A/N: Co-written with my good friend BlueLotus, this is already over 100,000 words long. I'll be posting it in bite-sized chunks regularly, though.

Disclaimer: Is Robincest canon? No. Well...that's debateable, actually, but really, no. Do I own it? No. Don't be bashin' mah slashin', DC.

Summary: Futurefic, Damian/Tim. Bruce never returned, and an ostracised Tim Drake shed the cowl and left Gotham for good. Or so he thought. 10 years later, tragedy strikes and he is forced to return, to find that even expecting the unexpected can leave you surprised.

Pairings: Damian/Tim, mostly. Some Damian/Colin. Past Tim/Kon. After about 50,000 words, Dick/Jason. And a few, brief trysts with OC's.

Warning: There shall (eventually, honest) be porn. There shall be violence. There shall be gratuitous sappiness and ridiculous angst. What? If I wanted canon, I'd go read canon.

Prodigal Son, 1

~Damian POV~

The rain. It will not stop. It has not stopped. Not since.

It does not lash. It commits no abuse to the windows. It is not hostile. Nor does it patter. It simply falls. Drools from the sky, inevitable as Sunset. A black pathetic fallacy on my doorstep. Ever mine. Ours, still, remember. Still ours.

My fingertips are cool. I have abominable circulation, but Dick's brow is warm, perfectly warm. The precise temperature of the healthy, living man. He is as he ever was. My darkened knuckles card against ebony hair, with that tint, that unreal sheen, of midnight blue, that is flecked with the lightest spatterings of grey and white. He had actually SCREAMED when they first appeared. Locked himself in the bathroom. I had laughed. Mocked. Eventually, we settled for 'distinguished'.

Yes. We. Somewhere between here, and the middle...not the beginning...I had become part of a we. I still am, I check myself. Hear Dick's voice. You still are.

I am, sincerely, not worried that he is not coming back. Because I know he shall. I know him, and this cannot tear him from the world. It will take time. But I will never stop believing. No. Not believing. I am above such...fickle, human, uncertainties. Conviction. Not believing. Knowing. The soft hum, hush, gush of breath, and the staccato of beeps, set me rocking, slightly.

I cannot go to the Tower. Already, it has become a graveyard of the blessed mediocrities I shall leave untouched, treasured, condemning the penthouse to museum status. The smell of Earl Grey. The neatly pressed cravats, the breakfast silver, set out, neatly, ready for the morning that will now never come. I shall ask Rose to fetch Marktwo for me. Care for her, for a while.

I lace my fingers. Perceive my bleached pallor and purpled cheeks, beneath my eyes, in the distorted windows. Thick eyelashes. They are abhorrent, incongruous on my face. Sooty, Dick called them. Almond. Arabian. Icy, wolven blue. But my Mother's. I wonder if she still lives. My features are entirely his, though with a slant. A corruption. My eyebrows are certainly...different.

I am, biologically, almost fully grown. A man. 6 foot, 1 inch tall. Broadly built, in all facets. I feel the ghost of a smirk.

"Mister Wayne?"

The hospital staff have been...adequate. Professional. So, I have been civil. They preserved Dick's life. For this, I cannot fault them. And...Pennyworth...he was...he was dead before they got to him. And they are not Metahuman. Superhuman. Much though I wish it.

The nurse has a kindly, round, Southern face "The, uhm, press is outside, as you asked, if you're ready."

My gaze snaps to Dick. And back. Like elastic. She clutches her clipboard, and smiles, uncertainly "I'll sit with him, Sir. Keep him company."

I nod. Stand, with a creak of adjusting adolescent bone. Homunculus, indeed. Someone used to call me that, years ago. The name escapes me. I press my palm, too large, I feel, against Dick's forehead, and press my own temple to my knuckles. He thrives on physical affection. So I shall be bountiful with it. It is not so hard, now.

"I will return. Be better." I murmur, rise swiftly, and leave. I still wear the formal suit, and tie, of that night. They are not particularly soiled. I do not generally sweat much. A little rumpled.

I step onto the drenched pavement to a barrage of flashing lights and noise and sounds and sights and smells and PEOPLE, but allow it to wash, as meditation, dictates, over me, and make my way mechanically to the small, temporary podium. I wish for...at least one body, with me, as my back feels vulnerable and bare, but I must endure it. For there is nobody, yet. Nobody knows, yet.

"Mister Wayne, Mister Wayne! How are you coping at this difficult time?"

"What of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Are the rumours of Richard Grayson's death true?"

I raise a hand. The effect is immediate. My visage, a spectre to most of Gotham of a man long dead, commands respect.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press." I begin, and pause. Breathe in, deeply, allow the crispness of the air to soothe "I..." my throat constricts. I clear it, and continue "It is with deep...personal regret, that I must announce that Richard Wayne is currently comatose. But in stable condition."

