The boy who answered the door was fourteen. While tall for his age, he was thin—obviously caught mid-growth spurt. "Hello," he offered, his voice a touch flat. His hands twitched at his sides, but his blue eyes were open and curious. No sign of recognition.

Bruce Wayne forced a smile. "Hello." He brought his hands up to sign as he spoke. "Is your guardian home?"

The teen raised one hand, flexing his wrist up and down. "Yes. Do you work with Tim?" He abbreviated Tim's name with a simple 'T' rather than spell it or provide a name sign.

"I once did," Bruce acknowledged. That seemed to be enough for Damian who leaned back into the house and called for his brother.

"Mr. Wayne," Tim greeted him coolly, waving Damian off. The younger boy rolled his eyes dramatically as he went, presumably to finish his breakfast as Tim requested through sign. "It's been a long time."

"You're doing well, Tim. Damian looks much better."

"Well, the last time you laid eyes on him, he was eleven and in Intensive Care," Tim returned sharply. "Anything would be an improvement."

Bruce deserved that; he did. But . . . "I didn't come here to fight."

"Of course not," Tim agreed, shifting his weight. "You only fight for the important things."

Bruce shoved his foot between the door and frame to keep Tim from shutting him out. "This isn't about me. It's about Damian … and the Joker."

The gambit was enough. Tim immediately followed Bruce outside, closing the door firmly behind him.

"How bad is it?" the younger man hissed. He was only twenty-one, Bruce realized painfully.

"Ra's is involved," he admitted. That was a pretty telling sign of exactly how bad the situation had gotten. This wasn't supposed to happen. There were safeguards in place and with the death of Talia—well, Ra's had sworn off Gotham for a time.

"Does he know who Damian is? Where we live?" Young men in their twenties shouldn't be concerned with these things. "Can Damian even go to school?"

"No," Bruce answered the last, the most pressing and immediate question. That was why he came now, rather than paying a visit to Drake Industries later.

Tim crossed his arms. "What. Happened."

"The Joker is dead," Bruce explained. "That will hit the news tonight if the Gotham PD can keep it contained long enough to verify the Joker's identity."

The loss of the Joker is staggering. Tim struggled for a second before persevering. "And Ra's al Ghul decided to avenge his forgotten, ruined, little grandson now out of the goodness of his heart?" he asked skeptically. The former-Robin had always been good at putting together clues from the tiniest details, although Bruce wouldn't put it past his son—adopted, emancipated, estranged . . . but still his—to keep a finger on Gotham's villain and vigilante community. "I like Ra's—sort of—and I still can't see it."

"Ulterior motives," Bruce agreed with a grimace. "His vessel is deteriorating, so he sent the Red Hood."

Tim nodded slowly, absorbing the information that Bruce can't say out in the open of this quiet little suburban neighborhood. His response was so soft that Bruce had to strain to hear it. "You're harboring a murderer, Bruce."

He knew that. Jason needed to pay for what he had done to the Joker, and Bruce would see justice done. He just couldn't afford to reject the Red Hood, his only source of information, and put the darker vigilante back on the street to reconsider Ra's two-for-one deal. "He came to me. He warned us for Damian's sake."

"Of course he did," Tim scoffed, turning away to regard the house blankly. "You said this wouldn't happen. Jason was reforming, you said. Ra's wasn't interested, you said. You spent over a million dollars improving Arkham's security to keep the Joker in check." Tim turned back to Bruce. "And yet, here you are on our doorstep."

"This isn't easy for any of us, Tim."

"No," Tim cut him off sharply. "You do not get to play that card, Bruce. You do not get to judge what is easy and what is hard. Not here. Not on my damn property, and never—ever—in regards to Damian."

"Tim—"

"His brain was stir-fried," Tim hissed. "He had to relearn speech and fine motor skills and a whole host of other things that were simply deleted from his brain. He's overcoming an aphasia that he can't even hear." Tim straightened, swallowing convulsively. "So you don't get to come in here, change everything, and decide what is and isn't manageable based on your perception of easy."

Bruce stayed quiet until Tim finished, and the man actually realized that he was signing as he spoke. Habit, Bruce supposed. He knew from surveillance that Tim occasionally signed in erratic bursts at work as well.

