We Can Work It Out Part 1

[blackash26.livejournal.com]

Authors: storiesintheashes (blackash26) and tigrislupa
Artist: xKalisto

Genre: Comedy/Fluff/Family/Angst
Fandom/Universe: Batfam, DCU Comicsverse preboot
Characters/Pairings: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Barbara Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Jim Gordon, Jason Todd
Warnings: mistaken assumption of an incestuous crush, assumed one-sided Damian/Tim
Word Count: 11,297
Notes: A follow up to incogneat-oh’s Roses for Red (Robin)

Summary: Damian endeavors to make up for his treatment of Drake and apologize properly; however, Drake refuses to forgive him no matter what he does. Tim does his best to deny, avoid, and ultimately deal with the fact that the demon brat has a crush on him of all people. (Pulling pigtails never felt like quite such an understatement.) Meanwhile, the rest of the family takes sides.

In all of this, there's only one thing everyone agrees on.

Don’t tell Dick.



***





Tim sighed as he stepped into his apartment, shutting the door softly behind him. He paused long enough to toe off his shoes and shrug off his blazer before shuffling towards his couch. As he slumped down onto it, he let his eyes slide closed. Work had been brutal, and all Tim wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for the next year. After he read those reports and worked on that presentation and checked those figures for tomorrow’s meeting—

He needed coffee.

Groaning, Tim stood and trudged towards the kitchen. Just as he decided on brewing a nice dark roast, he saw it.

There, sitting innocuously on his table was a bouquet of roses. Red roses. With a note.

Edging closer, Tim picked out the white card nestled amongst the flowers. In pristine, flowing script, it read,

My Apologies.
- D aGW

Tim stared. He read it again, but the text remained the same. What- What the hell, Damian? What was the demon brat up to now? Hadn’t he already made it clear how he (thefamilyBruceDad) already felt?



Or was this Dick’s doing? Had he found out what happened? Was he forcing Damian to play nice now? That would explain it. Except- Tim glanced at the flowers. Except Dick wouldn’t make him send a dozen red roses as an apology.

Sighing, he sagged into one of the kitchen chairs. He seriously did not need this on his plate right now.

What were the chances he could get away with pretending this had never happened? Tim ran his hands through his hair in frustration. As he debated leaving the whole mess for the morning, a thought occurred to him - If this is some kind of...some kind of prank. What would Damian be getting out of it? It’s not as though the little demon could see—

Damn it.

He should have thought of that sooner. See. Of course Damian would want to see how it played out. And given the position of the flowers and the layout of the kitchen, the optimal observation points would be...

Tim surged to his feet as his eyes darted to the most likely locations. Not the light, not the fridge, not the -

There!

Hidden within the bowl of fruit on his counter was a tiny camera, no larger than the head of a pin. He plucked it out before turning and striding back to the table. Snatching up the roses, he made his way to the garbage bin. Damian had gone too far this time.

He scowled and held the camera up to his face. “Stay out of my apartment, Damian,” he enunciated the words, displeasure obvious on his face. The camera was too small to have audio, but that didn’t matter. Damian could read lips as well as any of the...the family.

Tim crushed the camera between his fingers and dropped it into the trash, followed shortly by the bouquet of roses. Then he closed up the trash bag and placed it out in the hallway. He’d throw it out first thing...well, he’d take it out when he woke up in a few hours. It was already morning according to the clock on his wall.

He locked the door and began the tedious task of combing over his entire apartment and security system for any other little surprises Damian might have left.

Two hours passed, but his search yielded nothing. It was unsettling. Damian was not particularly good at subtle; he never had been. Tim could only imagine the hell his life would become if Damian ever managed to grasp the concept.

Finally, Tim decided to take a break. Just for a moment. Then he’d look at those papers and...

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

***

Damian strode into the kitchen with his head held high. He was not sulking. Grayson had been inaccurate in his assessment when he kicked Damian out of the cave only a few minutes ago.

