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Chapter 15

Afterward

When Tim woke up, the overlap of memories was briefly disorienting: what was most familiar and what was just familiar. He remembered agony, body crippled by layers of pain, but now there was only the sweet inhale of oxygen flooding his lungs. He remembered the curse sucking him under, but his mind was his own. He remembered years of waking up to red—red mahogany, red embroidered pillows, red molding accenting the edges of the room—and blinked to find himself surrounded by the nondescript beige and impersonal furnishings of a guest bedroom.

"Alfred said you seemed upset when we put you in your old room." Bruce sat in one beige chair beside the bed, regarding him evenly, a little circumspectly. Tim had the feeling the man had been watching him for a long time, blue eyes taking in his familiar form lying peacefully on the bed, back in the manor, back where he belonged.

"I didn't have all my memories at the time," Tim replied, feeling strangely out of place. He raked a curious hand over his abdomen, where the scimitar had cut through, but of course there was no mark, nothing to tell that it had ever been there at all. That wasn't so unexpected—he had similar memories of healing quickly now—but the perfectly pale-skinned hand against his shirt had him sucking in a breath. He held his hands up in front of his face, wondering at the lack of marks. "The curse?" he asked.

"It's broken." Bruce still hadn't moved, still observing him not so discreetly. "Jason and Damian have been freed from its effects as well." Tim almost couldn't believe it, he'd been under the curse's influence so long. After everything—trying to find the dagger Talia had intentionally lost, calculating that Ra's would find it, destroying it only to find the source had become himself—it had begun to feel like an impossible task to break the curse. But relieving as the news of its end was, there were still worries…

"What about Ra's?"

"He's gone. His own demons tore him apart. If there's anything left of him, I doubt they'll let it go for a very long time."

"He had Dana."

"She's fine. When Ra's lost control of the demons, they released her. She's back at the clinic."

Tim felt the dam break, the shored up worries and fears washing away the dregs of tension as they spilled out of him.

He pulled back the covers, slipping onto the floor, and then he was across the distance in a rush, because this was Bruce, and it had been so long, and it hadn't been long at all, and he'd missed him, and he was angry with him, and none of that mattered, because… "Bruce."

The man caught him, arms folding around him a little reservedly, a little belatedly—only after Tim's arms had wrapped around him. Tim held on a little longer than necessary, breathing in the familiarity and changes in this man he'd missed so much. They'd never been particularly affectionate, not even back when Tim had admitted to following the man everywhere for a couple years, and now it seemed like a shame. Why had he not let Bruce know how much he appreciated him every chance he had?

When he finally pulled away, the man's hand remained on his upper arm, gently restraining—exceedingly gentle considering how much force Bruce knew he could take now. Tim tilted his head questioningly.

"Help me understand." The man's eyes were on him, hard blue. "This body…"

"Is mine," Tim finished, pulling out of the man's grip entirely to sit back down on the edge of the bed with all the grace of a dancer. He allowed himself to revel in that freedom of motion for a moment. To feel the world like this, to be equals with his brothers… that had been a long while. "It was recreated by the curse. It doesn't belong to anyone else."

"You let Ra's kill you." And that was almost a reprimand, the corners of the man's mouth pulling tight around the words.

"Yes. The curse would have consumed me and turned me against you otherwise."

"We could have found another way."

"There wasn't time." Tim shook his head. "By the time I tracked Ra's down and found out what was going on, the curse's claim was already heavy upon me. You could only have watched it consume me." Bruce couldn't have done what was necessary—not with his vow not to kill. Even if he had found the mercy, it had been easier somehow to let Ra's' cold sword claim him rather than turn his family into murderers, rather than leave them with that guilt.

Tim sat very still while Bruce considered him with that too-intelligent gaze, willing the man not to ask about the toll he'd taken in place of his family.

"Tell me about yourself," the man asked instead. "Tell me what you want."

"I want…" He paused, considering everything. There was so much he wanted, where did he start? "I want to see how everyone's changed and find out everything I missed. I want to know what happened while I was away. And I want…" Tim's fingers clutched at the comforter where his hands rested on either side of him. "I want to stay here with everyone." He had to know if Bruce would have him back after everything. He needn't have worried.

"You're always welcome here." The man's smile was fond—an honest smile on that too-hard face that had seen too much. "We've missed you."

"Richard?" he asked, and then corrected. Old memories and new ones. "Dick, where is he? And Jason?" He wanted to laugh. So much had changed, and it didn't matter. None of it. He just wanted to examine it all, drink it all in, just wanted to be with the people he'd lost when he'd decided on the course that had led him here.

"Dick's around. You might have to track down Jason yourself though." This time Bruce's hug was warmer, all-encompassing, nearly rib-cracking. Tim laughed breathily into it.

