick’s stomach twisted. The vent was barely wide enough for Tim, and Batman’s cape made it impossible for him to follow even if he wanted to. He hesitated, instincts screaming at him. The vent could collapse. Tim could drop straight into a nest of armed men. He opened his mouth to argue, but TIm didn’t let him.
“It’s our only option”, Tim said, resolute. “We need to infiltrate. If I disable the system from inside, we keep the advantage.”
Dick felt his jaw tighten. Part of him wanted to say no. To find another way.
Tim glanced up at him, and his voice was rougher. “Do you believe in me?”
The words hit him. This was the same question Tim had asked him the previous night in the basement of the Falcone estate.
If he said no, if he hesitated now, all of that would mean nothing. Every word in that basement would be a lie. Every step they'd taken toward rebuilding their relationship would shatter.
And if he said yes, if he let him go, Tim could get hurt. Badly. Or worse.
But Dick had promised. This was it. The moment he had to let go of the fear that clawed inside him. He had to believe that Tim could do this. Not just because he needed to – but because Tim needed it too.
Dick exhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax.
“Yes,” he said, voice low but firm.
The tension in Tim’s shoulders eased. A weight lifted.
They worked quickly, unscrewing the grate together. The metal groaned softly as it came free. Dick set it aside carefully, every instinct on high alert.
Before Tim could get into it, Dick put a hand on his shoulder. “You sure?” he asked, giving him one last out. No judgment. No pressure.
Tim gave a determined nod. “I can do this.”
Dick stepped back and Tim slid into the vent, twisting his body to fit. It was a squeeze even for him; his boots scraped against the metal sides as he disappeared into the darkness, pulling his cape in behind him.
And then he was gone.
Dick leaned against the alley wall, watching the dark opening where Tim had disappeared.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the anxiety gnawing at him.
Please be right about this.
And waited.
The vent swallowed Tim whole. He exhaled slowly and pushed forward, on his knees and hands. It was just wide enough to crawl through, but not by much. The air smelled like dust and damp insulation.
He inched forward, careful to keep the noise down. The last thing he needed was some henchman below hearing the banging against metal and investigating it.
His mind drifted back to the Falcone basement. To their conversation. To the words they’d finally said aloud.
For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even years, they had been completely honest with each other. No facades. No performances. Just them.
His first instinct had been to shut down, to deny, to deflect. But he had been tired of hiding. And when Dick had looked at him, so worried and afraid, it had just spilled out. He had needed to say it out loud. Especially after all those months chasing Bruce’s shadow. And Dick… Dick had met him there. He hadn’t judged. He’d listened.
Dick had said he believed in him.
And now, here he was letting Tim take the lead. Those hadn’t been empty words tossed out in an emotional moment. They meant something.
And yet, this crawl was not exactly pleasant.
The duct angled upward suddenly, forcing him to adjust. He reached into his belt for the magnetic clamps and attached them to his gauntlets and boots.
He began the vertical climb, hoping the old screws wouldn’t give way. A fall would send him crashing through the ceiling and straight into the hands of Caruso’s men.
A faint murmur reached his ears. Voices.
He froze, heart suddenly loud in his ears. The shaft angled again, leveling out, and he crept forward until the narrow slit of light beneath a grate appeared just ahead.
Below, the room was crowded with men armed but relaxed, trading jokes in Italian and English. Then the door opened, and the change in atmosphere was instant. Conversations stopped mid-word. The silence was absolute.
Antonio Caruso stepped inside.
Tim’s breath caught, just for a second. He’d seen photos, but in person, it was different. Caruso had a striking resemblance to his half-brother, Carmine Falcone . Same deep-set eyes, same hawkish profile. His black hair was slicked back, likely dyed. He moved with the confidence of a man who'd never needed to raise his voice.
“ Domani mattina ,” he said, his tone casual. “We sit down with Mayor Higuchi.” He adjusted his cufflinks. “After that? She resigns. Personal reasons. Stress. Not surprising in Gotham.”
Murmurs propagated across the room.
“If she doesn’t…” He let the sentence hang, just long enough. Then he smiled, but it was cruel. “Well. Her little brother’s luck finally runs out. Gambling’s a dangerous habit after all.”
That earned a few darker laughs.
“After that, we name the next mayor. Someone… cooperative. Someone who remembers who put him there.” He gave a slight shrug, his voice almost light. “Maybe I’ll even run myself.”
This time, the laughter was real. Tim watched from above, every muscle tight.
They were laying the groundwork for a hostile takeover of City Hall. A slow-motion coup that would rot Gotham from the inside. This would be permanent.
Tim forced himself to keep moving. The longer he lingered, the more he was wasting time. Or worse, risking getting caught.
The next grate came into view after another sharp turn in the shaft. He paused, peering through the slits.
Below was a small control room, dimly lit by the glow of several monitors along the wall. Security feeds of what seemed to be rooms and stairs flickered across the screens. Two bored guards sat at the desk, and neither of them seemed to notice the faint noise above their heads.
Bingo.
Tim eased himself over the grate and began to unscrew it. He braced himself as the last screw came free and carefully put the grate aside.
Three... two... one.
Tim dropped through the opening and hooked his legs around the neck of the closest guard. His momentum carried them both down, Tim’s weight slamming the man onto the floor with a loud thud.
The second guard barely had time to stand. Tim swept his legs out. He snapped his bo staff out and struck his temple, knocking him out.
Tim exhaled once, quickly. Then he turned to the alarm console.
The system was extensive but primitive. Every window and door was wired, but the central system did not have any security measures to protect it. He disabled it with total ease.
But he wasn’t done. He noticed the network of wiring that fed into the old theatre’s sound and lighting system. Everything was connected: stage, rehearsal halls, backroom lighting, even cues for dressing room alerts. When this place had been operational, it had needed to be able to coordinate dozens of people backstage at once.
And after all those years, the theater’s infrastructure was still functional.
Oh, this could be fun.
He moved quickly, fingers flying across. In a dressing room, the lights began to strobe violently while in a rehearsal room, a recording of an opera Aria resonated. Beeps blared across empty hallways.
Every cue was carefully placed. Loud enough to confuse, subtle enough to make it seem like something was malfunctioning. He watched through the monitors as groups of men started to peel off, weapons drawn, as they tried to track the disturbances.
He allowed himself a satisfied grin.
Divide and conquer.
He slipped out of the control room and back into the darkened hallway. Up ahead, he heard voices, a trio of men cutting through the corridor. He hid behind a heavy velvet curtain. He stood still and held his breath as they passed.
He could’ve taken them down. But the longer they thought this was just a glitch, the more time he and Dick would have to move undetected.
As their voices faded, Tim stepped out carefully and made his way toward the back. The hallway turned, and just ahead, he caught sight of the back door where Dick would be waiting.
They were in.
Dick paced the narrow alleyway, his ears straining for any sound from the door. Every second felt like it stretched longer. He stiffened, hands reaching towards his escrima sticks as the door creaked open. He relaxed as he saw Tim emerge.