Tim folded his arms against his chest again to still his hands. "This is not okay," he enunciated clearly, clenching his fists in the sweater he was wearing. "I am very angry, but we will discuss that after the situation has been handled. What is your plan, Bruce?"

"I want you both back at the manor. The security is tighter, and more of us will be readily available should something occur."

"Jason is there," Tim stated calmly.

"Dick and Stephanie as well," Bruce responded just as levelly. "Barbara will be on call as always, Cass is on her way home, and Carrie is at the Manor more often than not."

Tim snorted at the mention of the newest Robin, but didn't comment. He let his arms drop, and for the first time all morning, Tim looked his age. "Alfred?"

Bruce smiled. "Never left."

There might have been a moment there. Some fragment of the bond Batman and Robin once had would have prevailed when it came to the beloved butler.

But the front door opened and the screen door gave a screech as Damian stuck his head out.

Tim and Bruce swiveled simultaneously.

"Going to be late," the teen announced. "Your fault."

Tim rolled his eyes at the simple declaration. "No school today." Tim was speaking purely for Bruce's benefit here, his hands holding a faster conversation with the younger boy. "I'll call in to excuse you."

Damian scowled. "Still your fault," he argued, signing for emphasis, pushing his flat hand away from his body forcefully. He didn't slam the door behind him when he retreated inside, but there was an audible thump as a backpack full of textbooks hit the floor.

"Damian and his teacher have differing definitions of punctual," Tim explained absently. "Believe it or not, the little demon thinks the world waits on him." That sounded almost fond, and Bruce didn't comment on the inappropriate nickname. "And if he's called on it, Damian prefers to blame me."

Tim sighed, carding a hand roughly through his hair. "We're going to need a few minutes; why don't you go get some coffee or something, Bruce?"

Bruce snorted. "Good try, Tim," he acknowledged ruefully. "No, I'll take my chances with Damian rather than risk you taking off as soon as I'm out of sight."

Tim smirked, but it was a tired expression. "Go-bag in every room, and viable identification in every vehicle."

"You were the only one to pay the proper attention to escape plans," Bruce shrugged. "I'd be disappointed if you hadn't put them to use." He hesitated. "We don't have to tell him everything. He doesn't need to know that I'm his father."

Tim looked skeptical.

"You've done well with him," Bruce shrugged. "I don't want to interfere . . . at least not any more than necessary," he finished ruefully, considering that he was uprooting the pair from the life that Tim had so carefully carved out for them.

Tim tilted his head to the side—an expression that was so Damian before—and then huffed out a quiet little laugh. "We don't talk about what Damian does and doesn't remember. It's just not," Tim waved his hand, but not even sign could convey his meaning, "not smart . . ." Tim decided on. "And you might be surprised."

Bruce did consent to wait in the kitchen while Tim trailed Damian to his room, picking up after the younger boy as he went—backpack, hoodie, left shoe, right shoe, house keys hung on the doorknob of Damian's bedroom. Proverbial breadcrumbs. The teen, himself, was sitting on his bed cross-legged with the schematics to a 1976 Triumph Spitfire spread out over his lap.

"Today is a library day," Damian informed him without looking up. That was deliberate—a way to exclude Tim's opinion or rebuttal from the conversation that Damian wanted to have. "Phelps is holding the last Rowling text for me."

Tim crossed the room, and snapped his fingers under Damian's chin. It was rude, but Damian had started it. They both broke such rules with great frequency; they were brothers after all. Having gained Damian's reluctant and annoyed attention, Tim signed and spoke simultaneously: "You don't even like Harry Potter anymore."

Damian reddened, "But he will not let me have Tolkien until the mockery is at an end."

"Finish what you start," Tim parroted the librarian automatically, ignoring Damian's sentence structure or word choice. He didn't press the perseverance issue either. Normally, he agreed with Mr. Phelps, but today, he needed Damian's cooperation. Thus, Tim had rapidly calculated a bribe. "The whole Tolkien collection is in the Wayne Manor library."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "Why would I be in their library?"

