Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Robin was dead.

Robin was dead and Tim was pretty sure Batman would be soon.

It wasn’t exactly public knowledge, just gossip and speculation, but Tim had more reason to believe the rumours than most.

He’d followed Batman and Robin since he was nine, always keeping to the shadows to avoid being noticed. Snapping the occasional shot with his camera, but other than that avoiding all interaction. It wasn’t dangerous, or at least Tim didn’t see it as dangerous, he could handle himself. He’d had a nanny until his seventh birthday, and then he’d been the one to care for himself. It wasn’t neglect, not in Tim’s mind, it meant he could do what he wanted and he was happier without his parents anyway.

Tim wondered if his father would get as angry as Bruce was if Tim died.

Probably not.

Except that seemed to be the case with Batman. Robin had disappeared and the older man was now full of raw rage and bitter fury. Tim was worried if he didn’t get himself together soon he’d lose the GCPD’s support and then the hunt for Gotham’s bat would be reconfigured.

But following Batman on his patrols wasn’t Tim’s only secret, and it certainly wasn’t his biggest. At first, it had just been a theory, but as the years passed Tim became more certain; that Bruce Wayne was Batman. It made sense, the billionaire could afford all the gadgets and he was supposedly on skiing trips where he’d often sustain injuries.

So, Tim was about to do the most ridiculous thing so far in his fourteen years of existence; he was about to go get Batman a Robin. The vigilante needed someone to ground him as Robin had else Batman would spiral too far.

That was why he stood before the door of Wayne Manor, attempting to muster the courage required to knock and alert the household of his presence. He couldn’t turn back now, even if the butler hadn’t opened the gates for him over the intercom, Bruce’s being Batman would mean several security features would be aware of Tim’s presence.

The door was ornate and beautiful, fashioned of dark oak, but it seemed to be mocking Tim. Both taunting him and daring him to knock.

Tim could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a caged bird… like a caged Robin.

He took in a deep breath, raised his hand, and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

For a moment, there was silence, and Tim wondered if he could leave and just come up with a convincing excuse in case Bruce ever mentioned his presence at a future gala.

But then he heard the soft click of the lock disengaging, and the door creaked open.

The man before him reminded Tim of his parents in terms of his distinguished posture and polished appearance, but in all other ways, he was different. First, he was older, with smile crinkles on either side of his lips and silver hair neatly groomed back. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, complete with a crisp white shirt and a neatly knotted tie. But the main difference between the butler and Tim’s parents was his eyes, the way they were warm and kind.

"Timothy Drake," The butler greeted him. “I’m sure Master Bruce will find your presence a pleasant surprise.”

Tim nodded politely, “Thank you, Sir. I have something important he needs to hear.”

The butler gestured for Tim to follow him down the hall, “Please, call me Alfred.”

Tim’s parents had money, but nowhere near as much as Bruce Wayne. Tim tried not to look too awestruck by the polished marble floors, colossal paintings, and ancient antiques as he followed Alfred. His parents had told him boys with standards shouldn’t be swayed by such displays of grander, doing so would only make him appear cheap.

Finally, they reached the study. Alfred knocked on the door and then proceeded to open it when there was a singular grunt from inside.

Bruce Wayne slouched against a vast desk; the surface covered in files thrown open with their documents spewing out. He wasn’t wearing his gear, as expected, just a charcoal grey turtleneck that matched the colour under his eyes. His hair looked in desperate need of a cut and hung limply before his eyes.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said, his voice suddenly grave. "Timothy Drake is here to see you."

Bruce glanced up; his expression slightly startled as if he’d only just noticed Tim. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times in an attempt to look more awake before straightening in his chair.

"Timothy? Would I be correct in assuming your visit regards the Drake corporation?” Bruce asked, closing the nearest file to him.

“Actually, I was here to discuss…” He looked from Bruce to Alfred, “A different form of business.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Tim couldn’t tell if it was due to suspicion or the evident lack of sleep. He’d seen Bruce in action as Batman and seen Brucie Wayne dressed up and presentable for galas, but never seen the in-between stage. Just… Bruce.