Damian was merely annoyed. Yes. That was all. He was annoyed at Drake for being an immature weakling who did not know how to accept kindness from his betters. Drake’s brazen rejection of Damian’s apology last night only proved the other’s deficient nature.

He did not actually care how Drake received his apology. He did not.

And Grayson had been out of line when he stopped Damian from completing his fifth hour of training. He had not been “overdoing it.” He was merely exercising. Furthermore, he most certainly did not appear “cute” when he pouted. Damian al Ghul Wayne did not pout. Nor was he cute.

He swung himself up onto one of the barstools at the island and glowered at the old man beating pieces of meat with an oddly shaped mallet.

“Is something the matter, Master Damian?” Pennyworth asked without turning to look at Damian.

The boy’s scowl darkened. “Your advice did not work, Pennyworth.”

The rhythmic pounding paused. “Oh?”

“The flowers, Pennyworth,” Damian snapped. “He did not appreciate them.”

“He?” The butler finally turned around to look at him.

Damian rolled his eyes. He was surrounded by morons. “Yes, he. Are you going deaf in your old age?”

“There’s no need to be rude, Master Damian.” The old man paused and tilted his head to the side consideringly. “If the flowers did not work, perhaps you should try a more, ah, personal approach.”

Vague, but potentially helpful. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what sorts of things does he like?”

Damian frowned. That. That was a good question. What did Drake like anyway? This was going to require research.

Sliding off his stool, he started for the door. There should be plenty of worthless, but sentimental trinkets in Drake’s room to give him some clues.

“Also, if I may young sir, how have you been addressing this young man?”

Damian paused, turning back. “What do you mean, Pennyworth? The same as I address everyone.”

“In that case, I would suggest that you call him by his first name.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It might help you to prove your intentions toward him have changed. Make you appear more approachable.”

Damian scoffed. “I do not wish to be more approachable.”

Smiling, Alfred turned back to the slabs of meat. “Of course not, Master Damian.”

***

Tim wandered into his apartment building at a little past nine in the evening. After an exceedingly long day at the office, he was exhausted. What he wouldn’t give to just go up to his apartment and crawl into bed. He hadn’t slept more than six hours in the past week, and he was starting to feel it. However, he still had to go out and do his rounds for the night. Crime doesn’t stop for a little thing like sleep.

Although, if he was lucky, he’d be able to squeeze in a short nap before heading out.

Waving to the night guard/clerk at the front desk, Tim shuffled towards the elevators with a yawn. He had just pressed the call button when he remembered he hadn’t checked his mail in a couple of days. Sighing, he doubled back to the mail room.

He stepped into the small room and went over to his box, fumbling for his keys as he did. After tugging his keys free from where they’d hidden in the folds of his wallet, he unlocked the little door and peered in.

That’s odd. Instead of an overflowing pile of bills and junk mail, there was only a large yellow envelope crammed inside. With a bit of twisting and tugging he managed to pull it out.

Inspecting it, Tim frowned. The only thing written on the package was a scrawled “Timothy”. No return address, no postage, not even his own address. Just “Timothy”.

Interesting. Tim pondered the envelope as he strode out of the mail room and back towards the elevators, playing with the parcel as he went. The envelope was thin and light, pliable despite its mistreatment.

Stepping into the elevator, he hit the button for his floor. The moment the doors closed, he took his keys back out and used one to start cutting through the packing tape. Once it was open, he peeked inside. There was only a slim package covered in black plastic and what looked like a slip of paper.

Curious, he couldn’t help but reach inside and pull out the note.

He blamed the lack of sleep  for just how long it took him to process the words on the paper.

“To Timothy,
Someone cares about you an awful lot. Certainly went to a lot of trouble to get me to sign this. You’re a lucky guy.
Best wishes,
Stan Lee”

Tim stared. He read it again. And again. And again.

And finally it began to sink in.

Stan Lee. Stan Lee wrote me a letter. Tim frowned. Who the hell got Stan Lee to write me a letter?

The ding of the elevator announced that he’d reached his floor,

The ding of the elevator jarred him out of his baffled shock/musings/ruminations, and he quickly slid the note back inside the envelope.