Tim took a seat across from Damian. "I know I said that I wouldn't," Tim began reluctantly, "but I have to ask if . . ."

Damian went from looking suspicious to looking hunted in mere moments. There were reasons why they didn't discuss Damian's fleeting memories from before. Things had changed, and new starts were hard to come by. Tim had most emphatically instructed the therapist that memory recovery was completely up to Damian, and the teen worked on it in occasional bursts with her when the mood took him. Damian never shared anything that he managed to recall with Tim. At home, however, they were Tim and Damian as they had been throughout the hospital ordeal and ensuing rehabilitation. If Damian recalled anything prior to that, the teen didn't seem willing to risk their current relationship on fragments of an angrier Tim.

Tim shook his head to clear his thoughts. "I have to ask if you remember . . . bats?" he finished lamely.

Damian raised an eyebrow in an elegant gesture reminiscent of Talia. "Bats?" he asked, crossing his arms at the wrist and flexing his index fingers. "Or . . . the Bat?" with the sign for 'man' under his spoken words.

Tim closed his eyes. "Guess that answers that," he muttered. Damian promptly poked him. Tim shook his head rather than repeat the useless observation. Damian poked him again, harder. Tim sighed, opening his eyes again. "It's nothing, Damian."

"It is not," the teen countered. "It is just . . . pieces. It is just pieces that do not fit. I remember the bats," Damian spoke in a rush, signing faster than he could vocalize his thoughts. "I remember the cape. Too heavy, but that changed. I remember the quiet engine, and I remember the fire, and I remember the light. The light was big—important. It . . . it called—"

"Slow down," Tim signed the 'slow' firmly with his hand over Damian's rather than his own to still the wild out-of-order signs. "The signal," he provided after a moment, because that wasn't one of Damian's words and the context was skewed anyway. Gotham to English, English to ASL, ASL to Damian. Sometimes it just came down to charades no matter how simple the concept.

Gotham's vigilante clan was anything but simple. "The Bat Signal calls Batman—and his allies—for help. It is on the precinct roof." It sounded like Damian had pieces of both Dick and Bruce's respective runs, but it was something to work with at least. "Bruce Wayne is Batman."

Damian nodded slowly, pulling his hands free. "That fits," the teenager admitted.

"We need Batman to protect you," Tim explained carefully. "For now," and Tim wasn't Superboy, but he could almost hear Damian's heart rate speed up. "Just for now," he repeated, and Damian did not ask the obvious questions. Tim had warned him once that some things can't be unknown twice, and Damian seemed to take that to heart over the years.

Damian carefully folded the crumpled schematic in his lap. "Wayne Manor?" he asked, levelly, putting the plans aside. "It has a library."

"Even bigger than the one at your school," Tim promised, as Damian shifted. It took a few moments for Damian to settle back against Tim's shoulder, but facing away from his older brother. Tim couldn't help but find symbolism in Damian placing his guardian at his back. "You will like it," Tim signed, reaching around Damian in what was not a hug.

It's another long moment before Damian made his decision: "Okay."

"So here is how this works," Tim announced, sliding out of the backseat upon reaching the manor. It had been an awkwardly silent car ride across the city. Tim and Damian had worked out on paper their 'demands' such as they were, while Bruce tried to eavesdrop via the rearview mirror and paid inadequate attention to the road. "If Damian asks a question, he gets an answer. No question. No answer. It's really very simple."

Bruce nodded slowly, countering with: "He'll need a chaperone outside, and absolutely no leaving the grounds."

"I stay fully informed," Tim returned, because he agreed with Bruce's condition. "No secrets, Bruce, and if Jason tries anything, I handle it." He hadn't explained that particular addition on the list to Damian, but it had been included to keep the younger boy wary of the Red Hood as Tim didn't expect Bruce to concede on this point.

"Jason is on our side for now," Bruce argued as predicted, plucking the list from Tim's grasp and taking Damian's bag automatically to the teenager's annoyance. "This will be faster," he excused himself, already skimming the document with narrowed eyes. Tim had taken great therapeutic delight in scribbling out anything not intended for Bruce's eyes to the point where not even the world's greatest detective could deduce the original text. "Communication shouldn't be too difficult," he commented.