He supposed the reason for the older man’s dishevelled state may have been Robin, which was why he was here. Not that he wanted the reminder of how badly the man was coping, all it did was fracture his heart a little more.

“Alfred, would you be so kind as to prepare us some tea whilst Timothy and I talk?” Bruce asked.

The butler nodded before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

“I came here to talk.” Tim said after the door clicked shut, “But I think it may be better if I show you.”

He drew his satchel off his shoulder and unclasped it, pulling out a file. It was a copy of many others stashed below the flooring in his bedroom which displayed his work on Batman from the last three years; photos, news articles, and eyewitness accounts.

Tim pulled several photos out and looked at the messy table.

Bruce quickly grabbed the documents, shoving them into their files and stacking them to the side so he’d have space.

Tim’s hands began to tremble as he waited, the photos shaking in his grip.

Once it was clear Tim set them down so they were facing Bruce and quickly sat on his hands to disguise the shaking.

“What is this?” Bruce asked after a moment's silence.

“It’s Batman and Robin,” Tim replied, matter-of-factly.

“I see that.” Bruce said, pulling one of the photos closer to him and affectionately traced over the shape of Robin with his thumb, “I meant why are you showing me?”

Tim took a deep breath before speaking, “I know you’re Batman.”

Bruce’s gaze shot up from the photo to Tim. In his credit, he remained completely unfazed, simply raising an eyebrow in mock confusion.

“I know you’re Batman because I know Dick Grayson was Robin, and now is Nightwing.” Tim continued, “I was at Haley’s circus when… I saw him perform and the way he moved was unique, except it wasn’t because Robin moved in the same way.”

“So Robin had acrobatic training.” Bruce said, pushing the photo away as though it had burnt him, “But it’s non sequitur to assume he must therefore be my son.”

“On the contrary,” Tim leaned forward in his chair, excited by the prospect of a debate seeing it was the one form of conversation he was good at, “It is a valid inference. Especially considering the frequent injuries reported on his school medical forms, the coincidence in the timing of the first Robin’s disappearance and Mr Grayson leaving Gotham, plus the fact that Nightwing, another vignette who moves as Grayson did, lives in Bludhaven just like he does.”

“That's nothing more than circumstantial evidence. I see why you may have reached your conclusion, but I am afraid to inform you it is incorrect."

Tim's brow furrowed. He didn’t come this far just to have Bruce gaslight him into doubting himself.

“Mr. Wayne," Tim began, trying to keep his voice steady, "My argument may be circumstantial, but so is the science works Wayne tech works off, and the same with Batman's. It's all based on empirical evidence and patterns.”

For a split second, Tim thought Bruce had smiled in response, but the twist of his lips vanished as fast as it had appeared.

“I came here to offer you - to offer Batman - a proposition.” Tim leaned back and crossed his arms, “But if you won’t admit it then I suppose I will have to track you down whilst on patrol and offer my proposition to you then.”

“What makes you think you’d successfully locate Batman?” Bruce asked, his expression set as a hard frown.

“How do you think I acquired those photos?” Tim asked, collecting them from the table and slipping them back into his satchel, “I took them myself.”

Bruce sighed, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Gotham’s streets are no place for a child."

“I've been doing it for years, Mr. Wayne. I know how to handle myself." Tim replied with a shrug.

Bruce regarded Tim thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again. "Let's entertain your proposition. What exactly do you have in mind?"

Tim grinned.

Bruce hadn’t said it word for word, but he may as well have just admitted to being Batman.

Tim straightened, doing his best to appear confident, “Batman… Batman needs a Robin, or at least someone to keep him grounded. Seeing as I already know, I mean seeing as I had the intellect to work it out, I was thinking –”

“No.” Bruce interrupted him, “You’re just a child. You can’t become Robin.”

“I’m older than Mr Grayson was when he started, and older than Mr…” Tim trailed off.

Todd, He thought, I’m older than Jason Todd. Your deceased son. The one who died on the job.

“You’re just a child.” Bruce said gruffly through gritted teeth, “Go home and read, or play on your Xbox, or whatever it is kids your age do. But this - crime - it’s not yours to deal with, and neither is Batman.”

Before Tim could respond the door was opened by Alfred with a silver tray.