"Welcome back."

The first person Tim found was actually Damian, practicing katas on the training mats in the cave. He took a moment to observe the other boy for a minute—his focus and drive—before walking over, blocking the kick Damian made no attempt to redirect or restrain.

"Have you seen Dick?"

"Tt. Like I keep track of that idiot." Damian jabbed at him—a strike Tim dodged, countering by trying to sweep the boy's feet out from under him, and for a few minutes it became a sparring session. Tim watched his smaller opponent, the way his toes dug into the mats when he moved, the techniques he favored, familiarizing himself with this addition to their family he knew so little about.

"For whatever reason, Father cares about you." Damian's attacks pushed hard at the space Tim had claimed, trying to break through his guard.

"He took me in, gave me a home when I lost mine." Even when Tim pushed back, the younger boy kept to his favored offensive maneuvers, refusing to give up ground.

"I do not share the same sympathies. I will not accept you so easily."

"Nor I you," Tim agreed, twisting around a frontal assault to tuck under the boy's guard for his own strike toward the nerves that would deaden his arm—a strike the boy blocked with a hairpin-tight spin last second. He wasn't bad. Not bad at all. Still… "The others may have taken you in wholeheartedly, but you've done nothing to earn my trust."

"Something we have in common."

Their spar came to an end several minutes later when Damian still hadn't managed to knock him off his feet or land a blow. Frowning, the younger boy pulled back.

"You are not an… unworthy opponent." Tim blinked. Had Damian just given him a compliment? "However… If you hurt Grayson again, I will kill you." Tim felt that familiar guilt well up again over the pain he'd caused his family the past century.

"You really care about Dick, don't you?"

"I protect my family," Damian replied noncommittally.

"Just Dick more than most." Tim couldn't help nettling him a little. Maybe he was arrogant and a brat, but this stubbornly honorable side was something new. Maybe there was hope for the kid yet.

"Tt."

Tim took that and Damian's return to his regime for a dismissal and started to leave. He hadn't seen Dick yet and he still had to find Jason. But he didn't get farther than the edge of the mats before he was brought up short.

"Winters-Drake." Tim turned, surprised. Damian was carefully not looking at him, still practicing katas. "You should appreciate her more."

Tim grinned.

As it turned out, his oldest brother caught him in the midst of fitting black boots snug to his feet—the last piece of the suit Jason had given him, the leather hugging the slim curve of his heel and wrapping protectively up around his ankle and calf.

"Dick!" Tim exclaimed softly as the older boy's arms wrapped around him suddenly, pulling him back against a warm chest.

"Patrol with me," Dick whispered, soft words against the side of his neck. Tim shuddered. He knew what those words really meant.

"There's something I have to do first."

"You're newly turned and recently injured." Dick frowned and poked him pointedly in the stomach. "What little we managed to get down you while you were unconscious was only enough to get you back on your feet. It won't keep you standing much longer. You need to hunt."

Tim's smile turned to chagrin under his brother's concerned lecture.

"Later. I promise." He squirmed a little when Dick only poked him again. "I promise! I just have to clear up a misunderstanding first."

"Jason," Dick said suddenly, knowingly. "You're looking for Jason."

"He doesn't seem to have stuck around."

"I don't think Jay's forgiven you for dying without his consent."

"Have any of you?" he asked, gaze sliding down to the bench beneath him. "What happened to everyone while I was gone?" Because he needed to know what he'd done, even if he didn't like it.

Dick hugged him tighter—crushingly tight—arms still warm around his shoulders, and from the feel of it the older boy wasn't going to let go anytime soon. Tim had missed that feeling of belonging, of fitting together, of being part of a whole. He'd never found anything like it in all his incarnations.

He'd always felt nonessential to the operation of that whole before though. When he'd formulated his plan, figuring his family would be okay without him, it hadn't been so much cruel calculation, or the necessity of the situation, or lack of consideration or caring, or anything like that. It was just that…

"You undervalued yourself," Dick said, as though reading his mind. And it was just another part-of-that-whole thing again, how well they knew each other. "You undervalued how much you meant to us. We didn't do so well without you."

"Tell me. Please."

"Bruce threw himself into work. He took chances he wouldn't have before. He became reckless. We almost lost him. And Jason… Jason started killing. First just the criminals and then… anyone who set him off. I think he took it harder than any of us."

"And you?" Tim couldn't take his eyes from the bench, head bowed.

"I missed you. I missed you so much." Which wasn't really an answer. The arms wrapped around him tightened again.

"Dick…"

"You're back now, Timmy. That's all that matters."

Tim put a hand reassuringly on the arm wrapped around him and wondered what he could ever do to make up for everything.