“Alarm’s down,” Tim said in a low voice. “And I’ve given them reasons to be busy.”
From somewhere inside, he could hear distorted music.
Dick couldn’t help but smile. “Nice work,” he whispered back.
They moved inside, slipping into the building like shadows. As they advanced through the backstage corridors, it became clear that Tim’s sabotage was already taking effect. Muted shouting echoed from distant rooms, punctuated by the occasional burst of static from walkie-talkies. The mobsters’ cohesion was unraveling before the fight had even started.
Dick moved forward, Tim at his side. They rounded a corner and came face-to-face with three mobsters, flashlights sweeping erratically. The men froze, eyes wide, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of costumed vigilantes.
" Che cazzo – " one hissed, but before he could finish, Tim’s bo staff jabbed him backwards, sending him towards Dick so he could strike him in the temple with his escrima sticks.
Dick’s hands locked together to give Tim a boost, which he used to crash into the second man, sending him sprawling. Dick darted beneath the falling body and swept the legs of the last one before he could react.
Their movements were instinctive, each knowing without a word where the other would be. No second-guessing.
They moved on. In a dressing room, Dick caught flashes of duffel bags stuffed with bundles of cash and crates filled with weapons. The mob had turned the forgotten theater into a fortress.
Two other groups of men found themselves in their way. By now, the fear was settling in.
“ Demoni !” one screamed while firing blindly into the shadows.
Dick grinned grimly behind his cowl. The terror was working in their favor. Dick jumped and slammed his boot on the man’s chest. A jolt of pain shot through his lower back, a painful reminder from the fall the night prior. He could feel it protesting at rough landings or sudden movements, but at least right now, it didn’t hinder his movements.
They cleared the corridor quickly.. As the last man fell, one of the discarded walkie-talkies crackled to life.
“All units in the auditorium! Now! Bring what you’ve got!” The voice was sharp, desperate.
Dick and Tim exchanged a glance. They must have found some of the unconscious men. And now, Caruso was panicking, pulling every man left into one place for a last stand.
They moved quickly, cutting through the shadowy hallways toward the center of the theater. A worn metal door, labeled TECHNICAL ACCESS, caught Dick’s attention. He tapped Tim on the shoulder. Without hesitation, they slipped inside.
The narrow room was dimly lit. Against the wall stood a ladder leading upward to the catwalks. On the other wall, a heavy grate offered a slit view into the massive auditorium beyond.
They both crouched, peering through the grate. The auditorium stretched out before them, vast and decaying. The paint was peeling from the balconies, and the faded red curtains were half-eaten by moths.
A man stood center stage under the harsh spotlights, barking orders.
“Caruso,” Tim whispered, pointing at the man.
“Get ready!” His face was twisted in fury. “You see anything move, you shoot! We are not letting those people ruin everything!”
The mobsters were spread out across the rows of seats and aisles, guns pointed towards the main entrances. Others were on the stage, pointing toward the back doors. Above, other men roamed across the narrow catwalks.
Every entrance from the lobby and the backstage areas would be a death trap. But not the more technical access.
Tim’s glance met Dick’s, a silent agreement passing between them. The catwalks came first. If they didn’t take those riflemen out quietly, they would be gunned down. They climbed upward into the rafters, disappearing into the shadows above the stage.
Once up, Dick quickly assessed the situation. The gunmen were spread out, scanning the chaos below. They hadn’t noticed the two shadows lurking.
Dick pulled several smoke bombs from his belt and dropped them straight down. In an instant, thick, choking smoke flooded the stage and the rows of seats.
Confused screams rang out below. They were shouting, firing wildly into the obscuring gray. The entire auditorium descended into chaos.
The first guard on the catwalk barely had time to register the figures emerging from the shadows before Dick struck. A quick disarming blow, a punch to the gut, and he sent the rifle clattering into the abyss below. Tim took the next one, driving his bo staff into the man’s knee.
The catwalk was tight, cramped. It forced them close to their enemies. No room for full swings or elaborate acrobatics. Everything had to be quick and brutal.
They moved like clockwork, each trusting the other to cover their blind spots. The last man standing lunged at Dick with a desperate swing of his rifle. Dick ducked, but the butt of the weapon still clipped his jaw. He staggered for a half-second, but Tim was already there, ramming his staff into the attacker’s ribs.
Dick shook his head sharply, getting his bearings back.
Focus. Keep moving.
Below, the chaos persisted despite the smoke clearing out. Caruso’s voice could be heard somewhere, but the words were lost in the cacophony. Dick tapped Tim lightly on the shoulder and jerked his chin toward the stage.
They needed to divide the fight, break the mobsters further.
“Take the stage!” he shouted over the chaos. “I’ll take the seats.”
Together, they launched themselves off the rafters, capes billowing like black wings in the haze.
The sight of these dark shapes gliding from the ceiling was too much for some of the mobsters. A few screamed outright, others turned and fled, dropping their weapons in sheer terror. In Gotham, the myth of masked vigilantes was powerful. For outsiders who’d never seen it up close, it was a pure nightmare.
Dick hit the ground in a crouch among the rows of seats, his escrima sticks already swinging, carving a path through the disoriented mobsters.
Dick ducked low, vaulted over chair backs, and slid between rows with a fluid ease. Mobsters tried to go after him, but they weren’t prepared for his speed and precision. He moved around like it was second nature.
Because it was.
The circus.
After the big circus top was raised and the grownups were too tired to care, the kids would run wild. They’d played a reckless game, half tag, half hide-and-seek, in the empty bleachers, jumping from row to row with no fear. It didn’t matter how many times they scraped their knees bloody or how much the adults scolded them. They had never stopped.
Dick vaulted over a row now, landing lightly. A mobster lunged at him, swinging a crowbar clumsily. Dick ducked easily and struck his sticks, cracking them solidly against his jaw.
“Tag, you’re it !” Dick said, before the man crumpled backward over the chairs.
Dick spun, already scanning for his next target. That’s when he saw it.
The brief, deadly glint of metal between two chairs. A gun barrel.
He twisted, but not fast enough. The gunshot cracked through the smoke, and fire lanced through his thigh.
Dick bit down on a curse as he stumbled slightly, the pain sharp and immediate, hot blood already soaking through the fabric of his suit.
He snarled, lunging forward before the shooter could fire again. This time, he didn’t hold back; his elbow smashed into the man’s nose, his escrima stick slamming down hard across the thug’s collarbone. The man hit the floor with a wheeze.
Dick hissed softly through his teeth as he inspected the wound. The bullet had grazed deep enough to tear skin and leave a trail of hot blood dripping down. It burned like hell, every step now sending a fresh spike of pain up his leg.
But he could still fight.
Then movement caught his eye. Across the rows, the mobsters were regrouping, scrambling toward the stage where Caruso was barking orders, trying to pull the chaos back under control.
