Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, not at all.
They’d seriously underestimated these two guys. It’s already pissing Tim off just thinking about it. He’s the planner! He’s the prepared one! How did he fuck everything up this badly!
“Three o’clock, Red Robin.” Robin’s warning cuts like a gunshot, and Tim rolls on instinct, feeling the heat of fire graze his shoulder as he ducks to the left.
The warehouse they’d found themselves in is rectangular. Most of the machinery is set up on the north side, providing ample cover, while the East has four loading decks for big trucks. The place is so extensive that it even has a south-side balcony curved around half of the perimeter. Tim has taken refuge under one of the support beams on the high deck, using the steel beam as heavy cover.
His teammates, Nightwing and Robin, have taken up their own hiding spots on the Northern ground floor. Old textile machinery provides ample cover for the time being. These past ten minutes have been a game of find cover, wait for fire, counterattack, reveal position, rinse and repeat. At least there are ample places to duck into.
From the information they’d gathered, they’d assumed these guys were the standard, run-of-the-mill, junior casters who have one fireball up their sleeve before they collapse. That’s not been the case so far.
Their techniques are sloppy, their efficiency less than optimized, their focus shaky— but their output is beyond impressive.
The taller has a love for fire, and the other a passion for deflecting their projectiles back at them. Their rate of fire has been a constant for well over ten minutes now. Something isn’t adding up.
Their inexperience should have them wreaking major damage insanely quickly before being totally shot. The proper way to handle them is to let them wear themselves out, run them down until they can hardly lift a finger.
No one is wearing down.
In the chaos, the casters have cleared a space for themselves on the east-side floor, firing in all directions as a makeshift no-birds-land.
This was supposed to be quick in and out, wrapping these guys up in neat bows for the GCPD. Their small reign of terror in Gotham’s banks would be short-lived if only any of them could get close enough to land a proper hit.
Things are heating up in here, literally. The sorcerer’s fireballs are licking the rafters and clashing into wooden walls without thought. Gone are targeted bursts; the fiery arcs are growing wider, covering more of the floor before they explode, casting out small projectiles in every direction.
Every so often, a green glint catches before fire extends, and Tim squints. It’s as if the spell is warping mid-cast before being pulled back to its original intention. These guys are simultaneously brilliant and useless at their craft.
This could get bad, really fast. His stomach drops as he spies one crashing into the wooden supports; fire licks the already charred surface. Tim can’t help but cringe as it splinters entirely. From his guess, there are other supports it can rely on for now, but for how long? “Roof is compromised, I think we might have to call it.”
“Nonsense!” Robin growls, diving between boxes to dodge another detonation of spells.
“Robin, stand down.” Nightwing, always the mediator, calls. He takes to being team lead like a fish to water. Tim is thankful he can get the gremlin to listen to reason. Most of the time. Tim might’ve strangled him a long time ago otherwise. “Red has a point. Casters might be feeding off of each other’s energy to keep it up. Our tactics are kaput. Standby for O’s ID confirmation, then withdraw. Red, stay low. Stick to movement set 2G-9. Robin, ensure we have a clear ground-floor exit.” Nightwing orders.
Tim falls flat, seeking cover from one of the bridge supports, “Copy that.” It makes sense, he should’ve clocked that sooner. The shorter, who has been opting as support for when any bird actually managed to try an attack, had been casting nonstop. Tim had assumed it to be an invisible shield of some kind, but it could’ve been a boost, an enhancement of some kind.
The casters operated back to back; it’s entirely feasible they’re taking in energy from each other to consolidate resources.
“Acknowledged.” Robin grunts.
Another blue burst erupts from the shorter, and Tim flinches back as a throwing disc lodges itself where his chest had been only moments before.
Assholes. “Give up yet?” One caster cries, flicking their arm as another arc of fire is released from their grasp. “Charred feathers won’t be a good look for you, you know.”
“Visibility sucks, nothing on my end unless someone gets in for a closer look.” Oracle chimes in.
The spell smoke sits in the air heavily, only growing as the minutes crawl forward.
“Smoke is getting dense, rebreathers, people.” Nightwing orders. “I’m heading in. Everyone, hold position, get ready to dive out of your respective windows.”