"Patrol with me tomorrow?" he asked, because verbal apologies seemed rather useless, and Dick had always preferred the more substantial physical forms of attention anyway. It was as close to an apology as he could get. The older boy's nose tickled the back of his neck, suddenly mischievous.

"And the night after that?" Dick asked coyly.

"As often as you want." He squirmed under the guilt.

"And the night after that, Little Brother?" Tim could feel the grin against his skin now.

"Dick…"

"And the one after that?"

"Don't push it!" Tim turned enough to shove at his chest with a huff. Dick only laughed, the sound breaking through the gloom.

"Forever!" he declared, tackling Tim to the floor before the younger boy could dodge, where he wiggled fingers into the seams the Kevlar suit didn't cover, tickling ruthlessly. "Forever and ever and ever!"

"You have to…" Tim huffed breathlessly, halfheartedly attempting to fend off the attack, "let me go sometime!"

"Never!"

"Dick!" Finally he managed to catch both of the older boy's wrists, pinching nerves warningly while he sucked in much needed air. Dick tried to pull his hands free, stilling in surprise when Tim's grip held tight.

"I didn't realize…" Dick stared down at him, wide-eyed seriousness quickly replacing the earlier glee, melancholy settling thick around them, "how much I'd gotten used to protecting you this past week. You were so helplessly human." He sat back on his knees contemplatively, ignoring Tim's annoyed frown at his description. "I liked protecting you. It felt like an opportunity to make up for failing to save you before. When you showed up, it was like a second chance. But I failed." His wide eyes were fixed now somewhere beyond Tim. "Last night, I had to watch that man hurt you. I couldn't protect you…"

"You did protect me." Tim squeezed his captured wrists before letting them go. "If you hadn't figured out where that seal was, things might have been different." Dick blinked down at him, taking the words in.

"Look who's all wise!" He poked Tim in the ribs one last time. "You've changed, you know. You're older now."

"I did get all my memories back," Tim reminded him, but Dick shook his head.

"No. You're older even than you were before." Black lashes lowered over melancholy blue eyes. "When did you get older than me, Little Brother?" At that, Dick laid back, splaying out on the cold stone beside him, leaving Tim to the mercy of his own spinning thoughts and the sudden pall that had spread over them. For a minute he only stared up at the stalactites high over their heads, nearly indistinguishable in the dark, and considered things lost. But then his thoughts shifted to other solemn matters.

"Jason. Have you ever…?"

"We couldn't exactly turn him in." Dick waved absently to the ceiling before letting his arms drop back to the floor. "There are too many things the authorities might figure out. We did lock him up awhile. He only resented us more." He pushed up on elbows to look over at Tim curiously. "Maybe you could get through where we couldn't?"

"He's mad at me." Tim frowned at the stalactites.

"He came back for you once. He might do it again."

Tim let the weight of Dick's curious gaze bear down on him a minute longer before pushing gracefully to his feet, resolute.

"I intend to try in any case." He adjusted his cape momentarily and considered his brother still on the floor. "Dick?" The older boy raised an eyebrow. "I know you've missed me, but you should spend some time with Damian too."

He turned on his heel at that, headed down the ramp towards the exit, leaving Dick blinking in surprise behind him.

Maybe it was Damian's advice, but when he hit the streets of Gotham, he went first to check in on Dana. It didn't really amount to much. Visiting hours were long over and the rooms were dark. Dana was sleeping.

Tim watched her for a moment, a silent shadow in her room. He'd fulfilled his promise, hadn't he? Dana was safe and taken care of. He didn't owe his father anything else.

He wouldn't be able to stay with her much longer in any case. If she knew the truth about him, if she understood at all the nature her stepson possessed now, she'd call him a monster. It would only be a couple years before she noticed he wasn't changing, and then there would be questions. That was the thing about Bruce's curse. He would always look the same now. He'd always have to leave the friends he made, the people he cared about, before they noticed. It had only been a week, but everything had changed.

He had the family he'd lost back though—a family who cared for him just as he was, a family just like him—and that made up for the other losses. Honestly, he'd had just as little to give up in this incarnation as in the first. It wasn't much of a sacrifice considering what he'd gained: the home he could now return to.

He sat for a few more minutes in the darkness, acutely balanced crouching on the backrest of a chair. It was the hunger that finally drove him out, his body demanding the stimulus to sustain itself after nearly twenty-four hours using the dregs of the blood that had changed him. The curse had been a shredded, bloody mess inside him the past night, numbing the telltale ache of other needs, but now the hunger sharpened into a clear, crisp pang in his gut and along his gums.

Tim slipped out the window, letting the need inside him drive him away, if not towards potential sources of nourishment. He knew how to control it, and after all, he still had one more person to find first.