Tim barely remembered getting into his apartment, disarming his security system, and locking up behind himself. But once he was inside, he couldn’t help but pull out the note again. Setting it aside, almost reverently, he turned to the rest of the envelope’s contents.

Reaching in, he pulled out what felt like a magazine. Or-

No.

He tore open the black plastic cover and tipped out-

Holy fucking shit.

Marvel. Marvel #1. The first issue of Marvel comics is on his coffee table. Someone sent him one of the most expensive comics in the world.

And-

And it’s bent. That someone bent it.

Tim stared in horror at the incriminating crease. As he started to reach towards the issue, he recoiled and scrambled towards his lab. Gloves. He needed gloves. And maybe a mask. And a whole containment unit.



A quick trip to the Nest and he was able to move the comic safely to a sterilized containment unit. Then it was only a matter of slowly and carefully attempting to preserve the poor battered piece of history.

As he worked, Tim’s mind wandered back to the question of who on earth actually knew that he liked comics...and had enough money to buy this comic, but was asinine or uninformed enough to treat the comic so abysmally.

...And who had the means to get Stan Lee to write Tim a note.

It made no sense.

The old Young Justice group would probably know or guess, but none of them had the means. Bruce could also afford it, but Bruce probably didn’t remember. Dick had the money and knew, but it wasn’t his style and he had his hands full with-

Tim faltered, his eyes widening in dawning horror.

No.

He forced himself to set his restoration tools down carefully, before he leapt up from his seat and rushed back into the living room. Scrambling over the sofa, he snatched the envelope off the coffee table.

Please be wrong, please be wrong.

He looked at the handwriting on the envelope again, but he already knew. It fit. It was the Demon brat.

Tim flopped back onto the couch, head throbbing with an oncoming headache. Why? What kind of taunting prank was worth that much money? Sure, it was chump change to the Wayne Family, but what on Earth was Damian trying to accomplish?

Was he rubbing his place as Bruce’s true child in Tim’s face again? Not that he needed to go the extra distance on that front. But...how did Damian even know this would affect Tim?

Tim hadn’t had time for comics in years. In fact, if Tim remembered correctly, all of his old comics were packed away in boxes, hidden in some forgotten corner of the closet of Tim’s room in the Manor...

Tim stilled. His hands tightened around the edges of the envelope as he stared darkly down at his Damian’s mocking scrawl of Timothy.

He didn’t.

The little Demon went into Tim’s room. Rifled through his things. For- for what? To hunt for weaknesses he could exploit? But what did this actually do? Tim could think of at least a half dozen better ways to attack himself.

This was just. What the hell, Damian?

Taking a deep breath, Tim set the envelope to the side and stood. He needed to sweep the apartment for bugs. Again. And then it was time to call in a new set of eyes.

Hopefully Babs wasn’t too busy.

***

Babs watched as Tim paced back and forth beside her set of monitors, his hands raking through his hair again. “And then, and then the little monster bought me the very first issue of Marvel comics. I looked, it’s one of the rarest comics. Ever. And do you know what he did?” He paused, turning to her. “He crumpled it, Babs. Crumpled it.”

“Yes, Tim, so you’ve said.” Babs hid her smile behind her cup of coffee.

“Who does that?”

“Damian, apparently.”

Tim scowled at her. “He’s playing mind games with me. First the roses, now this. He’s trying to mess with my head and it’s working, dammit.”

“Mind games,” she said skeptically. “I think you might be overestimating the kid. Damian lacks the subtlety for that.”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

She paused, considering the question. “Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he had a crush on you.”

Tim stared at her, mouth agape in horror. “What part of this sounds like a crush to you?”

“What part of buying someone flowers and extravagant gifts doesn’t?”

Tim opened and closed his mouth, trying to think of a solid argument. “But. But, he’s only ten.”

“So he’s an early bloomer. It’s not that unusual for little kids to get crushes on people they look up to. Besides, he even addressed the package with your first name. He doesn’t call anyone by their first name. The more I think about it, the more it has to be a crush.”