“Your tea Sir,” He said, placing it on the table before Tim, “I took the liberty of adding some biscuits.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said. "But Timothy will be leaving now."

Tim's heart sank at the dismissal. He wanted to continue arguing his case and convince Bruce he needed a Robin, he needed Tim. But he couldn’t be certain how much the butler knew which meant it would be foolish to mention anything now. Besides, he didn’t know how to argue with a grieving man.

Tim stood, fastening his satchel closed, but he made sure to leave the one Bruce had specifically looked at down-turned on the table. He hoped Bruce didn’t read it as a reminder of his threat, but rather an act of kindness. He wasn’t sure how many photos of Jason Bruce had but he doubted there were any of him as Robin.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne," Tim said, trying not to let his voice crack from disappointment. "I can assure you I won’t ever repeat what we discussed today.”

Bruce didn’t reply, he just glared down at the desk, not even looking up when Tim followed Alfred out the door.

Tim hadn’t intended to go out that night, not after being rejected by Bruce, but after staring at the same case files of an unsolved murder for four hours and getting nowhere he decided he needed to clear his head. The plan hadn’t even been to find Batman, just to get some fresh air (or not so fresh seeing as it was Gotham).

Of course, after all the times he’d had to carefully locate the bat, it was the one time Tim wasn’t looking he stumbled into him by accident.

There was a loud clang down the street from him. It wasn’t anything unusual, Gotham was a noisy city and there were always loads of crimes being committed at one given moment. But there was another clang and another, and the sound of glass smashing swiftly followed by a high-pitched shriek.

Tim pulled the hood of his jacket over his head. It was a dark grey that blended into the sombre architecture which he’d bought second-hand in a shop in the narrows. It may have been too big and patched in some places, but the size meant it hid his face well and the scruffiness meant it allowed him to integrate with the Gotham Street thugs.

Running to the edge of the road he peered around the corner building to get a view of the adjoining street.

He was just in time to see Batman slam his fist into a broad-chested figure. They stumbled back slightly, but it wasn’t a victory because the moment they did two others were diving for his back. Batman leaned forward, attempting to shake them off like a wild animal.

Batman kicked the mobster in front of him in the teeth with such force Tim could hear the cracking sound from where he hid. The mobster fell backwards, blood spluttering from his mouth.

In a flash Batman was moving again, grabbing one of the thugs on his back and slamming them into the floor. He did the same with the second, then lowered himself so his knee was pressed into their stomach as he began to repetitively punch their face.

Tim winced.

All three men were down.

They were incapacitated.

They weren’t even that important, just some low-level thugs, but pretty soon they’d be behind bars in a full caste.

Just like the Joker.

Tim took in a deep breath. Bruce was just angry, angry about Jason’s death, angry with himself, angry with anyone who dared cross him. Tim didn’t blame him for the way the grief expressed itself in violence, but that didn’t mean he condoned it.

So he did his second stupid act of the day and stepped into the alley.

It was even more concerning that Batman didn’t notice him till he was standing about a metre away, but the moment he did he intuitively spun and lunged at Tim’s legs before checking who he was. Tim was knocked to the floor, his head hitting the pavement with a crack. It was as though the air just… left, leaving him panting and limp from fear.

“You.” Batman growled, “I told you no.”

“You need help.” Tim gasped.

“You’re a child.” Batman growled, “You’d just be another dead weight.”

Tim's breath caught at the way Batman said the words 'dead weight' as though he despised the idea of a child soldier.

“Jason was-“

“Shut up.” Batman snapped, taking a step away from Tim. “Go home before I call your parents to come and collect you.”

“They’re not-“

“I don’t care.” Batman interrupted again. “I assume they don’t know about your reckless escapades, but I promise you, if I ever see you out here again I’ll make sure they know every last detail.”

Tim felt a shiver creeping down his spine. It shouldn’t have hurt this much, not when he’d attempted to blackmail Bruce earlier that day or when Batman didn’t even know the weight his words carried, but that didn’t numb the sting.

Bruce was willing to call his parents, and whilst they were currently out of the country, Tim expected they wouldn’t hesitate to punish him when they returned. They talked to him little enough as it was, he couldn’t stomach their disapproving stares any more than he already did.