Tim clips on his rebreather, easing his anxiety momentarily as fresh air reaches his lungs. There’s nothing to do about visibility, but this is something easily controlled.
“You require cover-fire.” Robin insists, barely restrained by Nightwing’s orders.
“Flying solo for this one, no grouping up. Draw fire to the West, wait for every fourth burst to attack. That’s their refocus time.”
Tim nods, putting the info to memory. He shifts his feet, unthinking, but is surprised by the ominous groan the bridge emits. He pauses, focus redirected to the metal he’s standing on. As a test, he nudges one of the supports with his staff, face falling as three bolts dislodge. Turning to dust when they hit the floor below.
One of the sorcerers’ spells must’ve gone astray. Fuck.
There’s no time to grapple with the sudden sinking in his stomach, the immediate cotton that’s stuffed in his mouth. He turns heel and runs, hair raising as another arc of heat fires over his head. The Western exit door to the stairs is roughly 60 feet away, he’d been forced back in the fight. The only con being that the stairs don’t lead outside the warehouse; they only lead to the ground floor. Within direct sight of the casters.
“Priority one, balcony is about to fail.“ He doesn’t have a visual on the other two yet; he just has to trust they’ll be fine until his boots can hit actual ground.
“Copy. Get off of there, Red.” Nightwing acknowledges, switching tact, “Robin, cover-fire is your priority one until he’s beside you. Then withdraw—”
“—No, you’re not out of fire,” Robin calls, uncompromising as always.
“Robin.“
The bridge groans, creaking under the strain of holding itself up. Tim’s feet thunder down on it, and he cringes every time it wails. The door is almost within reach, the stairs nearly accessible.
“Surrender now, birdies, I promise to make your deaths swift.” The magic user croons, hurtling another spell. It’s exactly what Tim feared, the spell slams into the supports—
—and with a harsh shriek, the entire structure shudders. Bolts shearing off in sharp screams. The railing holding on dutifully even as the floor begins to tilt sideways.
“GET BACK!” Tim cries out, hoping against hope his team hears him over the screeching metal.
Tim loses his footing as the metal framework dips, crashing into the metal handrail shoulder-first before adjusting with a gasp. He twists, firing his grapple out of muscle memory, tensing for failure as he plummets downward.
The line catches. And his arm feels like it’s almost yanked out of socket as the line goes taught. He swings— just a moment before the bridge fully collapses in an explosion of shrapnel and dust.
He hauls himself on top of the rafter, gasping from strain. Lying on his stomach to prevent himself from being shaken off as the whole warehouse rumbles and cries out under the stress.
When it’s over, a thicker cloud of debris hangs over the mangled aftermath, illuminated by colorful bursts of light and the glint of metal. Tim peeks over his beam, now positioned centerstage above the warehouse floor.
Spells are still rocketing off while the magic users cackle, protected by a glowing shield. It pulses, before shattering like fine glass. The shorter drops it with a roll of their shoulders. Still standing, that won’t do, especially when Tim doesn’t have eyes on the others.
“Rolecall.” Nightwing’s voice snaps over comms, unable to curb the sharp edge from his voice. Rolecall, something B had started the moment his two-man crusade had occasionally started to include three or more. It’s something hardwired into every bat-aligned vigilante in Gotham.
Tim can’t see his team lead, but he presumably got out of the way, unscathed. He imagines the ID scan directive is a bust. His older brother will want nothing more than to get out of here as soon as possible.
He wipes the dust from his lenses. “Red Robin, standing. Found a perch in the rafters.” Tim uses the moment to peer down, finding the hunched figure of his older brother. He’s been pushed further North in the chaos, taking cover behind half-smashed machinery. There’s no Robin at his side.
The other reply, which should be near instantaneous, is silent. Tim feels his mouth go dry.
“Robin. Rolecall.” Nightwing calls again, that edge sharpening. Tim knows better than anyone that Dick can’t stand to see his baby Robin in danger. He doesn’t need to have O’s vital screens to know that his brother’s heartbeat is already spiking.
“Blue, I can’t see him,” Tim replies, breathless as hot fire just barely misses the rafter beside him. These guys are way too good at keeping them under constant fire.
The silence stretches, broken by the grinding of metal, creaking of wood, and crackling of fire. The smoke is getting thicker by the moment, and visibility is getting worse. His rebreather is still fixed firmly to his face, thank god.