Tim groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Hide me.”

“No, no. This is hilarious. Demonic puppy love.” Babs cackled with glee.

“Baaaaaabs,” Tim whined, curling in on himself.

“What? It’s cute! You’re his very first crush. It’s a momentous occasion.”

“A disaster, you mean.”

"No, a crush is a good sign,” she insisted. “It means Dick’s actually managing to socialize him. There may be hope for him yet."

“I’m all for rehabilitating the brat, but I’d rather not be involved. Especially not like this. Anyway, shouldn’t he be having a crush on, I don’t know, Dick? He actually likes him, at least. Do you know how many times the little monster has tried to kill me?”

“Don’t be like that, Tim. Love doesn’t always make sense. And the kid isn’t exactly skilled in the feelings department.” Grinning, she reached over and tugged at Tim’s hair. “It’s like he’s been pulling your pigtails this entire time.”

Tim swatted her hand away. “No no no, not the same thing.” He scowled. “And quit making fun of my hair. It’s not that long.”

“Of course not,” she assured him with false sincerity. “Your cowl hair is as impressive as always, Rapunzel."

Tim made a face at her. "Gee, thanks."

Babs gave a little bow, flourishing her hand. “Oracle is always happy to oblige.”

Rolling his eyes, Tim abruptly strode over to the coffee pot. “Do you want any?” he asked as he pulled out the coffee grounds.

Picking up her mug, Babs made a face and downed the lukewarm dregs of her last caffeine hit before she handed him her cup. “Yes, please.”

Relieved that she was letting him dodge the miniature demon problem for the time being, Tim distracted himself with the familiar motions of working Babs’ precious coffee maker.

For a while the only sounds were the drizzle of the coffee, the tapping of Babs’ typing, and the gentle hum of the computers. When the coffee finished brewing, Tim poured the steaming hot liquid into Babs’ mug before pouring a cup for himself. He brought both their mugs over, setting hers in its usual spot, before settling on a nearby desk, content to watch her work.

Despite the coffee he was sipping, Tim found himself lulled into a bit of a stupor. Between the soothing sounds of the Clocktower and his lack of recent sleep, he was finding it hard to stay awake.

“So what are you going to do about the pipsqueak?”

Tim startled awake, nearly dropping his mug in the process.

“I’m going to ignore it,” he grumbled groggily as he scrubbed his eyes, trying to rouse himself.

She snorted. “Good plan, kiddo. That’s definitely going to work.”

The thought of that plan not working was enough to wake Tim up completely. “It’s simple. When he sees I’m not reciprocating he’ll get the message and move on. Years from now this will be just a horrible memory that you’ll remind us of for your own twisted pleasure.”

Babs smirked before sipping at her mug of coffee. “I think you’re underestimating the brat. He’s not going to give up that easily.”

“Yeah, right. You can’t have a crush on someone who isn’t there. I’ll just do some work outside of Gotham, and by the time I get back this will all be over.”

Babs smirked. “Is that a hint?”

He gave her an innocent look. “It might be.”

“Uh huh. Use your words, Timothy.”

Tim clasped his hands, looking over-earnest. “Oh great and wonderful Oracle, please, oh please, send me away from this dark and gloomy place with your awesome technomagic powers.”

He swatted away the ball of paper the great and wonderful Oracle threw at his head.

Laughing, she turned back to her screens and brought up a few case files. “Oh fine. Cass could use some help in Hong Kong. Your plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

***

Bruce registered the sound of the door to his study opening, but only looked up long enough to identify Alfred before delving back into his work. He needed to get through these financial reports before his...evening shift.

“Your coffee, Sir,” Alfred said as he placed a cup wafting a heavenly deep roast at Bruce’s elbow.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said with a small smile before returning to his work. But as he moved on to the next report, he noticed Alfred lingering in front of his desk. Interest piqued, Bruce leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him. “Something on your mind?”