They were moving toward Tim.
Dick’s jaw tightened. If they reached the stage, he would be buried under sheer numbers.
Like hell.
Pain or no pain, he had to cut them off.
Gritting his teeth, Dick pushed forward, limping but refusing to slow down. He had fought through worse. His escrima sticks were gripped tightly in his fists, the blood already forgotten as he moved after the mobsters.
He wasn’t about to let Tim face them alone.
Not tonight. Not while he could still stand.
The stage was a battlefield.
Tim could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his muscles burning. He’d taken down around a dozen men, but every time one went down, it seemed like two more took his place. The relentless wave of attacks was wearing him down.
His cape was torn and peppered with bullet holes. Too many close calls.
Pain radiated from his right forearm, where a deep cut at the edge of his gauntlet kept reopening every time he swung his staff. Blood had slicked into his glove, making his grip on the weapon feel slippery. There was a shallower cut across his ribs while his left shoulder throbbed fiercely, bruised from when a mobster had thrown him into a metal railing.
A glance toward the seats sent a jolt of dread through him. More men were leaving the rows, flooding the stage. No matter how many he took down, the numbers weren’t dropping.
Shit.
Then, suddenly, he was closer to Caruso than he’d been all night. The mob boss was flanked by two lieutenants, barking commands and trying to get his men in order. When Caruso turned and spotted him, he sneered.
“Are you kidding me?” Caruso’s tone was laced with contempt, his eyes narrowing. “This is what’s been tearing through my men?”
Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t have the breath to waste.
Caruso scoffed, drawing a gun from his waistband. “I don’t know who you think you are, but all you’ve done is make yourself a very short-term problem.”
He fired twice. Tim barely had time to throw himself sideways and used his momentum to launch a Batarang. It whistled through the air and struck Caruso’s hand dead on.
Caruso snarled, dropping his weapon. His face twisted in fury. “Kill him!” he roared at his lieutenants, cradling his injured hand. “Now!”
Tim didn’t wait. He dove behind a wooden decor piece shaped like a castle tower. The structure was tall, with three sides to keep it upright. He pressed his back against the rough wood, trying to catch his breath.
The first bullet hit the front panel, splintering the wood. Tim ducked instinctively, keeping his head down.More bullets followed, thudding into the tower with alarming force. The decor piece groaned under the assault, cracks forming along the wood grain.
Less than a minute before this thing collapses.
Tim risked a glance through a narrow crack, spotting a group of men advancing cautiously. His mind raced, calculating his next move. He couldn’t stay here. But before he could act, a bullet punched clean through the wood, leaving a jagged hole inches from his head.
Tim swallowed hard, feeling the sweat on the back of his neck. He was cornered and running out of time.
He chanced another glance through the crack, catching sight of Dick in the middle of the rows. He was mid-fight, swinging his escrima sticks with efficiency, weaving through the seats.
Worry shot through Tim as he noticed the blood spreading over Dick’s thigh. He was clearly limping, trying to avoid putting weight on that leg.
He tightened his grip on his staff. Dick was still fighting, still standing. That was good. But Tim knew he had to handle this on his own. It would be selfish to hope for backup.
He could hear the lieutenants shouting to each other, voices confident, sure they had him pinned down.
A rush of adrenaline hit him, and he braced himself. His plan was simple and dangerous: get in their face and hit them hard and fast before they could react.
Hope I don’t get shot here.
He was preparing himself to spring from his hideout --
Then, suddenly, a loud, shattering noise echoed across the stage: a spotlight exploding, the glass raining down in glittering shards. The right side of the stage plunged into darkness.
Tim froze, instincts on high alert. The mobsters hesitated too, caught off guard by the sudden shift. And then, from the shadows, a figure emerged, moving slowly and deliberately.
Harvey Dent’s face was half-lit, the scars twisting his expression into something inhuman.
The mobsters seemed rooted to the spot as Harvey walked forward. Tim could see the terror in their eyes. Some looked ready to run, others just stared, unsure if what they were seeing was real. One of them even crossed himself.
Harvey raised his gun without hesitation and fired twice. Two lieutenants close to Tim’s hiding spot crumpled, blood spreading across their chests.
Caruso’s face went pale, his bravado cracking. He took a step back, his gaze flickering between Harvey and the bodies of his men.
“What are you… Who the hell do you think you are?” Caruso barked, trying to sound defiant.
Harvey’s eyes didn’t leave Caruso, his voice low and dangerous. “The DA.”
Then he threw himself on Caruso. Tim moved on instinct; he leapt from beyond the decor piece and ran towards the two men.
As Harvey’s gun pressed into Caruso’s skull, he smiled, “I’m the one who buried your family. Want to join them?”
No!
Tim slammed into Harvey and twisted his wrist just as the gun fired. The shot was deviated, Caruso screamed as the bullet tore through his shoulder instead of his skull. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, his face a mask of pain and fury.
Harvey turned his attention to Tim, eyes wild. They fought, Tim fighting to grab the gun from his grip. Harvey twisted, his other hand coming up with his second gun, and smashed it against the side of Tim’s face.
Pain exploded across his cheek, the same one he’d injured the night before. He felt something wet and warm trickling down his jaw. He could feel the stitches tearing, and his vision swam for a moment.
Harvey broke free, barreling after Caruso. Four of his lieutenants had hurried to shield him, guiding him toward the backstage exit.The door slammed shut just before Harvey could reach it. He let out a raw, guttural scream and whirled toward the remaining mobsters. Bullets tore through the air as Harvey opened fire. Men dropped, screaming. Others turned and ran.
Tim grimaced, still fighting to clear his thoughts. He needed to stop Harvey from mowing down everyone on the stage. But before he could, a hand landed on his shoulder. He twisted instinctively, staff swinging up, but stopped just in time.
Dick was there, breathing hard, his eyes sharp and assessing.
“Need a hand?” Dick asked, his voice a bit rough. A tear in his cowl just above his temple revealed a streak of blood.
Tim exhaled sharply. “Yeah, gladly.”
Dick offered a grim smile, but before they could say more, another mobster lunged at them, and they fell back into the rhythm of the fight, moving in tandem to take him down.
Chaos reigned on the stage. Men were scattering, some trying to flee, others desperately shooting back. A few of them seemed convinced that Dick, Tim, and Harvey were all on the same team and targeted them without hesitation.
Dick and Tim tried to stay close, covering each other’s backs, but the number of attackers forced them apart again.
A mobster lunged from behind him and landed a punch right into Tim’s already bruised shoulder. Pain jolted down his arm, but he gritted his teeth and struck back hard, dropping the man with one blow.
Tim pushed forward. The tide was finally turning. The numbers were finally thinning.
Across the stage, he caught sight of Harvey again, still firing indiscriminately. Bodies were scattered at his feet, blood pooling and spreading across the varnished stage floor.
This isn't justice. This is slaughter.