Tim and Damian shared a skeptical look behind Bruce's back as the larger man advanced on the manor. Comprehension and understanding were two very different things. Tim had the added bonus of familiarity with Bruce's lack of general communication skills.

"Dick and Stephanie can sign," Bruce continued unaware, "and they've been teaching Alfred. The others . . . could use some lessons and a little patience."

"Steph can sign?" Tim asked, fighting a smile.

"She took a class in college. Insisted."

"That sounds like Steph." Tim handed off his bag to Damian, and tapped the list. "But I'd just like to reiterate this last point—the first person to try sneaking up on Damian deserves what they get."

Bruce opened his mouth, but whatever he intended to say was silenced by the opening of the door and Alfred's knowing look.

"Master Timothy," the butler greeted them. "It is good to see you again . . . and young Master Damian." Alfred raised his hands. "Hello, my name is Alfred."

The older man's signs were precise if disjointed, and Tim grinned knowingly. "Let the grammar go, Alfred," he advised, fully aware that he was inviting comparisons to pots and kettles.

The first tutor that Tim had hired for Damian and himself despaired of Tim ever gaining fluency with his careful adherence to the rules of spoken English. The arguments between the ASL tutor and Damian's original speech therapist were some of the most amusing that Tim had ever seen and the former vigilante had once lived in Titans Tower. He had kept both of them on longer than he should have for sheer entertainment value.

It was worth the bonding experience with Damian that resulted, and no one ever had to know why the Drake boys' personal sign for their culture clash was signing 'woman' with both hands on either side of the face simultaneously.

Tim and grammar? Pfft.

"An endeavor your predecessors have been attempting for many years, Master Timothy," Alfred smiled, nodding his appreciation as Tim took over translating for Damian. The teen could read lips easily, but it was the spirit of the thing. "They have been temporarily corralled in the Cave. Where would you prefer to reunite?"

"The Cave," Damian answered immediately.

"No," Tim disagreed. "You have the attention span of a goldfish when cars are involved. You can explore the Bat Cave later, but I want your focus on our hosts." He smiled weakly at the butler. "You can set them free, Alfred. It's okay."

"Very well, Master Timothy. Excuse me, while I let loose the hounds."

"This way," Bruce indicated, leading them into the kitchen. "You're probably hungry," he threw over his shoulder, twisting to sign as he backed into the kitchen. "Alfred made sandwiches."

Damian was always hungry these days; Tim was too on edge to eat right now, but he wasn't given a chance to refuse. A hand plucked the proffered sandwich off the plate and stuffed it in his mouth as a familiar weight settled across his back.

"You're too thin, Timmy," Dick lamented in his ear. "Both of you are altogether too scrawny."

"Grayson!" Damian squawked behind them.

Tim swallowed, and shrugged off Dick to wheel around. "How do you know . . ." Tim hesitated. Know? Remember? Why on earth would Damian have stayed with Tim if he had another option?

"He volunteers at my school," Damian explained, hunching his shoulders furtively as he tried not to stare at both of them in turn. "Why is he here?" Damian gestured insistently.

"He does what?" Tim demanded wheeling around again.

"I live here," Dick answered Damian, and then turned to Tim, "and I volunteer as a tutor with the afterschool program."

Tim punched Dick before he could reconsider.

He might have gone further, might have taken out all of his stress on Dick if Damian hadn't gotten between them, grabbing at Tim's arms and hanging on stubbornly as Tim yelled over Bruce. "Are you insane? Do you have any idea what could have happened? The risk you were taking?!" And even at Bruce: "Did you know about this?"

"No," Dick answered, stemming the blood flow with his shirt sleeve. His nose didn't look broken, Tim considered as he tried to reign in his temper. "It's all on me, Tim."

"You could have led any of the rogues right to us," Tim uttered, fingers scrabbling for purchase on Damian's shoulders through the over-sized hoodie. "After everything I did to hide us in plain sight, you risked everything, Dick . . . and for what?"

There was a low whistle from the doorway that diverted everyone's attention, but Damian's. Jason Todd lounged against the frame. "Tell us how you really feel, Pretender?"