In a hundred years, so many things had changed. Tim's older memories of Jason's favorite places to hang out were almost useless. Most of them had been torn down or remade into some newfangled store or arcade. He tried them anyway. By the third remodeled memory—new locks on doors once left welcomingly open, new paint covering old brick—he began to wonder if it was any use. The brother he'd known had changed so much anyway, did he even still know the older boy?

It was hard to reconcile the differences. He'd been there the entire time, he could map the city's changes in his mind, his memories, but he couldn't make them fit, couldn't make them feel real.

He wished Jason were there.

The movie theater where they'd once watched the flickering black and white projections was now an empty hull. Tim ghosted down an aisle, running fingers over the rotting remains of seat cushions and reminiscing morosely over the disrepair. The shadows greeted him like an old friend, straining toward him, hugging his feet as he walked. Faint light filtered in from the door he'd left open behind him—more than enough for his acute vision even in the dark, windowless womb of the theater.

The shadows clinging to his heels scattered suddenly as a larger, broader body slammed him forward into the moldering dais. Tim might have tried harder to avoid the attack if he hadn't been expecting it. As it was, he only pressed his face to the paint-chipped wood, stretching languidly into the tight grip holding his hands over his head, into the hard lines of the body pressed up against his, holding him there.

"What are you doing here?" Jason demanded.

Tim tested the older boy's grip on him. Jason was still pulling his strength, used to dealing with a human Tim, and they weren't going to get anywhere like that.

"Bringing you home." He shoved sharply back, getting his feet between him and the dais and pushing back harder, knowing that… there, Jason tripped over the corner of a row of seats. They weren't graceless—Jason auto-corrected the stumble—but Tim pushed off the wall, hands using the older boy's shoulders as a springboard to flip over him—Dick had once taught him that—simultaneously forcing Jason down. All one beautiful, smooth motion. The exercise felt good—better when Jason landed sprawled out artlessly on the floor, eyes wide with surprise.

"This is no good." Tim sank down on his chest, knees sharp against the older boy's sides, thighs gripping tight. He jerked on Jason's hair for emphasis. "I'll never think you're serious if you keep going so easy on me."

"I'll show you serious," Jason growled. This time the punch to his ribs sent Tim flying. He hit the rows of seats, felt the point of an armrest impact his jaw, splitting his lip, and a seatback splinter against his hip. He twisted even as the momentum carried him farther, catching at rotten canvas and landing cat-like crouched on the backs of consecutive seats. Even before he landed, blue eyes snapping to meet Jason's, the split lip healed over. Tim licked the drop of blood away, watching Jason watch him. He laughed breathlessly, exhilarated.

Now they were getting somewhere.

Jason lunged at him, but Tim was ready, dodging away teasingly. The shadows skittered around them, trying to stay with them, not sure which one to follow. Tim tilted his head, a thoughtful cant.

"What happened, Jason? I leave for a couple lifetimes and you go off the deep end?" He blocked the next blow, and the next, stepping back onto the arm rests of the row of seats beyond, and again onto the row beyond that under the assault.

"You were family," Jason retorted, coming after him mercilessly. "You were supposed to always be there."

"And this is your excuse for taking out anyone who resembled me?" Tim shoved off the seat backs, one long arc, hands coming down where Jason was standing. The older boy stepped back to avoid the upside down kick, and Tim landed, hands down, springing immediately back up and into Jason's chest. The blow knocked him back a row, breathless.

"This world took you from us!" he growled, eyes glinting in the half-light.

"So you thought you'd force a little of your pain back on the world? You thought it deserved your anger?"

"Well, it certainly didn't deserve my sympathy."

"You nearly ruined everything. You nearly killed me." Tim sprang into the air to avoid a particularly hard retaliatory blow, using his agility to his advantage.

"I thought dying was part of your plan," Jason mocked, even as he twisted to take Tim out mid-air. "What? You telling me you didn't see that coming too?"

No. Tim gritted his teeth. He hadn't. It had been a very near miss.

"Not from you. You gave up on me so easily." He couldn't keep going like this. He was stronger now, but he'd never been able to win fights against his brother on power alone. Jason was driving him backwards slowly but surely. Tim welcomed the thrill of it—like the crackle of electricity, each move responded to spur of the moment, no planning, no forethought. He'd had enough planning to last him a lifetime. Or six.

Even if it meant the difference between beating Jason or not.

"You're not infallible." Jason's heel came down on him hard. Tim blocked the hit with crossed arms, but he could only absorb so much of the force. The blow knocked him down into one of the rotten seats, hard enough that the supports gave out, screws stripping with tortured shrieks. Jason's landing split the arm rests out to either side, and then glittering teeth were snapping closed around Tim's throat.

"Got you." The teeth scored skin as Jason drew back. Tim breathed out.