He spotted an opening and made his move. Sprinting forward, he weaved around fallen bodies, his boots skidding slightly on the slippery, blood-slicked floor.
Harvey’s focus was entirely on a man cowering in front of him, begging for mercy. Tim quickened his pace, his breathing ragged.
"Behind you!" Dick's warning came a half-second too late.
Tim whirled –
A mobster stood five feet away, pistol aimed straight at him. The barrel stared back.
He didn’t have time –
Too late.
The trigger moved –
A body slammed into him, shoving him aside.
The gunshot was deafening.
Tim hit the stage floor, rolling just in time to see Harvey standing where he’d just been. A dark bloom spread across his side. He stumbled, his gun slipping from his hand, and then he collapsed heavily to the floor.
For a moment, Tim couldn’t move. His mind struggled to process what had just happened.
Why? Of all people… why?
His thoughts stuttered, colliding in his head, and a knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t breathe.
The shooter raised his weapon again, but he didn’t get a second shot. Tim was on him in an instant, tackling him to the ground and slamming his fist in his jaw until his head lolled unconscious.
Why… Why’d he do that?
He had to push this thought away. The fight wasn’t over.
The remaining men were firing wild shots. Dick moved like a shadow between them, his escrima sticks a blur. He was still fighting with impressive agility and precision despite his injury.
Tim joined him, and together, they moved through the remaining threats. The last few mobsters barely put up a fight, too dazed and bloodied to resist.
When only the two of them were left standing, Tim sagged back, his staff clattering to the floor. The room was a mess of unconscious or dead bodies and destruction.
Everything felt so hazy in the aftermath of the fight. The thick, metallic scent of gunpowder and blood clung to the back of Tim’s throat. The only sound he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the buzzing of a broken spotlight.
His hands were trembling. He couldn’t tell if it was from the adrenaline or the pain finally catching up to him. He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the sting along his forearm where the gash beneath his gauntlet still bled. He could feel the warm, sticky sensation pooling around his wrist. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his legs felt unsteady, like the floor was moving beneath him.
I’d be dead.
The thought cut through him, cold and sudden. If Harvey hadn’t shoved him aside – if that bullet had found his skull instead –
A cold shiver ran through him, cutting through the pain. There was no question. He would have died. No time to react, no chance to escape. Just… gone. Months ago, that wouldn’t have scared him. Back then, some part of him wouldn’t have cared.
Now, the idea made his stomach twist.
He swallowed hard, pushing the image away. Not the time to spiral.
Across the stage, Dick limped toward the back wall, one hand braced against it for support. His injured leg buckled slightly as he leaned into it, his cape torn and streaked with dirt and blood.
A few feet away, crumpled on the side of the stage, was Harvey. Motionless.
Tim froze, torn between the two. Logically, he knew he should go to Harvey. The man had taken a bullet for him. He owed him at least that much.
But it was Dick. It was his big brother. After everything they’d been through, the laughs and jokes of all those years, their fights, their conversations, and the way they’d fought side by side tonight – how could Tim not go to him?
It’s always going to be Dick first.
He felt guilty as he crossed the stage. He knew that without immediate attention, Harvey could bleed out right there.
And yet, that was not enough to change his trajectory.
Dick was leaning against the wall, tearing a strip from his cape, his jaw clenched tight against the pain. As Tim approached, he got a better look at the damage and the torn fabric of his suit sticking to the wound. There were more tears and blood stains all over the costume. The cape was in tatters. Tim didn't need a mirror to know that he didn't look any better himself.
"You okay?" Tim's voice came out rougher than he intended.
Dick gave a nod, then started wrapping the strip from the cape around his thigh. “It’s just a graze. I’ll live.”
You’re doing the same thing you told me off last night.
He looked back up at Tim, this expression replaced by a flicker of something more serious. Something that made Tim’s chest tighten.
“You?”
There was worry in Dick’s eyes, and Tim could read it. Could see the echo of Dick’s words from the night before: “I can’t lose you too.”
A pang of guilt hit him. He knew what it would have done to Dick if Harvey hadn’t intervened. If the man had been just a second slower.
He forced a half-smile, pushing down the memory of the gun barrel aimed between his eyes. "Same as you. Cuts and bruises."
Dick nodded, but his eyes didn’t lose that worried glint. He finished tying off the makeshift bandage, and he hissed through his teeth when he tightened it.
"Well," Tim said, trying to lighten the mood, "who's being unhygienic now?"
A ghost of a smirk flickered across Dick’s face, but it vanished quickly, chased away by pain. Tim’s own smile faded. “Seriously, you sure you’re --”
"Harvey…?" Dick interrupted. His gaze darted past Tim to the motionless figure on stage.
Tim swallowed. "Don't know. But he's over there."
Dick grunted softly and started to push himself away from the wall. Tim slid under Dick's arm, taking some of his weight without comment, despite the protest of his own shoulder. Dick's arm settled heavily across his shoulders, but just before they moved, Tim felt fingers squeeze gently. A silent 'we're still here, we’re still alive, we’ll be okay' that made his throat tighten.
They found Harvey sprawled, clutching his lower abdomen. Even in the uneven light, the wound looked bad, dark blood seeping between his fingers.
Dick looked at Tim, his mouth set in a tight line. “I’ll call the GCPD and paramedics,” he said quietly, stepping to the side and pulling out his comm.
Tim nodded and knelt beside Harvey.. The man’s breathing was shallow, each inhale rattling like it scraped through his chest.
Tim hesitated for just a second.Could he really trust Harvey not to lash out, not to grab him by the throat the second he got close enough?
But no. Harvey had saved his life. Helping him was the least he could do.
Tim forced his shaking hands to steady as he pressed firmly against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. The suit jacket soaked through instantly, the fabric turning slick and warm beneath his palms.
Harvey's eyes fluttered open at the contact. The good one focused on Tim with startling clarity, while the ruined side remained shadowed.
"Why…?" Tim demanded, his voice raw. "Why save me?"
Harvey’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile. He coughed, the movement sending a shudder through his whole body. “Told you… I like you.” He paused, eyes drifting half-shut. “You were… Bats’ partner.” He coughed again, jaw clenching through the pain. “We were… friends… once. That… still means… something.”
Harvey’s breath was getting shallower. Then his eyes rolled back, his body going slack beneath Tim's hands. The change startled him, and he checked frantically for a pulse. Weak, but there.
Tim just stayed there, pressing against the wound. His mind was spinning, trying to reconcile what Harvey had just said with everything he knew. Trying to figure out what had gone through his head in that split second.
Tim didn’t even realize how long he’d been kneeling there until movement caught his attention. Gordon and a squad of officers entered the stage, weapons drawn. They looked ready for a fight, but stopped short when they saw the aftermath.
Gordon lowered his weapon. He barked some orders, and the officers moved to secure the remaining mobsters who were half-conscious. He joined Dick, and they immediately started talking. One of the paramedics moved toward him, but Dick waved them off.
