Chapter Text
The first of October ushers in one of the most beautiful Saturdays Tim’s experienced in a long time. The sun smiles on Gotham, wide and bright. The sky is clear and the air crisp. The heat of summer is finally gone. It’s sixty-eight with a breeze. At eleven in the morning, the park is packed.
From his view on the bench, Tim can see the central area. There’s a half a mile loop where joggers, bikers, and walkers alike exercise and enjoy the good weather. There are groups of people playing frisbee and tossing balls in the grassy area inside the path. There are even a few girls from Gotham Prep sitting in camping chairs, talking and laughing. They wave when Tim first arrives with Damian, but they’re not his friends, so they’ve ignored him since he sat on the bench.
On the far end, opposite of Tim, there are a dozen middle-aged women doing yoga in expensive leggings and sports bras. There are other paths in the park, areas with playgrounds for kids and pavilions where people can gather and eat. There’s even a nature center towards the back that details the habitats of local wildlife. Both Tim and Damian like this spot best for the flatness of the ground, and thin tree coverage. It’s easy to see who’s coming and going. It’s also close to the parking lot.
The fresh air eases his headache, and the cheerful mood of those around him makes leaving the manor worth it. Titus sits panting at his feet. His leash hangs loosely between Tim’s fingers. The dog doesn’t need it. The entitled people of this area demand the thing.
Titus began their visit running next to Damian, but he can’t make their four mile run anymore. Old age and arthritic joints makes his brother drop his pet off with Tim after mile one. Tim doesn’t mind. The sound of the dog’s breathing and the pressure of his body against Tim’s leg is comforting. Especially after such a rough night.
He pulls out his phone and checks his messages. Alfred’s, “How are you feeling, my boy?” makes him smile. The gray-haired man is always the first person to ask how he’s doing after an injury. He checked Tim out early this morning. He re-wrapped Tim’s ribs, and sat with him on the couch while Tim iced his shoulder. Then he told Tim to not spend such a beautiful day dwelling.
It’s Alfred’s shopping day. Twice a month, he heads into downtown Gothman to pick up speciality groceries and stop by his favorite tea shop. Bruce left at the crack of dawn for Justice League meeting. Damian needled Tim to take him to the park, so he could run. Tim popped some Tylenol and grabbed his keys.
Now, after soaking up the rays without sweat dripping everywhere, Tim can admit Alfred’s push to get out of the house is wise. That’s not a surprise. Alfred only gives wise advice , Tim thinks with a snort. His torso still throbs, and the ache in his left shoulder is a constant reminder of his embarrassing failed patrol two days ago. Despite those things, seeing everyone playing and smiling lifts his spirits.
He texts Alfred back, checks his email, then reviews his notes on Malcolm MacTaggert. He’s one of Black Mask’s crew who was recently released from prison. There have been three gory crime scenes with his M.O. since his release. The Gotham police can’t seem to pin anything on him. Commission Gordon asked Batman for his help to gather evidence.
Tim staked him out for three nights. Then, around one am two nights ago, MacTaggert came out of the bar with a stumbling woman. His wide fingers were wrapping tightly around her wrist. Tim followed them two blocks to MacTaggert’s car. The woman started crying and pleading when the man pushed her into the passenger seat. Tim stepped in.
MacTaggert is a big man who was surprisingly agile on his feet. Tim should have taken him down with ease. Instead, he let himself be surprised by the woman screaming. MacTaggert had dislocated his shoulder and bruised his ribs before scurrying away.
You were distracted and disorganized. The thought has swirled around in Tim’s head for days. He’s been off for months. Like Bruce, Tim likes to leave no stone unturned. He has files of information on all his enemies, and all his allies. He wants every scrap of intelligence he can get his hands on about anyone who impacts his life and the lives of his family members. He has maps and detailed analyses stored away on the Bat server, encoded so only he can access them.
Something happened earlier this summer, something with Dick and Jason and that damn mysterious Bowery family. His older brothers won’t talk about it. Tim knows the information he can find on them, on Tony Stark and Doctor Stephen Strange, isn’t accurate. There might be kernels of truth– that they are smart, talented men. They admitted themselves that they’re hiding, and that the information publicly shared is fake.
Whomever created their files and destroyed the real information is skilled. Both he and Barbara have looked and looked and looked. The only real intel Tim can count on are the stories from Gotham residents who have interacted with the men over the last year. He’s personally spoken with a dozen people who have visited the doctor. He has second hand accounts of many more. They all sing his praises and talk about his skills.
Tim has pages of notes on the things the engineer, Tony, has fixed for people. Endless amounts of appliances, big and small, computers, vehicles, and of course the rehabbed park in Crime Alley. People rave about his kid, who tags along on most of his jobs.
Despite all of that, the family stole weapons of mass destruction. They were able to blackout camera footage for hours throughout Gothman. They were able to steal and disappear four large LexCorp missiles. They said Tony dismantled them. There’s no proof that Tim can find. No parts sold or strange pieces turning up in Gotham’s garbage heaps or salvage yards.