Murmurs fly around. I silence them with a thunderous look. My fingers curl around the edges of the podium. Do not shake. It is the structure that shakes. I am standing in the rain. My shoulders grow damp. Rivulets cascade down my face, down my nose, stream desceptively beneath my eyes. I blink, hard.

"The future of Wayne Enterprises falls to myself. Stocks, and policy, shall remain, for now, unchanged." unchanged, oh yes; the only thing that shall, remain "I ask for privacy for myself, and my family at-" by voice cracks and I curse it, damn "at this difficult time."

One word haunts me. Funeral. Funeral. Funeral. After this, I must go, and arrange...the funeral. Choose lillies. Mundane things. Drown in the mundanity of it.

"Thank you." my face is wet. But it is only the rain.

Barbara has been the epitome of sanctity. Like myself, she compartmentalises Dick's predicament away, into some shadowy, but revered and treasured, portion of her brain. And perseveres. Sits me down. Hands me pen, and paper. Says, make a list. And I shall call.

I do so.

Jason, naturally, already knows. His fragility wavers, but he...remains, for now, sane. Cassandra Cain. Stephanie Brown. Roy Harper. Wallace West. Alfred...Pennyworth...his humble magnitude touched so many lives. He permeates. He resonates. He is a constant to an incalculable equation. And I cannot- I accept, but- I cannot percieve a solution to the equation, without his input.

And I must also address, the rising problem of 'Batman's' disappearance.

"Damian." Barbara says, firmly, taps my shoulder, a sharp rap "We're going to the Tower. Now."

Protest would, of course, be futile. And am I too fatigued to fight. Not on this. Bear more hurt, as long as I must not find myself fighting. And besides, it is good to be led, again. Her mechanised leg-braces, an invention of mine, that allows rudimentary walking capacity, hiss and clunk softly as we walk. Yes. Walk. I cannot ride in vehicles, for now. Not since.

It is there, in Dick's bedroom, that I find it. Laid out. Unapologetic. Four types of wrapping paper, plain, meaningful, mundane, laid uncertainly on rumpled sheets. An unfinished note. A neat bundle. I smooth my fingers over the familiar, scratchy loops of ink. Cannot help but absorb the words.

~Dear Tim,

I know I write this every year, but I just want to say again, that I hope you're well, and safe, and doing alright wherever you are. I guess you probably don't appreciate my constant reminders, but...well it's just not in me to ignore a day that should be special, even if it isn't what you want. So, Happy Birthday! Try not to spend it working too hard, ok? I hope you can find somebody to be with today.

And I sincerely hope that you buy yourself at least a slice of cake. I light a candle for you, every year, and blow it out, and make a wish on your behalf, as I'm betting you think that's ridiculous.. I hope you don't mind. I know you won't want anything sentimental from me, but I hope you'll like and accept this years gift. They're top of the range, brand new technology developed by Wayne Enterprises. The material automatically adapts according to internal and external body heat, so they'll keep you warm in the cold and nice and ventilated in hot climates.

Maybe you can adapt, or copy the technology to encompass your whole suit? Anyway, I know I've written too much. Happy Birthday again! Thinking of you, always, little brother.

With love,
Dick~

My throat tightens. I sift through the paper surrounding the bundle. A pair of gloves. Robin Red, and black. Fitted larger than the hands I recall, a blur, colliding with my face.

Timothy Drake.

He's as much a ghost as a non-entity to me, but to Dick, he's...well, as Jason to my Father. The Great Failure. The One That Got Away. I think, Alfred. He knew Drake. He raised him. The day is tomorrow. Drake turns...twenty six...the day before Alfred Pennyworth will be entombed in the cold, unforgiving Earth.

I do not think about it.

Do not wrap it carefully. But place note and gift, neatly, in a sealed container. Hesitate, then go to the Tower's technical facility. Clutch a portable, message recorder. Smaller than a button. Capable of projecting voice only. Good.

"Timothy Drake." is he even real? Is he even alive, now? "I enclose Richard's Birthday gift to you." I pause, feel something dark, and hot, rise in my belly, a sensation from a bygone age "Many happy returns." I bite, dryly, in a manner quite unlike my current self "I feel obliged to inform you..."

I choke off. Not audibly. But choke. "To inform you that..."

Damn. Damn. Damn.

"The funeral of Alfred Pennyworth will be in one day, at St Mary's cemetery, Wayne Road. You are invited."

I do not think I will regret this. But nor do I think it will end well.

~tbc~

Like I said, this monstrosity is already 100,000 words long. If you want to read more, review, and I'll post daily. Simple!