Alfred cleared his throat. “You may have noticed, Master Bruce, that Master Damian is reaching the stage where he will begin to experience many changes in his body. As his father, you should be aware - ”

Bruce waved his hand, eyes already refocused on his screen. “Yes, yes, I’ve prepared for that, Alfred. Damian’s five year training plan takes into account his projected growth and hormone changes, with room for adjustments as needed. Just as all of my other children’s did.”

“I am not talking about training regimes,” Alfred interrupted kindly. “Master Damian is entering a time in his life when he will start to feel certain urges.”

Bruce’s mind screeched to a halt. Certain...urges?

“It is only natural that he will have questions. Questions he will look to his father to answer.”

Bruce looked up at Alfred, eyebrow raised. “He’s only ten.”

“On the contrary, sir, you were about the same age when you - ”

Groaning, Bruce scrubbed his hands over his face before meeting Alfred’s eyes. “Alfred, are you sure?”

“He’s already come to me for advice on the matter.”

Bruce stiffened, paling. “Who-”

“I do not know, Sir. He has been very closed mouthed on the subject,” Alfred paused, hesitant. “What I do know is that whomever Master Damian is interested in is a lucky young man.”

Bruce’s eyes widened.

“And we will all do our best to show our support, won’t we, Master Bruce?” Alfred continued, staring pointedly at him.

“Oh, ah, um...Of course. Yes. We will.” Bruce offered Alfred an awkward smile.

“Indeed, Sir,” Alfred said as he turned and walked toward the door. He paused on the threshold and glanced back, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. “Do practice your supportive expression in the mirror. It needs a bit of work.” And then he was gone.

Bruce turned back to his computer with a wince, financial reports now the furthest thing from his mind. Information. He needed more information about...this.

It was a simple matter to access Damian’s computer and track his recent online behavior. Most of what Bruce found was typical of his son’s normal behavior except for two unique purchases. A dozen red roses...and an absurd amount of money on a...comic book? Bruce hadn’t realized Damian even knew what comics were.

Frowning, Bruce began to delve deeper into Damian’s movements on and offline over the past few weeks. There had been no mail receipts, so Damian had either paid in cash or, more likely, delivered them in person. Facial recognition and tracking revealed that Damian had only deviated from his normal patterns in a few unique cases. Once for a sudden trip to New York City that followed right after the purchase of the comic and then again when Damian went to... Tim’s apartment complex?

Dread started to build in the bottom of his stomach. He went back, back through the records, back to the day Damian bought the flowers.

And there he was. At Tim’s apartment complex.

Bruce pushed his chair back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Certainly there was a reasonable explanation for this. There must be. One that didn’t involve his sons. Not...not like that.

Alfred’s pointed words from earlier come back to him. Supportive. Right.

It...technically it wasn’t incest.

Bruce buried his face in his hands. His boys never made anything easy.

Alfred chose that moment to bustle into the study carrying a covered tray.

“I’ve prepared you a light dinner, Master Bruce-”

“Tim.”

Alfred paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tim,” Bruce repeated. “That’s who Damian has a crush on. It’s Tim.”

“Oh my.” Alfred sat down heavily in the chair across from Bruce’s desk, tray still clutched in his hands. “Well, that does complicate matter slightly.”

“Slightly?” Bruce said. He was only now getting over the surprise enough to start considering contingency plans. Tim would probably turn Damian down.

Bruce wasn’t quite ready to think about what would happen if Tim didn’t.

But no, Tim would turn him down, would probably even be nice about it. Although, how Damian would take that is another question entirely. He would accept it, though. Eventually. And then he could move on. They could all move on.

And hopefully forget this had ever happened.

In the meantime, there was one thing Bruce was sure of.

Bruce locked eyes with Alfred. “We’re not telling Dick.”

“Master Richard’s helpful exuberance may...be a bit much for Master Damian at such a turbulent time in his young life,” Alfred agreed.

Bruce nodded. “And what about us?”

“We, Master Bruce, will let events run their course and offer our support should either of them need it.”

***

Damian stormed into his room and threw himself into his desk chair. First Dra- Timothy went away to Hong Kong, and now Father was acting...odd.