Tim knows one thing for sure. These men are dangerous, and Tim has been distracted by them for months.
Damian's return drags him from his spiraling thoughts. The young teen stops at the bench, and says through deep, panting breaths, “How’s Titus been?” He bends down, gives the dog a good scratch, and then moves into a stretch.
“Perfect, as usual,” Tim replies. Red tints Damian’s face, blood pumping from his run. He’s in a pair of black jogging pants and a matching t-shirt. Sweat dampens his collar and spots his underarms. “Good run?”
“Adequate,” Damian says with his usual dryness. “It’s a nice day, but there are too many people here for me to enjoy it.”
Tim gets that. Still, it’s his duty to tease his brother. “The people are here because of the nice day.” He reaches out and pokes Damian’s side. The motion sends a twinge of pain through him.
Damian rolls his eyes. “If you didn’t get your ass kicked, you could have joined me.”
“Who would hang out with Titus then?” Tim says. Damian huffs, finishes his stretching, then parks himself next to Tim on the bench.
They sit there in silence, people watching. It isn’t uncomfortable. There are times when he and Damian don’t get along, but those moments are getting fewer as they get older. Minutes pass, and Tim brings his attention back to his brother. He’s staring intently at the girls from Gotham Prep. It makes Tim laugh. “I think they’re a little old for you.”
Damian scowls. “I’m not looking to date them,” he says unconvincingly. Tim meets his eyes and the look there makes him laugh again. Damian slumps. “I’m just looking.”
Tim doesn’t blame him. The girls are pretty, though they aren’t his type. They’re also seniors, alongside him. Damian’s just started his freshmen year. While he’s as good looking as Bruce, he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet. He still looks baby-faced and boyish, despite the defined muscles all throughout his body.
“It’s fine to look,” Tim says. Damian gives him a sideways grin.
A shadow touches Titus' long body, then a boy appears. He’s a few years younger than Damian. He has a mop of thick, wavy brown hair, a small frame, and a wide smile. “Hi!” he says with a cheerful wave. “I like your dog.”
Damian’s grin turns annoyed. Great Danes aren’t common around here, so people often come up to him to ask all sorts of questions. They usually want to pet the dog. The boy doesn’t seem to catch Damian’s mood. “He’s so big! How much does he weigh? What’s his name?”
It’s Tim who answers, “Almost two hundred pounds, and Titus.”
The kid’s mouth drops open. “Wow! That’s way more than me.” He squats down and beams at Titus. He holds his hand, palm out, for Titus to sniff. “I bet you’re such a good dog. You’re so handsome and well behaved.” Titus’s tail thumps against the ground. He looks at both Tim and Damian. “Am I allowed to pet him?”
Most people don’t ask. They just reach out. It pisses Damian off to no end. “I guess,” his brother says reluctantly. “He does seem to like you.”
The boy’s hand begins to reach out, but he stops. “I don’t have too,” he says quickly. “I just really like dogs.” He looks longingly at Titus.
Surprisingly, Damian says, “No, it’s okay. You can pet him.”
The boy’s grin is sweet and joyful. He buries his fingers behind Titus' ears and massages. “You’re such a good boy Titus,” the kid croons. He runs his palms under the dog’s chin, and then to his hind quarters. The dog rolls over and bears his stomach.
“This is the best day,” the kid says. He rubs Titus’s belly for all he’s worth. Tim smiles and looks over at Damian. The corners of his mouth are curled ever so slightly up.
“I’m Tim,” he says. “And this is my brother Damian.”
The kid doesn’t take his hands from the dog. “I’m Peter!” he says.
“Nice to meet you Peter.” Tim watches as Peter flops himself onto the ground next to Titus so he can get closer. The kids' clothes are worn. His jeans are threadbare. The shape of his boney kneecaps are visible through the fabric. He has a pale red shirt on. Whatever image it once held is undetectable. The only reason Tim knows it was once something is because there are spots of faded color in a rectangular shape on the front.
Wherever the kid is from, it isn’t from the suburb of Bristol, where they are. The kids in this area are wealthy and well dressed. He also doesn’t have a Gotham accent. The more he sweet talks Titus, the clearer that becomes.
“Where are you from?” Tim asks.
The question jerks Peter’s attention away from the Great Dane. He pushes his lips together before he answers. “Originally from New York.”
“You sound like you’re from New York,” Damian says. “I can hear your accent.”
Red splotches color the boys cheeks. “It’s not that different from the accents here,” he says.
Tim feels bad for him. Both he and Damian are trained to notice things. “No, it’s not.”
“Peter!” a voice calls out loudly from their left. “Why am I not surprised to find you near the largest dog around.” The tone is lighthearted and amused. When the body attached to the voice comes into view, shock stiffens Tim's whole body.
It’s Tony Stark. He’s in a pair of black jeans, and gray and black t-shirt. A tinted pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. They’re very similar to the ones on Peter’s face. A trimmed mustache and goatee frame his mouth. He looks much healthier and perky than the previous time they met.