A pair of paramedics hurried over to Tim and Harvey. One knelt beside him, while the other assessed Harvey’s wound with practiced efficiency.
“We’ll take it from here,” she said, voice calm but urgent.
Tim hesitated, but she gave him a nod, they had it under control. Reluctantly, he pulled his hands back.
“Be careful,” Tim warned, his voice rough. “He can turn on you. Don’t underestimate what he can do, even injured.”
One of the paramedics gave him a quick nod, but the other just looked confused. They didn’t understand who they were dealing with. Tim wasn’t sure he understood either.
As they lifted Harvey onto a stretcher, something metallic rolled out of his pocket and clattered on the stage floor.
The coin.
He picked it up, turning it between his fingers. The silver surface gleamed under the theater lights. A scratched face and a clean one.
Harvey used that coin to decide. But this time, it had stayed in his pocket. No flip.
He had made his choice.
Tim swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to do with that, so he just tucked the coin into his belt. He crossed the stage, joining Gordon and Dick, still deep in their conversation.
"...Contacting all of the hospitals to see if Caruso shows up there," the Commissioner was saying, his mustache twitching. "It’s pretty unlikely, but we’ll see."
Dick nodded, grimacing as he shifted his weight to his good leg. “Losing the weapons and money from backstage is already going to be a serious blow for him.”
Gordon nodded. He seemed to register Tim’s arrival and looked thoroughly at him, his frown deepening. His eyes glanced between both of them, at the state they were in. Bloodstained, in pain, and swaying on their feet.
“You two look like hell. Get out of here. I’ll clean up.” His tone was gruff, but the concern behind it was unmistakable.
Dick gave a small nod. “Thanks, Commissioner.”
Gordon just waved a hand, already directing his officers to secure the scene.
Tim moved back to Dick, slipping under his arm again to help him while they took the backdoor. A light rain had started by the time they made it to the alley exit. Dick fumbled for the remote, calling the Batmobile.
“I’m driving,” Tim said quickly as the car stopped before them.
Dick didn't argue, and they settled in. The engine purred to life, and for long minutes, the only sounds were the wipers clearing the windshield.
He glanced down at his gauntlets, covered in dark streaks of blood. That was Harvey’s. His stomach twisted, and he forced himself to focus on the road ahead.
"You're quiet," Dick said suddenly. Tim almost jumped, not realizing how tightly he’d been gripping the wheel.
"You're quiet too," Tim countered.
A beat passed, and then Dick spoke again, more carefully. “Thinking about Harvey?”
There was no point hiding it. Not from Dick.
He kept his eyes on the road. “He pushed me. Took the bullet. I just… I don’t get it.” He swallowed, trying to make sense of his own thoughts. “When I saw him in Arkham the other day, he tried to mess with me by playing his usual games. Like, saying he’d kill me if he got the chance. And now this. Why?”
The irony wasn't lost on him. Here they were, two former Robins, while the man who'd nearly killed Dick as a kid had just saved Tim’s life.
Dick’s jaw tensed. “Maybe he wanted to be the one to decide your fate. Harvey does like to play the judge.”
Tim frowned, shaking his head. “I’m not sure… It didn’t feel like that. He said something… something about Bruce.”
Dick was silent for a second, but when he spoke again, his voice was cautious. “Harvey’s unpredictable. That’s the problem with him. Our job's to protect people from him. That's all.”
Tim felt something loosen in his chest. Dick’s words didn’t give him an answer, but they eased some of the guilt.
“It’s not your fault, Tim,” Dick added gently.
Tim swallowed, not sure if he could believe that yet.
"I don't know," he said softly, more to himself. "I just don't know."
He couldn’t help but think of Bruce. How he had never accepted that Harvey was gone. How he had always tried to reach him. Maybe he had been right all along. Maybe there was something left to save. But Tim couldn’t bring himself to say it, not with Dick sitting next to him. Dick, who had never forgiven Harvey for what he’d done.
Dick didn’t push. He just settled back in his seat, the Batmobile moving steadily through the rain-soaked streets, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
Tim didn’t know if he’d ever get an answer that made sense. Maybe it was better not to know why Harvey did what he did. Maybe trying to understand was just a way of looking for meaning in something that didn’t have any.
Tim gripped the wheel tighter, the city stretching out ahead of them, and drove through the night, trying to piece a puzzle that might never fit together.
Notes:
This was the big action chapter! I know some people dislike and struggle with those types of scenes so I’m really sorry if it’s the case. But personally, I had a blast basically building a mental model of the theatre and going ‘oooh, the vents!’, ‘the audio/light system!’, ‘catwalks!’, ‘the stage!’
Also, what did you think of Harvey saving Tim? Does it work? Or was it confusing? Surprising?
As you can see, the next chapter is the last one, the epilogue. There are still things to be resolved and discussed. But it’s going to be a little bittersweet to post the ending.
Anyway, see you next week for the ending!
Chapter Text
The dim light of the Batbunker cast long shadows over the walls, and the smell of antiseptic still lingered in the air. The calm felt unnatural after the chaos in the theatre.
Dick and Tim were on the bench in the changing area, having changed into their sweatpants and loose t-shirts.
Dick leaned heavily against the wall, eyes half-closed, and his leg stretched out in front of him; the bullet graze was now wrapped in bandages. Beside him, Tim was slumped slightly, pressing an ice pack against his bruised shoulder. The gash on his forearm had been stitched, and his cheek, too, had been re-dressed, despite Alfred’s pointed sighs.
Despite the pain, there was a comfortable silence between them, a sense of calm that Tim hadn’t realized he needed. The fight was over. They were safe.
He knew they should move. Every muscle in his body was sending out warning signals, telling him that if he didn’t, the cramping would soon turn to outright agony. But sitting felt like a luxury he didn't want to give up.
He let out an exhausted sigh. “We should probably get up.”
Dick didn’t even open his eyes. “Yep.”
Neither of them moved.
Tim pulled out the coin he had stored in his pocket. Harvey’s coin. His fingers absently traced the edges. The scratched side caught the dim light. A flicker of something tightened in his chest. Not quite guilt, but near it.
Dick’s eyes cracked open just enough, “What’s that?”
Tim hesitated, then held up the coin. He knew Dick would recognize it.
Dick’s shoulders tensed, just slightly. He shifted, wincing a little as he straightened. “Tim --” His voice was cautious, as if he wasn’t sure what he was going to say.
But before he could finish, the Batcomputer’s speakers crackled to life. "Dick? Tim?" Barbara's voice echoed through the bunker. "Are you down here?"
They both looked at each other and groaned in unison. They had to get up now.
Dick raised his voice, just enough for the sound to carry across. “Just a minute, Babs.”
Tim pocketed the coin and slowly, very slowly, started the process of standing up, every bruise and cut making itself known. Next to him, Dick used the wall for leverage, jaw tightening with the effort. His leg trembled under him.