He was more distant than ever, despite Grayson’s reassurances that their relationship would improve with time. On the few occasions Father had actually spoken to him the past few days, he had been… odd really was the only word for it. Each incident was preceded by either a bout of brooding or a meaningful look from Pennyworth. The behavior was never quite so consistent and ranged from a truly terrifying attempt to discuss human reproduction to a cryptic lecture about local legislature. The weirdest incident of them all involved a bizarre digression into the mating habits of animals. What did penguins or frogs have to do with anything?

It wasn’t fair. Damian hadn’t even done anything, and now it was impossible to get anything done in the Manor when Father was around. And the Cave was off limits while Grayson was in town on a case, leaving Damian’s room as his only refuge.

Grumbling, Damian shoved his laptop open. Might as well salvage the rest of the evening with more research.

That decided, he unlocked his computer and pulled up the surveillance footage he’d steadily been working his way through. Dra - Timothy was an astoundingly boring person, as Damian had always known, but watching the footage detailing his daily movements was proving to be even more dull than expected. Damian had never seen someone so infuriatingly consistent.

Every day was the same. Timothy always arrived at Wayne Enterprises no later than eight and left no earlier than seven in the evening. He would then spend roughly two hours in his “Nest” before going out on patrol until four in the morning. Then he would return to his apartment and reemerge to start his routine all over again, bright and early.

Weekends were not all that different. Timothy even went in to work on Saturday. There were several instances of Timothy attempting to go in on Sundays, only to be kicked out by the security guards. He would then dutifully return to his apartment and work from there.

Despite Grayson’s many stories about Timothy’s time with the Titans and his apparent abundance of friends, it seemed that Timothy led a mostly solitary life. Though Timothy was a truly awkward person. His poor social skills were painful to see. Perhaps he enjoyed his solitude.

And then Grayson ruined everything with his coddling. Damian viciously jabbed at his keyboard and started the next video. If he had just left Dra- Timothy alone, none of this would have happened. Father would not be awkward, Dr- Timothy would not be in China, I would be solving another case down in the Batcave-

He paused, shoulders hunching. And Grayson would not look nearly so weary.

Damian scowled. It was truly irritating to see Grayson so concerned about nothing at all. Drake was a fully grown man who was perfectly capable of taking care of himself even if all he seemed to do was eat, sleep and work.

He paused. Well, Drake certainly worked. And Damian has seen him eat. Some. And he did sleep in the surveillance videos. Even if he only slept three and a half hours on this particular night. He wasn’t any worse than the rest of them. They all had their bad nights.

Frowning, Damian brought up Dra-Timothy’s patrol notes for the night, but, no, nothing but a routine patrol.

Damian pulled up the footage for the next night. Dra-Timothy only got three hours of sleep, and, again, the patrol notes indicated nothing of interest beyond a few drug busts.

Perhaps, it was simply a bad week. He jumped to the weekend. Drake would certainly make up for these nights at some point. He had to. But Damian had watched enough footage. He already knew what he would find. Dra-Timothy heading into work bright and early Saturday morning after pulling an all-nighter. The only change in routine was Drake skipping lunch to take a brief nap.

While Dra-Timothy probably needed the sleep, missing meals was unacceptable. Any fool would know that. And Drake had hardly had the most nutritious breakfast, merely bringing a travel mug of coffee and a protein bar with him to work.

And that was it. He didn’t get any more sleep until another quick nap after dinner and before he had to head out on patrol.

...Just how much did Drake actually sleep? Or eat for that matter?

This was going to require more research.

It took depressingly little time for Damian to collect the pertinent information on Timothy’s sleeping and eating habits from a combination of surveillance footage and Drake’s financial records. In the process, he came across Drake’s medical expenditures. After noting how many of these appeared in the records, he added them to his data pool as well. The results of this analysis were...statistically significant, to say the least.

It didn’t matter if Damian sampled from this month, last month, even a year ago. Drake was neither eating nor sleeping enough, and the amount of medical supplies he bought for his safe houses on a monthly basis was disproportionately large when compared to the rest of the family’s.