"Why didn't you believe in me?"

"Yes, let's talk about trusting each other, because you're so good at that. Believe in you?" Jason asked. "I had your body in my hands! Your body, Tim!" As if for emphasis, Jason shook him, ragdoll hard, hands bruisingly tight around his ribs. It wouldn't have meant anything otherwise. "What did you expect me to think?!"

Tim licked his lip consideringly. Maybe he had asked too much of the older boy, but what else could he have done? Even looking back now, he couldn't see another path. His options had been so limited.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed, and well, wasn't that perfect timing?

"Lunch?" Tim asked archly, unbothered by Jason's restraining hold, almost painful. He pushed back against it, testing it, an equal in this display of prowess. Jason didn't have to be afraid of bruising him or breaking him. Even now, Jason was stronger than him, but it felt different than before, less worrying and more… exciting.

A second scream and Tim tugged at Jason's hair, tilting his head in silent question. Surely Jason wasn't so far gone that he'd stand by and do nothing?

"Lunch," Jason agreed, finally releasing him, and Tim felt the brief worry wash away even as he followed. Jason was still Jason.

The first breath of air outside the old theater was a relief from the moldering interior, the city light blinding after the darkness. Tim followed hard on Jason's heels to the rooftops, and even if it was only for this minute they were focused on righting the same injustice, it felt good to work in tandem with the older boy again. The breathless, headlong rush of being on the streets, being part of a team. The sense of his own efficiency—knowing that he wouldn't hold Jason back, that Jason knew he didn't have to hold back for him—the knowledge of his own power. It wasn't just the sense of each other—the physical cues, the shift of shadows that told them exactly where the other was—but the knowing of it—the sense of safety and support that no physical indicator could account for, the feeling of being in perfect unison.

Jason dropped down into the alley, whisking two of the perpetrators up instantly and flushing the last away from traffic and farther into the dark tangle of streets. Not that he got far. There really wasn't any need to calculate his chances of escaping, but Tim knew the exact number of heartbeats it would take the man to reach him anyway, the number of steps to cover the distance. He had the man's path blocked in one swift breath, presence alone darkening the alleyway, already pulling his cowl back in expectation.

The man almost ran into him before he could stop, eyes going disbelievingly wide. He stumbled back, and Tim smiled—that smile, the one that drew attention to the curve of his lips and the captivating blue of his eyes—reaching out invitingly, disarmingly. He knew what the change Jason had wrought had done to him, and he wielded the allure that came with that gift like any other weapon—a weapon long unused, but still sharp. The man took a shaky step forward, against every instinct, against all reason. Tim snagged the edge of a filthy jacket, tugging the man toward him almost silkily, almost gently, with a hand kindly restraining around an upper arm and the other applying coaxing pressure between gaunt shoulder blades. Tim smiled reassuringly and the man didn't fight as he was slowly pulled in. That was the thing about it: sometimes they wanted to just stare at the pretty stranger, transfixed, sometimes a smile would keep them pacified, wanting.

"My friend," the man said, shaking his head dully, eyes never leaving Tim's. "He said you was vampires. I didn't believe 'im."

"Shh," Tim whispered, sharing this secret, gaze unwavering. He knew if he could see, his eyes would be too blue, would seem too large, the only thing that mattered in the world. "I'm not going to hurt you." He trailed fingers down one cheek calmingly, letting his touch, the lure of his charm work on the man's weaker mind, letting it possess his thoughts. "I'm afraid you're still not going to believe your friend." He let his smile turn sharp even as he closed what little distance remained, let the feathering of his hair under the man's chin precede the sharp thrill of his bite, quick and precise. He could break bones effortlessly now, twist bodies irreparably if he wanted—piercing the thin, flimsy defense of skin wasn't hard. Enthralled like this, the man wouldn't feel the ache of the bite, only the blissful lethargy, the sweet pleasure crawling under the skin. He moaned, used and wanting. Tim swallowed, eyes half lidded, caught up in it as much as his meal and nearly undone by the relief it brought. He hadn't realized how much his newly changed body needed it. But now, mouth pressed to the neck of the man in his arms, he could feel the gradual release of tension. Slowly, the desperate cry of his own blood died down, the raw need singing through his veins pacified by the blood he was borrowing.

The man moaned again. Perhaps his meals didn't enjoy the experience as much as Dick's did, but they wouldn't have nightmares either. Maybe they'd even dream vague dreams of blue eyes and fair skin. Maybe they'd be a little easier to catch next time.

"You're way too nice to them," Jason muttered behind him. Tim smiled against the neck of the man he held captive in something like a lover's embrace before pulling back, kissing the marks of his presence from dirty skin.