The line opens back up with a pulse of static.
“Robin, acknowledging.” The kid’s voice is stretched and drawn out. Tim knows he’s hurt before he can speak further. “My leg is caught. I can’t— Nightwing, I require you. West-side.” It’s the closest he can probably get to admitting he’s in immediate danger.
From Tim’s bird’s eye view, he finally catches a look at the immediate response.
Nightwing vaults over a metal debris pile, “Responding. Red, give me some time.”
“Copy.”
From Tim’s obscured view, he can see Nightwing ease over another obstacle. Avoiding spell-fire with an array of slides and rolls, only the renowned acrobat could pull off. He weaves through all of it like choreography. Perfectly executed.
With the sudden movement, both magic users turn their full attention to the man, giving Tim his chance to roll over, hucking a smoke bomb in the midst of the eastern-side duo. It explodes, erupting in a cloud of dense gray.
Sure, it messes up his team’s visibility, but it’s not like any of them have had much these past few minutes anyway. The best it offers is a few seconds' respite from the magical onslaught. Tim completes his plan by hooking his grapple to the rafter and letting himself fall, landing dead-center of the room before dashing to the closest cover, unfortunately southward.
“I have eyes on him.” Nightwing cuts in, but Tim can’t spot him from his position. “Any word on backup, O?”
“Not coming. The others are twenty minutes out.” Oracle’s terse voice replies.
Tim’s stomach sinks. “N, you got him?”
“Yeah. I’m—“ there’s a short breath and a grunt. “Fuck, this is heavy. Are you close?”
“Nope, just consider me en route. Visibility is in the negatives.”
At his word, there’s a sharp whistle from across the warehouse, and a gust of wind explodes, tearing apart the smoke to reveal the magic users. “Too many tricks for our taste. How about we all come on out, little birds?”
“Red, I want you on them.”
“You got it, boss,” Tim vaults over from his hiding place into the clear area in front of the duo. “Hey guys, how’ve your days been? I’ve definitely had better.”
He stays moving after catching their attention, weaving through bridge and machinery debris as tangled colors fire after him. This game of mouse could almost be fun, if the cats weren’t currently trying to burn him alive.
Tim’s lungs burn as he ducks under another toppled support beam, the sound of spellfire cracking at his heels. The collapsed bridge is proving pretty handy for cover, solid for covering them when dodging trigger-happy magic users. Less handy when you consider that Robin is still trapped.
He risks a glance across the wreckage. Just barely catching sight of the two struggling. Their cover consists of a metal amalgamation of bridge deck, folded over perfectly to obscure them from the casters’ view. Nightwing is kneeling beside a prone Robin, working on clearing the metal engulfing his lower half. They’re too far for Tim to catch their words, but their movements say enough. This could get bad, fast.
It’s as if he’s manifested their miserable luck. Tim watches one caster’s green-tinged spell tumble out of control, spiralling off into the warehouse. They let loose a sigh of frustration as it tears north instead of at Tim’s west-side progress.
Its streak of violent green rips across the warehouse, striking the debris protecting Nightwing and Robin. The explosion is instantaneous. The entire heap detonates into a clash of metal, wood, and masonry, the shockwave rattling Tim’s bones even from across the room. When the smoke thins from the burst, they’re suddenly visible, no cover left at all.
Both spellcasters laugh, disbelieving, overjoyed. Eyes directed to the grounded birds, Tim forgotten for now. Fire gathers around the taller’s hand.
There’s no time.
Tim doesn’t think; he dives into view, coming out of a roll to flick a disc. The tiny projectile slices across the space and strikes the caster squarely at the wrist. The shorter is too slow to pull up a shield.
Their yelp is sharp and startled, and they flick their wrist in a moment that relinquishes their hold on the flames engulfing their hand. The spell is released into the space between the two, entirely uncontrolled.
Shit.
The spell falters in air, jerking violently— and then it warps. Fire twists into something else entirely, its colors flickering wrong, its shape pulsing like it's about to explode. Ah, so that’s what it is. Wild magic.
And Tim knows its target hasn’t changed. Robin, still pinned and unable to move, tries to lift his head, mask unable to cover his grimace, his acceptance.