By all accounts, Drake should hardly be functioning in this state, much less keeping up with Dami- the family.

Regardless, Grayson had obviously been remiss. The situation was much worse than Grayson had led Damian to believe. Dra-Timothy’s acceptance of his apology, while still a matter of importance, was no longer the priority. His behavior was unacceptable, a disgrace to the Wayne family name, and needed to be rectified.

Immediately.

***



Tim followed Cass through the window into her safehouse, but leaned back out again and called out a sarcastic “Good night.” Then he slammed the window shut with his good arm and pulled the shade down for good measure.

Cass side-eyed him, lips twitching into a grin.

“Every night,” Tim said. He reached up and released the clasp of his cape, revealing the unnatural slope of his dislocated shoulder. “Useless ninja babysitters. Every single night.”

“Here,” Cass said, gesturing towards the single bed with one hand as she took off her mask and then her cape with the other. “I will help.”

Tim shot her an amused look, an eyebrow quirking as he drolled, “Oh, Cass, this is all so sudden. I’m not sure I’m ready for the next stage in our relationship.”

Cass’ answering grin was less than comforting. “I will be gentle.” She pulled off her gloves and set them down beside her cape and mask.

“I appreciate that, I really do.” Tim rolled his eyes, walking past her. The safehouse was a one room studio apartment, so he didn’t have to go far to reach the bed. Knowing the drill from many previous experiences, Tim sat down, pulled off the glove on his good hand with his teeth. He tried to take off the other one, but quickly gave up and laid back. His good mood dissipated, his injury bringing his thoughts back to their patrol. He grumbled up at the ceiling as he adjusted himself so that his right arm and shoulder were handing over the edge. “I bet he’s already sent his little ‘report’.”

“He is consistent,” she said, coming to stand by his side. She helped him take off his other glove and then took his hand in hers.

“How is this even my life, Cass?” he complained as he readied himself.

Cass tightened her grip on his hand, placed her foot against his chest for added leverage and began to pull slowly and steadily on his arm. “You will survive,” she said.

Tim gritted his teeth. “I don’t think I can survive - ah - any more of Damian’s caring. Damn ninjas. Such a distraction.”

“Stephanie says it is the thought that counts most.” Cass kept her hold on his arm.

“First it was gifts. Now it’s ninjas. There’s - shit, ow - clearly thought involved. And it’s going to kill me.”

“Hmm, it will take more than presents to kill Red Robin.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Cass, I really do, but I think I’ve found my breaking point.”

“Melodramatic, much?” Cass raised an eyebrow at him.

“Now that was a Steph-ism if I’ve ever heard one.” Tim grinned despite himself and the pain. “And I am not being melodramatic.”

“Sisterly bonding is a thing,” Cass informed him seriously. “And you are.”

“Are not,”

“Are, too.” Cass grinned down at him. “And cliché.”

“Duck season,” Tim said and stuck out his tongue at her, before grunting in pain. “And cliches are cliche for a reason.”

“Bunny season,” Cass said.

“Rabbit season, actually, though that’s pretty - ah - close,”

Cass cocked her head to the side, brow furrowed slightly in thought. After a moment, she nodded. “Bugs Bunny is a rabbit and a bunny.”

“Yep.”

“So, you agree then.”

“Huh?”

“You were being melodramatic.” She grinned down at him all the while still putting steady pressure on his arm.

Any reply he might have made was cut off as his shoulder popped painfully back into place.

“Fucking hell,” Tim cursed, his left hand coming to clutch at his shoulder as Cass let his other hand go. He clenched and unclenched his right hand, wincing at the remaining ache. “That’s better,” he muttered to himself in relief.

“Are you okay?” Cass asked.

“Well enough.” Tim tried rolling his shoulder but aborted the motion with a grimace. He looked up at her with a quirked eyebrow, trying not to smirk. “I thought you promised to be gentle.”

“I was gentle. I did not use my father’s method of relocation,” Cass said, stepping back and turning to leave. “I’ll get some ice for you.”