Together, they shuffled toward the Batcomputer. Tim’s legs felt like lead, and his shoulder throbbed. Dick's limp was pronounced, each step sending visible tension through his jawline.
When they reached the console, Dick gripped the edge of the desk to take some of the weight off his leg, his breathing a little heavier than normal.
Barbara’s face appeared on the monitor. Her eyes lingered on Tim's bandaged cheek, then moved to the bandage on Dick's temple and the way he was bracing himself against the desk.
“Why didn’t you call for backup?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
Tim blinked, genuinely caught off guard. In the middle of the fight, that option hadn’t even crossed his mind. He looked to Dick, who seemed similarly at a loss for an explanation.
After a beat, Dick gave a small shrug. “We handled it.”
Barbara didn’t even bother to hide her skepticism as she took in their disheveled appearances. “Well, you two don’t exactly look like you had it handled.”
Dick sighed, his shoulders sagging just a little. “Can we… do that tomorrow, please? Or another day? Just… not now, Babs.”
For a second, Barbara looked like she was about to argue, but then her expression softened in a way she only did for Dick.
“Alright,” she continued. “You want an update, or we’ll do that tomorrow?”
Dick straightened as much as he could. "Now's fine."
"The GCPD found a decent stash of weapons and cash at the theater. Enough to put a dent in Caruso’s operations." She paused. "Twenty-four of his men were killed by Harvey. Thirty-seven are in custody."
The numbers hung in the air. Tim did the math; around forty of them got away. From the way Dick tightened his lips, he'd come to the same conclusion. They’d gone in to put an end to Caruso’s operation, but almost half of his men had escaped. And that was if they were optimistic, assuming none of the men in custody would get out.
"The ones we caught aren't talking" Barbara continued. "Not about their operations, not about Caruso, or even who hired them. A couple of them just keep babbling about demons attacking them." She had a small grin, "You still know how to make an impression."
Dick's voice was grim. "What about Caruso?"
"Vanished." Barbara's expression turned serious again. "No sign of him or the lieutenants who escaped with him."
Tim could see the tension through Dick's shoulders, his knuckles tightening on the edge of the desk.
After a moment, Tim quietly asked, "And Harvey?"
He felt Dick's gaze on him, but kept his eyes on the screen. Barbara hesitated just a moment. “Critical condition. But the doctors think he’ll pull through. He’s at Gotham General for now.”
Tim let out a slow breath, not sure how he felt about that. Relief? Worry?
Barbara seemed to sense the grim mood. “That’s all for now. Take care of yourselves. Seriously.”
“Yeah,” Dick said quietly. “Thanks, Babs.”
The screen went dark. Tim glanced at Dick, whose eyes were fixed somewhere past the Batcomputer screen. This didn’t feel like a win, but they were still there. Bruised, tired, but alive.
Tim shifted slightly, trying to massage the dull throb in his shoulder. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely easy anymore.
He cleared his throat. “So… what do you think Caruso’s gonna do now?”
Dick didn’t answer immediately. “Lay low,” he said finally. “He thought Gotham was still stuck in the past. Didn’t expect us. But he’s not done. He’s too stubborn for that.”
Tim could hear the frustration in his voice. The fact that Caruso was still out there wasn’t sitting well with him. This felt like failing.
"But we drove him out," Tim offered, forcing optimism into his voice. "That's something."
Dick glanced at him. “Yeah,” he muttered, unconvinced.
Tim knew it wasn’t enough. Not for Dick. Not for this case.
Before the air became too heavy, Tim decided to change the subject.He tried to sound casual. “That theatre… It’s a pretty cool place. Never been there before.”
Dick huffed, a flicker of amusement breaking through. "Yeah. Would be cooler without the five hundred new bullet holes."
Tim grimaced, "Yeah… that's not gonna help preserve it. Kinda sad that it's just gonna rot there."
Dick went quiet, gaze drifting somewhere distant. His brow furrowed, “What if we don’t let it rot?”
“What do you mean?”
Dick shrugged, but there was a spark in his eyes. “I don’t want to give Caruso the chance to use it again.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “I mean, we found out about him being there. Why would he risk going back?”
Dick shrugged again. “He’s obsessed with symbols, and that theater was once theirs. Who knows what he'd do? One way to stop that from happening again would be to just… buy the place.”
Tim blinked. “You want to buy it?”
Dick smiled faintly. “Why not? Actors and dancers are just the cousins of clowns and trapeze artists. Kinda makes sense.”
Tim couldn’t help but chuckle. “You really can’t take the circus out of the boy, huh?”
Dick hummed. “Maybe. Just an idea. I’ll think about it.”
They fell back into silence. Eventually, they pushed themselves upright and made their way toward the elevator at a snail’s pace.
Inside, Tim slumped against the wall, his shoulder protesting as the cool metal pressed into his bruises. " I feel like I'm gonna sleep for twenty hours," he grumbled.
Dick blinked like he was processing the words through a fog. “I mean, you can. Told Alfred to let us sleep in.”
Tim let out a grateful sigh. “Oh, thank you.”
The elevator doors opened, and they managed to drag themselves down the hall, both too tired to say much. Then, just as they were about to part ways, Tim hesitated. A sudden irrational anxiety curled in his chest. Maybe the stress of the past few days was catching up to him.
“Hey…” he called, just before Dick could disappear into his room.
Dick turned, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Tim rubbed at his wrist, suddenly unsure and slightly embarrassed. “We’re… okay, right?”
For the first time that night, Dick’s smile reached his eyes. Warm, genuine, certain. "Yeah," he said softly. "We are."
Tim exhaled, a knot he hadn’t realized he’d been holding loosening in his chest. "Okay, good."
And with that, they disappeared into their respective rooms, the quiet click of closing doors signalling the end of the night.
The wind tugged at Dick’s cape as he was crouched on the edge of a rooftop. The city was alive below with headlights cutting through the fog.
Tonight wasn’t about patrol. Tonight, he was waiting for someone.
His leg ached faintly as he shifted his weight. It had been a week since the theatre raid, and the wound still pulled whenever he moved. His back, meanwhile, had turned into a charming kaleidoscope of greens and yellows. He and Tim had both been taking it easy these past few days.
The quiet gave him too much space to think. His mind wandered back to the theatre. Back to the blood and smoke and gunfire. Back to fighting for their lives, hit after hit. Back to the moment he almost saw Tim die.
Even now, that moment burned behind his eyes. The glint of the barrel. The frozen second before the shot. How Dick had been too far to reach him in time. How all he could do was shout to warn him. The way Harvey had moved.
He didn’t want to let himself think about what would’ve happened if Harvey hadn’t stepped in. But the images came anyway, especially at night.
But he had made a choice, standing in that alley. To believe in Tim.
That meant something. That belief couldn’t just be there when it was easy. It had to survive the fear and the what-ifs.
Believing in someone also meant letting go.
The fear still lingered. But he didn’t let it control him.