He doesn’t have to accept anything for long.
Nightwing acts first. A blur of blue and black lunges forward, hurling himself between the blast and Robin with arms braced over his face.
“DON’T—!” The word tears from Tim’s throat, too late.
Wild magic slams into Nightwing dead-on, erupting in green light that swallows him whole.
When the spell sputters and dies, it reveals his crumpled form. For a breath, the warehouse goes dead quiet.
The casters stare, eyes wide, as if they can’t believe they’d actually landed a hit.
A pause is all it takes.
Metal shifts behind the ruined debris pile. There’s a soft groan, then a biting yell— then Robin explodes out from under the twisted beam pinning him down. His knee buckles, and he catches himself on the debris, coughing. Nightwing still lies prone at his feet. Tim’s view is obscured by the smoke; he can’t tell if he’s breathing.
“Red Robin,” the boy curdles. “Get him out of here, or I’ll have your head.”
Tim can feel his breath hitch. A comeback heavy on his tongue, but it wouldn’t do. Not when their mediator is down. “That’s— I’m closer to the casters.”
“And yet,” Robin snaps, “I’m the one with their attention.” The boy draws himself to full height. His cape is torn, his hair slicked back with dust. Blood runs down his torn pant leg. Nonetheless, his jaw sets, and Damian Wayne Al Ghul snaps out a quiet, “Move.”
“Copy that.”
Tim doesn’t hear Robin’s attack, only the sharp scream of the after. He whirls through the warehouse, leaping over crates and scrambling to edge past machines while the casters’ attention is held.
There’s a crash as more debris topples, scattering more dust and smoke. It’s getting almost unmanageable now. A retreat is the only card they have left to play. He should call in O for her to look into Dick’s vitals, but he’s not sure he wants the answer right now.
Crashing spells are present, but they lack the rhythm of before. As they slam into the environment, it’s pure panic. The high of a hit and the consequences of said hit have thrown them off balance.
If only this had happened sooner, Tim curses. He doesn’t break pace, focusing on his downed teammate as he slides on the battered floor. The smoke is so bad he can hardly make out his downed form, but he spots the bright blue of the costume among the mangled metal and masonry.
Upon reaching Nightwing’s side, he’s crashing to his knees.
“Oh, what the fuck.”
It’s been a quiet night at the manor. Hopelessly silent, refusing to even let the sound of the wind through its tall windows.
Jason used to find comfort in the silence. It was always a welcome change to the wild nature of being Robin. Time in the manor was spent as a way to decompress, to relax. To shift from gunfights and constant motion to a warm blanket and a cup of tea. It was always a good time to open a book and to know that you wouldn’t be disturbed.
Now, it sets him on edge. The silence is perfectly curated. Grating on every inch of his skin. He can feel his fingers twitch at his sides, preventing him from releasing the tension in his arms. Silence leads to thinking, and thinking is when things get really, really loud.
The infirmary is bleakly lit, only a small table-top lamp illuminating the white walls. Highlighting the steam rising from his still-warm tea, Alfred had provided earlier. The light had been off, but Jason quickly realized that if he woke up, not immediately recognizing his surroundings in the dark, there might be some unintended carnage.
Technically, he could leave, instead of trying to nap with the lights on like a five-year-old; the door is unlocked. But it’s a trap. His warden is only three doors down, and if he so wished, he could sweep down on Jason before he could turn the handle.
Alfred is a hardass, truth to be told. Even as the years go on, he’s never lost that quality.
Being a prisoner isn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Being trapped in this goddamn ‘family’ isn’t new. No matter what he tries, he somehow finds himself stuck at square one.
Bruce has a compulsive need to keep him within arm's reach, always worried Jason is going to finally snap one of these days. It’s been more than once that Jason had come back to awareness, green receding from his vision, to find his face being ground into the dirt with Bruce holding him down. Waiting for him to stop thrashing.
Sure, maybe the green is a problem. But it’s well-known, and Jason has his own ways of handling it. It’s been getting better with time; the episodes are shorter, and the span of time between them grows longer.
Nevertheless, when there is an episode, Bruce will be there. Every. Single. Time. It doesn’t matter whether he’s in his apartment or on mission; he’ll come back from the green with his father standing over him. The older man will draw back only when Jason tells him to fuck off, holding back tears through willpower alone.