Tim didn’t want to know how Cass’s bastard father thought shoulders should be fixed. With a grimace, he managed to push himself up into a seated position as he listened to Cass rattle around in the kitchen before hearing the distinct thock of  the freezer opening. He glanced around the small studio apartment and caught sight of the safehouse’s spare laptop on the coffee table in front of an overstuffed couch.

The scrape of metal scooping up ice began as Tim got to his feet and carefully walked to the couch, doing his best not to jar his shoulder as he went. He sank down onto the couch and opened the laptop with his good hand.

He turned the computer on, logged in, and brought up his email. He sighed. There it was, as expected. His daily “evaluation” from the little demon. Tim cleared his throat and began to read aloud for Cass’s benefit, as had become their post-mission tradition these past few days.

“Dear Timothy.” Tim cringed at the address. “Timothy, Ugh. Can you believe this, Cass? I preferred him calling me Dra- Jesus,” Tim swore as Cass plopped a bag of ice on his shoulder. “Little warning?”

Cass knelt on the cushion next to him. “He never called you that. Now keep reading, I want to hear the good stuff,” she said as she started wrapping the ice in place.

“That’s not - ” He sighed. “Whatever. The brat continues by saying ‘It has come to my attention’ - that’s demonspeak for ‘my ninja spies told me so.” Cass laughed and shook her head bemusedly as she continued securing the ice. Tim smirked and continued, “It has come to my attention that despite previous advisement on how to best assure your continued survival, you continue to insist on maintaining suboptimal habits.

“And here we go. Today he’s decided to actually count the number of times I didn’t have perfect form. And then he-” Tim paused, frowning. “Jeez this kid is creepy. I thought we finally got him out of the security feeds?” He reeled back with dawning horror. “Is he actually having the ninjas spy on me while I sleep?”

When that didn’t get a laugh from Cass, he turned to look at her. She met his gaze with a surprisingly serious expression. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She frowned and shook her head. “What else does he say?”

Tim blinked. “Oh, well.” He glanced down at the email. “The usual. He calculated the number of calories I consumed today and found the amount deficient. He wants to feed me! Ugh. Then he berates me for doing my job and being distracted by his ninjas, though he does commend me for recognizing my own incompetence and relying on a more competent partner, namely yourself. But he clearly thinks that he should be the one doing that. And...shit.”

“What?”

“‘This behavior is unacceptable and an embarrassment to the family,’” Tim read. “‘Surely in your years as Robin you were taught better than to treat your life so cavalierly. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the lives of those who depend on you.’”

Tim gaped at the screen before slamming the laptop shut. Turning to Cass he hissed, “Is he saying he’s dependent on me?”

“We all are,” Cass said, not filled with nearly as much supportive outrage or good humor as he expected.

“That’s not the kind of dependent he’s talking about, Cass. This crush was supposed to get more manageable with distance, not less!”

Cass frowned. “He’s right, though. You’ve been taking more risks lately. Unnecessary ones.”

Tim groaned, easing back into the couch. “You too? We risk our lives every night. We know that every time we go out we might not come home.”

“Yes, but you never plan to come home. Don’t lie. I can see you.”

Cass’ gaze bore into him, as Tim stammered out, “No, that’s ridiculous, I-”

Tim’s voice caught as Cass placed her hand over Tim’s heart. “Don’t lie.”

Unable to meet her eyes, Tim looked away, his eyes latching onto a particularly interesting spot on the far wall. “What do you want from me, Cass?”

Cass shifted and carefully wrapped her arms around him. Tim stiffened in surprise at the embrace before sighing and allowing himself to relax into her hold. “I want you to know it’s not okay if you don’t come back.”

Tim sucked in a breath. His throat bobbed, his eyes squeezed shut as he hugged Cass tightly with his good arm.

Tim sucked in a breath. His eyes burned with tears he tried to swallow back. He pulled Cass closer with his good arm, eyes squeezing shut. “I think I needed to hear that.”

Cass brought her hand up, carding her fingers through his hair. “Anytime, little brother.”