And then there was Caruso. Still out there. Dick had watched the cases of the arrested men stall one by one. Judges recusing themselves or dismissing charges outright.
The Falcones had been one of the names that defined Bruce’s early years as Batman. And now their legacy was slipping back into Gotham’s cracks.
Dick had failed to stop it.
What do I even tell him when he gets back?
A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision: a silhouette leaping between rooftops. Catwoman. She landed a few buildings away.
Dick pushed to his feet, his leg protesting, and launched himself after her. He landed quietly behind her.
“Evening,” he said, voice low but casual.
She turned, eyebrows arched underneath her goggles. “Still not my favorite Batman.”
Selina looked him over, arms folding across her chest. “So?” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Do you want something?”
"I owe you an update," he said, watching her carefully. "About the Falcone case."
Her eyes narrowed just slightly behind the lenses. “Why?” she asked, suspicious. “You don’t usually do me the courtesy of case briefings.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you deserve to know how it ended.”
She didn’t answer right away, but her curiosity was stronger. She leaned back against the rooftop ledge. “Alright. Go on.”
“Ever heard of Antonio Caruso?”
Selina shook her head.
Dick explained Caruso’s history. How he was Carmine’s half-brother. How he had been exiled and how he rose through the ranks of the Sicilian mob. How he tried to rebuild the Falcone operations in Gotham.
How he established his base in the theater in the Upper West Side.
Selina had been impassive until then, but that detail made her flinch. Her shoulders stiffened, and she pressed her lips together.
Dick caught it immediately. “What is it?”
She hesitated for a beat. “That place…” Her voice had lost its usual bite. “When I was a kid, I used to sneak in. They used to run ballet rehearsals during the day.” Her eyes weren’t on him anymore; they were somewhere in the dark above a stage. “For an hour or two, I was far, far away from Gotham.”
Then the mask slipped back into place. “I didn’t even know it belonged to the Falcones.” She scoffed, “Figures.”
“We shut down the operation,” Dick continued. “But Caruso got away. And most of his men are already back on the streets.”
Selina nodded,. “No one’s come sniffing around me. I doubt dear Uncle Antonio even knows I exist.”
“Probably not,” Dick agreed. “But still. Be careful.”
She waved a hand. "I told you, I can handle myself." She studied him. “You look like you want to say something. So just say it."
Dick hesitated. Selina always had her claws ready when someone tried to get too close. But the risk might be worth it.
“That theater... it meant something to you?” he asked quietly.
She looked away. “It did. A lifetime ago. But after what happened…” She trailed off. “They’ll probably just bulldoze it.”
"I'm thinking of buying it."
Selina's head snapped back. "...Excuse me?"
"To keep Caruso from using it again," Dick clarified. "And maybe... to do something with it."
The wind whistled between them. Selina's expression was unreadable.
Dick hesitated, watching Selina’s guarded posture. “I was thinking… if it does reopen, if we can make something out of it,” he said slowly, “you could be the one to oversee the programming.”
Selina went very still. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant wail of a police siren. Then she laughed in disbelief. “What?”
“Why not?” he said. “Ballet’s more your thing than mine.”
She tilted her head, lenses glinting. “Why me? Really.”
He started counting on his fingers. “One: It matters to you. That means you’d fight like hell if Caruso ever tried to take it back. Two: You told me you stole from Carmine because you were owed something. This could be your inheritance.”
He paused. “And I know you’d care more about that place than he ever did.”
Selina’s breath hitched, just barely.
He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Three... because of that night at the Gotham Opera House. Bruce had let me tag along when he took you to see Giselle. You sat with me at the bar during intermission. Said it was your favorite. Even as a kid, I could tell it meant something to you.”
Something passed over her face. Something sharp and vulnerable that wasn’t quite grief or nostalgia.
For a second, she wasn’t Catwoman. Just Selina.
Then she turned away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the rooftop. “I thought I left everything related to the Falcones behind fifteen years ago,” she muttered. “But…”
She didn’t finish her sentence.
Finally, Selina sighed. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “And… thanks.”
She stepped onto the ledge. But just before she leaped, she glanced back over her shoulder.
“That night,” she said. “It’s a good memory for me too.”
And then she was gone, disappearing into the night.
Dick stayed where he was, watching the direction she’d gone. The city below was still vast, still dysfunctional, but right now, he let himself hope.
Something good might still come out of this mess.
Tim knew it was a bad idea.
Every instinct told him to walk away. To turn back. To let this go.
But here he was. Crouched on a rooftop, the gravel crunching faintly beneath his boots, eyes locked on a room on the seventh floor of Gotham General Hospital. Harvey’s room.
He didn’t have a great view. Just enough to see that the bed was occupied. Just enough to know he shouldn’t be here.
And yet, he stayed.
His shoulder twinged as he grabbed his grappling gun, the bruises still tender. He pushed through it and swung across the gap, landing softly on the window ledge. The city buzzed distantly behind him. But in front of him, the room was still.
From this position, he could see that Harvey was alone. No guards, no nurses.
The restraints caught his eye: thick bands across his wrists, clipped to the side rail of the bed. A necessary precaution.
Tim eased the window open. Harvey didn’t move.
Unconscious or sedated. Good.
Tim dropped inside, landing as light as a shadow.
Harvey’s face was turned, the unscarred side exposed. Without the grimace, he looked peaceful.
Tim reached into his belt and pulled out the coin. He turned it between his fingers, letting the light hit the clean side and then the scarred one.
He shouldn’t do this. He knew this could blow up in his face. He knew Dick would probably disapprove. Say that it could enable Harvey. And maybe he’d be right.
Harvey had flipped this same coin to choose who lived and who died. And he would probably use it that way again. Tim didn’t doubt that.
But… Harvey had also saved his life on that stage. No hesitation.
Tim didn’t trust him. Probably never would. But that had meant something.
And Harvey wasn’t whole without that coin, not really. Tim knew there were stretches where the man couldn’t function without it. He couldn’t make decisions, couldn’t even eat. Without it, he unraveled.
Leaving him without it -- it would be cruel. Cruel in a way Tim didn’t want himself to be.
This wasn’t forgiveness. Just... acknowledgment.
Tim moved to the bedside table. There was a notepad there and a pencil. Tim stared and then picked up the pencil.
Bad decisions all around tonight.
He wrote fast, before he could second-guess himself -- From Red Robin -- and sketched a rough little version of his bird-like symbol.
He set the paper on the table and placed the coin on top.
Tim stepped back and gave Harvey one last look. Still unconscious.
Still a mystery.
Then he moved back to the window, slipped out the same way he’d come, and pulled it shut behind him.
Would this come back to haunt him? Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t.
But right now, with the night air brushing his face and the coin no longer weighing down his belt… he felt lighter.
Like something inside him had finally settled.
The sunlight poured from the tall windows of the living room in the penthouse. This was rare in Gotham. No smog, no rain. Just golden light.