“Okay.” The word was barely audible, just a pathetic whisper that was certainly not befitting a Robin. “I’m sorry.”

Batman didn’t reply, but simply turned his back on Tim and began to zip-tie the first thug’s wrists.

Tim did return to Gotham after dark many times over the next five years, but it was never to take photos.

Tim had known when all this started that he couldn’t risk his parents finding out, but he also couldn’t risk what would happen to Gotham if its only vigilante was a suicidal, over-aggressive bat.

That’s all it was at first, just an attempt at being a vigilante, and if Bruce suspected it was him behind the ski masks he never followed it up. Probably just because he didn’t see some teen in a costume as a threat, but pretty quickly his midnight escapades spiralled and before he knew it he wasn’t classed as a vigilante anymore.

He supposed the name hadn’t helped; no sane person names themself after the Joker, but Tim had been sleep deprived and practically high on caffeine at the time. Besides, if it wasn’t for the Joker killing the second Robin leading to Batman aggressively rejecting Tim he wouldn’t have become a crime lord in the first place. The Joker had stolen his Robin and in return, Tim had stolen his alias. Whilst Tim wasn't exactly keen on card games (no Gothamite was when they were so closely connected to the Joker) he did have an appreciation for strategy and so 'The Ace of Knaves' had seemed like a good idea.

So what if the GCDP had classed him as a crime lord for almost the whole three years he’d been in this line of work? It’s not like he was hurting anyone. Or at least not normally.

A bullet just about nicked his shoulder, cutting through the worn-down Kevlar of his suit and piercing the surface of his skin as it whizzed past. Tim did his best to hide the wince, he was fed up with Black Mask’s men and had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

He drew his yantoks, the weapons would have been in a museum if his parents had their way, but Tim’s parents hadn’t had their way in a very long time. It should appear death did that to a person.

“Are you gonna wave your sticks at me?” The man who had shot him snorted, turning to the thugs standing by the car behind him to laugh before returning his gaze to Tim, “I told ya, you ain’t gonna pay then we ain’t gonna hand over the goods.”

“You sell guns at that rate and even Bruce Wayne can’t afford them.” Tim retorted with a snarl. “But that’s okay, I’ll consider sparing your lives if you hand them over.”

“You’re delusional.” One of the men further back muttered.

“Gotham does that to you,” Tim replied, with what he was aware was an uncanny laugh.

“Look, I’ve heard some pretty disturbing things about this dude, maybe we should just do as he says.” Another goon suggested.

“Smart boy.” Tim praised, “Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Steve.” The goon replied hesitantly.

Tim smiled, pleased the mask only covered the top half of his face so they could see the way he twisted his lips upwards. It wasn’t a domino, the first design had been, but it felt too Robin for comfort. In the end, the one he’d gone for was a more mechanical design that protected more of his face than a domino would and the lenses of which enhanced his vision a considerable amount. The metal had felt heavy to wear at first, but now he barely noticed it.

“Steve.” Tim repeated fondly, “You should all be more like Steve.”

“I don’t even get why you want guns.” The first thug said in an attempt to change the topic. “You use sticks.”

“I’m not paying you to ask questions.” Tim snapped.

“You’re not paying us at all.” The thug replied, clearly starting to get fed up. “That’s the problem.”

Tim sighed, “Okay, I’m not not paying you to ask questions. I mean, how much do you think this job pays? I’m not made of money.”

The thug snorted, “Tell me about it, you’d think working for the biggest crime lord in the city would pay well.”

Tim barely registered the way his arm moved, his yantok's crossed against the man's throat, evoking an alarmed wheeze.

“First things first,” Tim hissed, “Black Mask is nowhere near the biggest crime lord, not anymore.”

The thug gulped, the action causing their skin to press further into the yantoks, causing their exposed skin to turn a pained shade of red.

“Second thing,” Tim tried to hide the way the adrenaline coursing through his veins was making him smile, “Well let’s just say you have a choice. Either you step aside, and I take the weapons, or I call in my army of men on standby and see how they fare against your fifteen.”

“Why didn’t you just start with that.” The thug said, laughing nervously, “Be my guest, it’s all yours.”