Bruce will sit there, silent, as Jason gets his bearings. The shadow Jason will never be rid of. And every time, Jason has to be the one to leave, no matter what he yells or threatens. He has to be the one to retreat because Batman will stand there and take it all silently. Disappointment digging into Jason’s shoulder blades like a knife.
The man can’t seem to speak unless they’re on a mission together. And even that brings out only the barest of essential sentences. ‘Remember your training.’ ‘Stick to the plan.’ ‘Did you remember to load rubber ammunition?’ All with that trademark Batman tone.
Last night, Jason had grown so pissed off that he’d gotten sloppy and found himself bleeding out on a rooftop in the financial district. As expected, Bruce was there, abandoning the others to haul his squirming ass into the Batmobile and dropping him at Alfred’s door for ‘mandatory medical care.’ If Jason had been more present, he probably would’ve shot the man.
He should really stop accepting mission invites; they never end in anything less than a full-blown argument. Still, he keeps accepting them, even if he tells himself he won’t. Technically, none are really directed at him. Rare is it for the family to ask for him directly. Most often, he’s just included in the long list of contacts for when the bats get into deep shit.
Jason checks the message line regularly. Telling himself it’s just because he likes seeing their mistakes. It’s a self-soothing lie. It’s awful to consider he’s waiting to be called up. Like everything else is just on standby. Why can’t he escape this fucking family?
His comm crackles to life, upheaving the silence.
“Heyy, this is Red Robin to everyone. Figured I’d better get you all in on this. We have a situation, we’re going to need to set up the standard search protocols. Gotham-wide.”
It’s the first time tonight. Normally, he’s not welcome in everyday bat activities. He could hack it, but he doesn’t give a shit most of the time, especially for a mission with Dickhead, Red Robin, the restaurant, and the baby assassin. It had been a last-minute thing. Goldie had come into town unannounced earlier that day, grinning that stupid smile, and suddenly, he was team lead.
Bruce’s perfect son. Batman’s perfect protégé.
“Are the casters down? You have an open backup request still.” Bruce’s voice is clipped; it always gets clipped when protocol can’t be followed to a perfect T. Asshole.
“Both downed. I’ll make sure they get into the right hands.”
Tim coughs; he sounds ragged. Worn out around the edges. Whoever could’ve guessed that a team with Robins three and five could’ve gone wrong?
“I want a full rundown, from all three of you,” Bruce remarks. It’s flat. Tone-deaf. Full Bat-mode.
“That might be a problem.” The third Robin mutters.
It draws a small laugh from him as he sits up further. The little birds really fucked up. This’ll be good.
“What?”
Damian enters the call with a sigh. “Tt. He’s being foolish, Father. We need to locate Nightwing. He was hit by a spellcaster and— stop bleeding, Red Robin, it’s distracting. It’s only a broken nose.”
In the background of his communicator, a muffled and static voice can be heard. “—Third one this year! Leave me be!”
“What’s wrong with N?” Oracle chimes in, sharp and to the point. She really doesn’t mess around when it comes to downed team members. When no answer comes, she supplies a quiet, “Vitals are offline. Trackers are unmoving.”
Jason’s eyes narrow. Perfect Dick Grayson ran into a spot of trouble, did he? No wonder the whole cavalry is being called in. Maybe Gotham’s next in line to receive the Chemo treatment. He sighs, scowling as fire races down his side again.
When Boy Perfect does fuck up, he fucks up on a monumental scale. And he’s still perfect after that. Somehow.
Tim clears his throat. “He probably ditched all of it. I’ll debrief at the cave. Rendezvous in ten if you can.”
Jason scoffs. Dumbasses.
Fifteen minutes later, Jason drags himself through the manor. Content to find that Alfred has abandoned his post. He slips into the cave entrance with a swallowed grimace. Half-wincing as his side flares in pain. He can still taste iron on his tongue, the faint feeling of fire dancing around the wound.
He’s taken enough painkillers to at least dull the feeling; he wishes he could drown it.
Everyone is already there. Really, the whole family. All of them just as fascinated by this situation as him. All in costume, pulled from their respective patrols. Gathered in a loose semicircle around Red Robin, holding a tissue to his newly reset nose. He’s pacing back and forth, like working a lever to get the cogs in his mind working a little faster. Like the missing bird might crawl up from the floorboards if he twists the puzzle just right.