"They didn't stand a chance. There's no sense being any crueler," Tim replied. The men Jason had caught were tied together, maybe a little roughed up but alive. Tim added his man to the pile, somewhat victorious that there was a pile, not just bodies in a dumpster.

"This world killed you. You're going to forgive it just like that?"

"Hmm," Tim replied noncommittally. "That man had heard about us. Someone was sloppy."

"I was having a bad year," Jason replied irritably. When Tim only raised an eyebrow, Jason threw his hands in the air. "All right, I was having a bad century."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"So you thought you'd just what? Pop back up one year, shout Surprise! and everything would go back to normal?" Tim winced, reaching out to Jason, trying to keep him from drawing away again.

"Show me." He stretched up on tiptoes, thumb brushing over the pulse-point at the base of Jason's neck, asking. It was different with their kind. It had always been different. "Show me what it was like." Jason didn't nod, but he didn't bar him access either, which was probably as close to permission as he was going to get. Tim didn't bother waiting for those green eyes to meet his, didn't bother trying to take the sting of it away—Jason had never let Tim enthrall him. So Tim bit down into that strong neck, past the veneer, the façade that kept them all safe, catching up on what he'd missed.

This wasn't a meal. This was… sharing.

He needed to know what he'd put his family through, or at least what he'd put Jason through.

It came quickly, liquid rage across his tongue. He could feel the anger, overwhelming anger at a world that had betrayed him, left him with nothing, not even the boy who so frequently shared his nights side by side against a city gone mad. Sadness overpowered everything else, drowning out reason—a sorrow to turn the long nights black, starless and empty. Sorrow to turn the streets red. Jason's blood, Jason's life, inside of him. Tim gasped into it, fighting briefly through the overpowering foreign emotions.

Then Jason's fingers were on him, brushing black wisps of hair aside, grounding him even as the older boy leaned down. Tim shivered, tilting to make it easier—fighting against the instinctive need to hide the vulnerability of the position, to hide the truth. Then Jason's incisors were in him, pulling him out of himself. Tim gasped into his own hold again. He'd nearly forgotten. This pain, cutting through him, bright and breathless. Jason hadn't bothered to take it away, reciprocating Tim's own sentiment. Maybe it was a reprimand born of the lingering irritation the older boy definitely still harbored. Tim took it, pulled Jason closer with the heel of a hand at the base of his skull, kissing his own marks away from the bronzed skin with infinitely more gentleness than he'd bitten down. Feeling the skin knit together under the caress of his tongue while he waited for the older boy to finish, Tim had to admit that perhaps his plan had had more casualties than he'd accounted for. He'd known that it would be hard on his family. He'd known it would hurt them. But he'd also known they were strong, that they would endure and move on. Or, at least, he'd thought they would move on.

Had he put too high a priority on his family's safety? Not a high enough priority on their wellbeing? When had he started treating his family's happiness as a minor issue, fixable at a later date? In all his calculations, his cold reason, why hadn't he seen the damage he was doing to his family? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Some things shouldn't be sacrificed so easily.

He wasn't above admitting there had been unforeseen flaws in his plan.

"I'm sorry," Tim replied, whispering the words to the dark, cold sky as he tilted his head back farther into Jason's supportive hand, offering everything, because he could see now. He'd tried to spare them, but instead he'd nearly been the schism that pulled them apart.

When Jason finally pulled away, his frown was worried, looking down at him. Tim knew what he'd found, what the older boy had taken from him, but Jason didn't immediately call him out, responding to Tim's admission first.

"For which part?" The hand still at the back of Tim's skull tugged a gentle warning at strands of black hair.

"For hurting everyone. For abandoning everyone."

"Not for getting yourself killed? Not for failing to trust us?"

"I would have done it again, if it was the only way…"

Jason's eyebrows crinkled with pent-up frustration. "I saw, you know." He licked his lips, revisiting the taste, one hand sliding to tap meaningfully along the blue ribbon under the pale skin of a wrist. Never releasing him. Not from accountability for his trespass. Not from his grip. "You're not okay. You're broken. You haven't told the others."

Of course Jason was going to call him on it. Tim's fingers twitched for his cowl, wishing it were on even if it didn't hide anything anymore. He settled for a sardonic smile.

"You once asked me if that kid you met was all right." Tim's already wan smile faltered. "He's not." He took in a shaky breath. "Jason, I may be damaged…" He could handle the influx of memories now, pull them up at will, but he wasn't whole. "Dick looks at me and sees the little brother he lost all those years ago. It means a lot to me that he believed in me, but it's been so long, Timothy doesn't really exist anymore."

"He doesn't have to." Because Jason never demanded more from him than he could give. Tim leaned into that knowledge, warm and safe.

"Your support when I couldn't remember who I was… I really appreciated it."