Dick sat across from Bruce, holding a coffee cup. He was doing that thing again: enjoying the steam off his mug before taking a sip. Slow. Intentional. He’d always done it as far as Dick could remember, and he hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed it.
Bruce had only been gone for a couple of months. But still.
And now that he was back from the timestream, Dick kept catching himself watching for those little habits. Like going through a checklist he hadn’t known he was keeping.
They had just moved to the living room after lunch, settling into something that felt almost normal.
Tim wasn’t around today. He and Tam had gone with Tiffany Fox to City Hall. The mayor’s office had called the previous day about potential new funding for the Neon Knights, and the three of them had gone to negotiate the terms. To Dick, it seemed like a clear sign that Mayor Higuchi no longer felt threatened by Caruso’s people. After that, Tim had plans to grab lunch with Tam.
That was totally a date, no matter how much Tim denied it.
He was halfway into another sip when Bruce set his cup down.
“So,” Bruce said casually. “Tim mentioned something about the Falcones. What was that about?”
Dick froze. He blinked at Bruce. “He… did?”
Dammit, Tim.
Bruce nodded once. “Sounds like a lot happened.”
Dick had hoped to ease into this. Maybe. Eventually. Preferably not like this, with Bruce’s gaze fixed on him, awaiting a full report. And definitely not without Tim to help fill in the parts.
“It’s handled,” Dick said, too quickly.
Bruce just waited. The silence stretched, and Dick could only sigh.
“...Fine.”He rubbed his hand against his jaw. “Not sure you’re gonna like it.”
So he told him everything. Or almost everything.
He started with the initial pattern they had picked up. Then, how they suspected and confirmed this was linked to the Falcones. The moves Caruso had made. And how fast it had escalated.
He didn’t sugarcoat it. He told Bruce about the pressure, about how they’d barely been keeping pace. About the way Caruso had used symbols and legacy. How everything he did was supposed to rekindle the embers of the Falcone Empire.
But he left out the fight with Tim and their talk that followed in the basement of the Falcone estate. That was between the two of them only and for no one else. He only mentioned they had a ‘disagreement’. The way Bruce furrowed his brows told Dick he knew there was more. But he didn’t interrupt.
Dick also left out the anonymous donation that had gone to the owners of the Brew Crew café, which would hopefully help them rebuild after Caruso’s men blew it up. That part wasn’t his to share. Bruce would see the money transfer eventually when looking at his bank account. Let him discover that himself.
He finished with the raid on the theater. The bodies. The chaos. The men they’d help to arrest, and how most of them were already out.
And how Harvey had saved Tim.
When Dick finally stopped talking, the room was silent.
Bruce set his mug down slowly, deep in his thoughts. After a moment, he asked, “And Harvey?”
Of course.
Dick’s shoulders tensed. That familiar pulse of resentment pricked at his chest, sharp and old. The way Bruce never gave up on Harvey. The way he always held onto hope for him. No matter what he did.
But Dick didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not so soon after Bruce had come back. Not when things were finally quiet.
“They patched him up,” he said shortly. “He’s back in Arkham.”
Bruce didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The silence stretched between them, thick with all the things he wasn’t saying. It made Dick’s skin prickle.
He sighed, elbows resting on his knees. The defensiveness crept up before he could stop it, coating his words in something bitter.
“You don’t have to tell me I botched it,” he muttered. “I know. I’ve been replaying the whole thing in my head. Every damn decision, every -- ”
Bruce’s brows lifted slightly. “You think you botched it? Because Caruso got away?”
“Because I couldn’t keep them out!” Dick snapped, then caught himself. He exhaled. “You shut down the Falcone Empire. For good. I let them back in.”
Bruce studied him for a beat, then said calmly, “I didn’t take out the Falcones. Not really. Harvey killed Carmine. The rest tore each other apart.”
He picked up his coffee again, but didn’t drink. Just held it.
“Gotham wasn’t safe when I started,” Bruce continued. “It won’t be safe tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next month.”
His eyes found Dick’s, steady and unflinching.
“But what matters is showing up. Every night. Especially when it’s hard. You and Tim did that. You stopped Caruso. And if he tries again, we’ll be ready.”
Dick didn’t say anything.Not right away.
He wasn’t sure he believed Bruce. Not entirely. The guilt still clung to him, heavy and stubborn..
But maybe, for now, that was enough.
He let the silence stretch a moment longer, then cleared his throat.
“By the way,” he said, tone lighter now, “you’re officially the co-owner of an old abandoned theatre in the Upper West Side. Congrats.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Am I.”
Dick nodded. “Figured I’d mention it before you spotted it in the paperwork.”
There was amusement at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. “Why put down my name?”
Dick leaned back, folding his arms. “Because we both know I don’t exactly stay in one place. In two or three years, maybe I’ll be back in New York. Or try Chicago. Or... who knows. Still here, maybe.”
He paused, then added, “Tim's still finding his footing. But you’ll always be here in Gotham.” He hesitated just a beat, “Does it bother you?”
Bruce shook his head. “No. I’m alright with that.”
“That’s what I thought,” Dick said, smiling slightly.
The silence returned, easy now. Bruce’s gaze drifted toward the windows, the afternoon light warm and golden as it spilled into the room. After a moment, he got up, crossed to the glass doors, and opened them, letting a breeze of spring air flow in.
Dick followed him onto the terrace.
The city stretched beneath them, clearer than usual. No smog, fog, or rain to obstruct the view. To the west, he could see the courthouse and City Hall just beyond it. Further, in the center of Midtown, Robinson Park stretched, the glass dome of the Botanical Garden catching the light. Further still, was the Knights Dome. And beyond the river, after the Memorial bridge, Bristol, faint and familiar.
Dick leaned on the railing. The air smelled like spring and city stone warming in the sun. He could feel the slight breeze ruffle his hair.
“Not a bad view, huh?” he said quietly.
Bruce mirrored his posture, his shoulder brushing Dick’s. Warm, solid, alive.
"No," he said quietly. "Not bad at all."
They stood there for a while. Just breathing. Just watching.
Maybe this was what it meant. To look at this broken, infuriating, difficult city, and still believe in it anyway.
To still stand guard.
To still love it.
Notes:
And finished!
Thanks to all of you for reading, leaving kudos, or bookmarking.
I’m a bit sad to post this final chapter as I had fun posting every week, but I hope you enjoyed reading my little story.
I have to say that the idea of Dick buying the theatre came to me pretty late (and I had to change a couple of things to make it fit), and maybe it feels like it came a little out of left field, but it tied my themes so well that I had to put it in.
About the memory of Selina and Dick watching ballet when he was a kid, I was inspired by Catwoman (2018) #57.
So do I have plans? Maybe. I am taking a little break, but I have a couple of ideas. In particular, I have drafts of one-shots in various states (I might post one of those one-shots around Halloween). I have worked on my probable next multi-chapter fic, and it’s been really fun, but also probably going to end up pretty niche. We’ll see if something comes out of that.
Okay, see you around!
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