No one comments as Jason joins the edge of the fray, but he catches an eyebrow lift from Steph, Tim’s tightening jaw, and even Cass’s eyes cracking open from across the room against the wall. Jason can’t help but look away.
“Okay—” Tim clears his throat, squaring himself in the group, “thanks for coming. Sorry about the… uniqueness of this call.”
Damian stands beside his father, arms crossed and shoulders reaching his ears in clear irritation. Looking like a furious cat. To be fair, Jason’s not sure if he’s ever not irritated. Much like cats.
“Give your report, Drake. We’re wasting time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Tim straightens, addressing the room. Mostly Bruce. “Mission tonight went sideways.”
That earns a sharp scoff from him.
Obviously.
There’s a black and blue idiot they’re missing.
Tim continues, “Robin, Nightwing, and I were called in to bring down two spellcasters. We tracked them to the warehouse on 36th and Henry and quickly got into a fight. I took the high ground on a balcony while Robin and Nightwing stayed low. The short version is that the balcony collapsed and Robin got trapped beneath it.”
It’s always a warehouse, isn’t it? It’s a Wayne tradition at this point.
“They were pinning us down pretty heavily. I was a distraction for Nightwing to get to Robin. Nightwing took a full hit for him, wild magic, and went down.”
Jason’s eyes narrow further. It reeks of that staple Grayson bravado. Save a baby bird. Sure. As if it’ll make up for the actual dead birds.
Tim presses a fresh tissue to his face, discarding the other on a growing pile in the trash. “Robin broke free and attacked the casters while I went to check on Nightwing. And it— well, I guess it wasn't Nightwing I found, so much as Robin.”
Damian’s scowl deepens. Shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“I can’t tell you how old he looked, just that he was younger than me.” Tim sniffs, scrunching his brow. “He woke up pretty confused, more so when Robin returned. That’s when he freaked out.. hit me, and tried to start a fight.” His eyes flick down as he says it, Jason can’t help but grin. Never meet your heroes.
“When we wouldn’t, he ran. He asked… some questions. Or screamed them, but honestly, it was pretty much incoherent. We gave chase, but he lost us pretty quick. He’s fast.”
It at least explains the broken nose. Ah, how Jason missed a freak out from the older. The others don’t know the man like he does. They don’t remember the venom their older brother holds at his core.
And they all think Jason’s the asshole. They don’t know the half of it.
“He didn’t recognize you?” Bruce inquires, brow scrunched remarkably similar to Tim’s. He settles a hand onto his youngest’s shoulder. Damian stills under the contact. The child reprimanded for the time being.
Jason would think the man would be overjoyed; he might’ve just gotten the one thing he’s always trying to get back. His first Robin. The only success in the fucking family.
“Nope. I took off my mask to try to help him out, but it didn’t, clearly.” He exchanges the tissue for a new one.
“Not just a physical age spell then.” Barbara rolls forward, taking over the bat-computer. Already brushing against the keyboard in swift keystrokes. “Could we guess he’s mentally regressed as well?”
Bruce joins her, leaving the group behind to study the security feeds filling the screen. Likely those closest to the warehouse. “We assume everything because we plan for everything.“We need to track him down.”
“He’s eight.” Steph leans forward, arms crossed, “How hard can it be?”
“He was older.” Damian snaps, voice sharp. Steph glares back.
Bruce doesn’t turn back to chide her, but the tone is there. “Dick has always been good at navigating Gotham; if he is out of time, so to speak, he’ll be disoriented. But able to adapt quickly. It’s what he’s trained to do.”
Jason snorts, “Just had to tack that on there, didn’t you?” God forbid he doesn’t try and force boy perfect’s expectations on them all again. Dick really had to go and set the bar in the clouds, didn’t he?
“I can find him,” Barbara interrupts, the computer screen already filled with camera feeds. No baby bird to speak of, though. “Even present-day Dick can’t escape my eyes in the city.”
“Set up a search, focus on Northern Gotham, by the warehouse.” The big bat directs. “I’ll send you facial recognition scans from ages 15 to 18. I only have photographs for ages 9 through 14.”