"You thought you were bearing all the hardship of your plan alone."

"Yes." Tim's eyes slanted away.

"That. That right there is the problem." Jason's thumbs dug into his shoulders. "Stop trying to handle everything yourself. Bother us once in awhile, jeez, kid. That's what family is there for!"

"But you would have had to–"

"No. Stop making our decisions for us. You let us help from now on, you hear me? No more stupid plans."

"It wasn't that bad of a plan," he defended, bemused.

"It was a terrible plan."

"Don't worry," he replied, thoughts turning dark, "it's not an experience I care to repeat." It had taken a higher psychological toll than even Tim had calculated. There were things he wouldn't be able to talk about in more than wrote, mechanical reiteration for a long time. He'd died. Seven cycles of reincarnation had left him fragmented, little pieces broken off and lost along the way.

He'd hurt Jason more than he'd intended. He couldn't ever make up for that.

"Honestly," Tim continued, shaking off the dark turn of his thoughts, "I never want to run into another curse again."

"I don't know." Jason's thumb brushed the pale, unblemished skin of his cheek. "You looked kind of kinky in black curse marks."

"Yes," Tim replied, droll. "Living, soul-consuming curse marks."

"In all seriousness…" Jason's mouth turned down threateningly. "You'll come to us next time, won't you?" When Tim looked only pensive, Jason growled, grip tightening. "So help me, if you say no, I'll enthrall you and make you see reason. I'll lock you away in the manor if I have to."

"I can't come to you for everything." Tim frowned.

"At the very least, any time you consider death a serious option."

It was giving up more than Jason realized. "Very well." He conceded. Jason pulled him into a hug, tucking him under his chin, fiercely tight. The arm around Tim's waist would have broken bones only a day ago. It felt only warming now.

"Dang, I thought I'd lost you, kid."

"Never," he replied, smiling contentedly into the crook of the older boy's neck. "Never, I'll always come back." It felt good to be beside Jason again. To be with this person more than anyone else—the one who'd brought him back from the edge of death twice now, the one who'd been there, holding him close when he came back to himself afterward, the one who'd found him first in this life, who'd never really stopped looking.

"I only have one question," Jason said suddenly, eyebrows furrowing. "How did you know we'd find you?" Tim grinned, because it was the one thing he'd known with absolute certainty.

"You're my brothers. You'll always find me."

Epilogue

"I knew I wasn't dreaming," the man whispered, staring at him worshipfully. Tim frowned. "I knew I'd get to see you again, Pretty, if I tried often enough."

The man gasped breathlessly when Tim shoved him up against the crumbling marble exterior of the bank next to his fellow, and if it was a little harder than usual, well, he really had to discourage this kind of behavior. Not that it helped.

"You seem a little rougher lately," his already-tied companion noted. "Bad day? We're always here if you need to let a little anger out."

"Mm, don't worry about me, Pretty, I can do rough."

Tim ignored the man, working efficiently (and with as little physical contact as possible) to tie him up. Of course, that only brought its own stream of commentary.

"Yeeessss. Oh Pretty, you can tie me up all the time. I'm here for you any day."

Tim's frown was fast becoming a scowl. Usually this was the kind of issue Dick had, encouraging the criminals to come out en masse to get more—he couldn't count the number of times some criminal he'd apprehended had complained about not getting "the hot, sexy one." One day he was going to make a chart that showed in vivid color how Dick's patrolling encouraged criminal behavior and petty crime percentages. No one came out twice where Bruce patrolled, of course. All the criminals who crossed paths with him ended up jibbering in reform centers.

"So… three AM next Saturday?" one of the would-be criminals asked hopefully. Behind him, Jason was nearly doubled over, hooting most unhelpfully.

"I told you you were too nice to them, Red!"

Tim huffed and the two would-be criminals tied up behind him sighed in unison—a sigh that clipped suspiciously short when he turned his best glare on them, removed his cowl, shook his hair out, and rolled both of their minds simultaneously. Not difficult when they were both staring like enraptured idiots.

Time to put a foot down. A very solid foot. Stomped on this kind of behavior.

"You will never commit another crime just to meet me or any other vigilante again. You will forget about me entirely. When you are questioned by the police, you will admit readily to all immoral behavior."

That done, he rounded on Jason, who was still snickering, and punched him in the shoulder. In retaliation, Jason snagged him around the waist, jumping him up to the roof, where Tim promptly rapped the older boy's offending knuckles with his bo.

"Hey!" The grip loosened just enough for him to start to slip away, only to be jerked back by the butt of a gun—Jason had used it to extend his reach—and it pulled Tim off balance just enough that the older boy was able to tackle him to the ground. They landed in a breathless pile.

"Jason! Really, we have work to do!" Tim tried to push the larger boy off him.

"Oh… Gravity… Increasing…" Jason squashed Tim back flat to the roof.

"You jerk!"

"You two are incorrigible." At the deriding tone, Tim tried to sit up with a yelp, shoving at Jason more frantically, who only rolled over, pinning him more effectively rather than less, to take in their visitors.

"Hey, brat," Jason replied. Damian and Dick perched on the raised rim of the roof—Damian standing, arms crossed, and Dick crouched in that way only Dick could, grinning at them.

"What? Family hug time and you didn't invite us?" He looked about a half second from joining them. Jason must have realized the danger, because he pinned him with his very best, coldest glare.

"No."

Dick only stilled—that perfectly focused stillness of a hunter seconds prior to going for the kill.

"No," Jason repeated, tensing, but it was too late.

Dick pounced.

Jason sprang to his feet as the little shadows under them scattered worriedly in all directions, freeing Tim. Neither of them made it more than a step before Dick had them though, crushing them both into a hug while Damian tutted over their ridiculous antics.

"Let me go, Dickie-Bird," Jason growled, struggling to reach one of his Glocks, the better to shoot the older boy. "We agreed: I only come back on the condition that you don't drag me into any of your family sappiness."

"Uh-uh." Dick squeezed harder. "I've got both of my little brothers back and I'm not losing them again!"

"Tt. I'd say you got yourself into it anyway, Todd." Damian smirked smugly from his position of freedom outside the hug circle, which only served to turn Dick's attention to him.

"Come on, Dami, you too!"

"I am not participating in such unseemly behav–" He cut off with a yelp as Dick dragged him in, struggling nearly as fiercely as Jason against the indignity.

Still caught in the hug himself, Tim caught Jason's annoyed expression and smiled, waiting for the older boy to roll his eyes before turning the smile knowingly on the dark roof across the street and the man crouched there, watching over them.

In some ways—all the ways that mattered—his family hadn't changed one bit.

Author Notes: I hope my beta will forgive me for posting without her. I wanted to get this up, and I feel too worn out to make any changes last second anyway. It's finally the end—all 7,115 words of it. For the longest time I thought I'd never get here. The epilogue is totally my beta's fault, whether she realizes it or not. She asked me if the thugs of Gotham knew they were being caught and chewed on by vampires and what they thought about it. I'm sure I already addressed this a very tiny bit back at the beginning where Tim talks about listening to stories on the streets of Jason's handiwork (though he doesn't know that's what it is), but hopefully here you can see that there's a lot of disbelief because memories get erased so often. Still, most people know something's going on. These vampires are like the cats you keep around to keep down the rodent population. XD

I am trying to get better at writing. Am I allowed here at the end to beg readers to tell me what your favorite part of this story was (favorite chapter or scene?), or what part was most confusing, anything you still don't understand? Any parts I could have done better? I can already look back and see things I wish I'd integrated sooner or more strongly (like the seal), but I can't tell if the weak places I see are the same places my readers see… help me identify my flaws? Also, I tweaked Jason a bit in this story so his killing wasn't just people who deserved it—a different kind of madness perhaps, over Tim's death instead of his own—hoping to work through it in the story. Wondering how many people disliked that? (Oh, big huge thank you to the people who answered my previous chapters' questions!)

Let me do some final clearing up here. Did everyone understand that Timothy never was a separate entity? All of Tim's memories were too much for him to handle as he was. It was like an overload of information he didn't want to accept, and his brain dealt with it by compartmentalizing the parts that didn't belong to his current persona. Timothy's voice was just the means of accessing those memories in a more controlled fashion, reminding him of things he needed to know, sending him important warnings.

There are two stories I'm working on after this, but my husband and I are thinking of having another child, and if I only have time to finish one, which would you rather see...? The first is the untitled Alternate Universe sequel version of this fic that I mentioned earlier, where Dick and Jason didn't make it to Tim soon enough, Ra's wins, finds Tim in his next incarnation at a very early age, so Tim grows up completely loyal to Ra's, believing the Waynes are the monsters out to destroy everything they've accomplished. There is demonic possession. *wince* I have just under 5000 words written on it so far.

The second fic is my Persona fic (I have 7000 words written on this one), where vigilantes are Personas: wishes of strong-minded people or collectives given physical form, and "possess" the bodies of normal people in order to operate. Needless to say, Tim is absolutely stymied over why he keeps waking up in the morning completely exhausted and frequently with various wounds he doesn't remember acquiring. Meanwhile, Jason and Dick, who have mastered control of their own Personas, are trying to figure out who the heck the new Robin is. Amidst all the confusion, something is physically tearing the Personas of Gotham out of their hosts, and it may spell trouble for our vigilantes.