She waves a flippant hand. “I’ll make do. Send them over.”
“Babs can’t get that set up instantly; we need boots on the ground,” Tim argues.
Steph huffs again, splaying out her hands dramatically. “Sorry, guess I’m not following. Why hasn’t he come back to the cave yet?”
“Because he’s a petty fucker with daddy issues,” his side flares, shifting his weight to cover the wince. “I thought everyone knew this by now.”
“Jason, chill. I'm not the one you're mad at.” Stephanie just rolls her eyes.
He shrugs, scowling as his side throbs. “I answered your question, blondie.”
Bruce interjects, “Jason has a point, based on his behavior, and likely the introduction to two robins, it seems unlikely he’ll come to the cave. Whether from distrust of me or general paranoia.”
“He’s probably already running for Titans Tower,” Jason notes.
“No,” Cass says, pushing off the wall she’d been leaning against. “He's wary, angry, but not running.” She really is a mind reader. She hasn’t even seen the kid yet and knows everything about him.
Bruce grunts. “I agree, he’ll want answers. In that case,” he points between them, “me, Spoiler, Signal and Red Hood will be on standard patrol routes. Black bat, red robin and robin, stay here. I expect written reports from both of you, after, contact Zatanna. Cassie, ensure no unauthorized entry.”
“Spoiler, Signal, Red Hood, and I, old man.” Jason corrects. “I’m included in this?” He adds before receiving a kick from Damian.
It’s a surprising development. He would’ve thought Bruce would keep him prisoner for the week. Unless.. He already knew Jason planned on escaping tonight anyway.
This is just another way to keep an eye on him.
“You’re benching us?” Damian hisses.
Jason can’t help but engage. The baby bat is so easy to rile. “Sorry, kid. You’ll be missing out. Who doesn’t want to get a good look at Bruce’s golden boy in his emo era?”
Bruce ignores him. “Those who knew him when he was younger are best to take up the frontlines, son.”
“I know Grayson better than anyone else here,” Damian insists, taking a step toward his father. As if intimidation will get him any farther in this conversation.
Bruce only shakes his head. “Not right now. What he does know, is your costume. And yours, Tim.”
“Robin on Robin violence, oh my,” Jason mutters. He knows he’s being annoying, he’s grating everyone with his presence. If they’re going to insist on keeping him around, he’s going to make their lives a little harder. Maybe then he’ll finally be able to leave this place and not have his gaze flitting back.
Everyone’s glares burrow into his head. He welcomes it. It’s easier to handle than anything else.
Damian is already refusing, hands curling into small fists. “I won’t stay here. I’m Robin.”
“That’s exactly why you should stay here.” Tim tries.
The youngest rounds on him, “shut up, Drake,” shoving a pointed finger into the older’s chest. “Tend to your nose.”
“Red is right. That R on your chest will only earn you a right hook.”
“We don’t know that for 100% certainty,” Bruce says quietly.
“Yeah, well. I know it for 75%. Dickhead barely let me wear it at the beginning.”
“It’s best if you stay here, chum.” Bruce pats his son’s shoulder. “And Cass, I’m afraid your costume is too close to mine. I think you're best suited to watch the boys.”
Cass nods, ruffling Damian and Tim’s hair at the same time. Both boys sigh, glaring at each other with hatred in their eyes.
“And Jason. Use the domino.”
“Excuse you?”
“He may not take your helmet kindly, depending on his age.”
Jason grunts. Unable to argue on that front.
“That just sounds like a risk. Why let him go?” Tim asks, more confused than anything.
“You fucking—”
“—Because,” Bruce cuts across him, “like I already explained, he’s known Dick the longest out of any of you. It’s an asset in case of a worst-case scenario.”
“Technically, I knew him first, but yeah. Whatever. I’m compromised,” Tim mutters.
Jason pushes off the wall. “If we’re done arguing about my competence, let’s go. Go enact your secret part of the plan, old man.”
Steph sighs. “I’ll go wake up Duke. Did no one seriously think about that before adding him to the plan?”
Bruce blinks. The only sign of embarrassment the man possesses. “I.. will go do that. Right now.”
The group watches him slink upstairs before breaking into their respective groups with soft sighs and furtive glances.