“Holy shit,” the man says. He gets close enough that his boots press against Peter, who’s still on the ground next to Titus. “I wasn’t expecting to see you .”
Tim stands up. A wave of pain ripples through his middle. He grits his teeth. Damian stands too. “You know each other?” his brother asks carefully.
Stark crosses his arms. Slower than Damian, Peter gets to his feet. There is dirt on the backs of his pants. “This is Tim. Jason and Dick’s brother,” Stark says.
Peter’s eyes go wide. “The one who came over our house when I was asleep?” The older man nods. “Oh, wow,” the kid says.
Damian’s eyes sharpen to harsh slits. “Over their house?” he repeats. He tilts his head, looks around to see who’s near, and when he finds no one, he whispers, “The missiles?”
While Jason and Dick might be hush-hush about this family, Tim isn’t. He shared what he learned with the others. “Oh my god,” Peter says, awed. He reaches out, like he’s going to touch Damian’s arm. At Damian’s glare, he stops mid air. He swallows and brings his hand back to his side.
Standing next to Stark, it’s clear to see their resemblance. Besides their cheap clothes and matching glasses, Peter looks like his father. Both are petite, dark haired, and have a sort of energy about them that speaks to brains that are never quiet. The adult is wider in the shoulders, and he’s got large, muscled arms. Peter might bulk up to that after puberty, but only time will tell. They also have similar, silver colored cuffs around both wrists. It’s unusual to see men with jewelry like that.
The kid looks from his dad, to Tim and then Damian again. He leans forward and says, “You are so cool.” His eyes dart to Tim. “Both of you.”
Damian scowls. “You’re the one who stuck me to the roof with that weird sticky substance.”
Embarrassment flashes across the kid’s face. It reddens his skin. “I didn’t want to do that,” he says. “I just didn’t want you to hurt me, or me to hurt you.” He rotates his left cuff around his wrist.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Stark says. He puts his hand on his son’s shoulder.
Damian ignores both of their words, and plows forward. “We analyzed the substance. We’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”
Peter brightens. “I made it!”
“What?” The word falls out of Tim’s mouth.
Stark’s face darkens. “Peter, here is not the place for discussing that.”
The kid’s mouth presses shut. He looks at Damian and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He looks at his dad and asks, “What if we go someplace private? I can tell him about my webbing.”
Webbing?
The man sighs, rubs his hand over his chin, then says, “Sure Pete.” The kid grins, and it’s as if the sun came out from behind the clouds. Everything seems more welcoming and steady.
That is something powerful, Tim thinks. Kon’s smile has a similar effect.
Stark tugs Peter into his side for a hug. Then he bends down and kisses his forehead and ruffles his hair. Tim can’t help but feel a wave of fondness. If nothing else, this man clearly loves his kid. “Be careful,” he says softly.
Peter nods. Domain reaches for Titus leash. Like Tim, he’s never one to turn down intel. “The car is parked in the lot there,” he points behind them. “Ours is the black Audi SUV in the fourth spot in the second row.” Tim pulls the keys from his pocket and hands them over. “Peter and I can chat there.”
Stark eyes the parking lot, but he doesn’t tell them to stop. As they walk away, Tim hears Peter ask, “How old are you?”
Damian’s answer is grumbled out. “Thirteen.” He’ll be fourteen in December.
“I’m eleven,” Peter says. “I have a friend named Abdi who’s almost thirteen.” Then the boys are far enough away that he can’t hear them anymore. It doesn’t matter. Damian will tell him everything they discuss later.
It feels awkward, standing there with Stark. Tim’s body hurts, and suddenly, he’s tired. He sits back down on the bench. Stark watches the boys for another minute, then he sits besides Tim.
Tim has a million questions. Who are you, really? Are you the talented hacker? Are you the one covering your tracks, or is that someone else? You clearly have some computer skills to take care of those cameras. What weapons have you built? Are you building something now? Why did you choose Gotham to hide?
“Broken ribs?” Stark asks.
“I’m sorry?” Tim says, derailed from his thoughts.
Stark waves his hand at Tim’s torso. “Broken ribs?” he asks again. Tim doesn’t know how to answer. Stark continues talking. “I recognize the signs.”
Slowly, Tim says, “Not broken, just bruised.” He points to his shoulder. “This was also dislocated, but it’s healing now.”
The man frowns. “You know, I’ve only met you twice, and you’ve been injured both times.”
Anger rises in his chest. Stark isn’t wrong. “It’s just unfortunate timing,” Tim says darkly. The previous time had been a muscle tear from a fight with a burglary gone wrong.
An eyebrow raises on the man’s face. “Hmm,” he hums. “You’re just a kid, you shouldn’t have to do such dangerous work.”
“I’m not a kid,” Tim snaps. “Gotham is a dangerous place, and I don’t have to do anything. ” He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that they are out in public and people are milling around everywhere. “Besides, there are things I can do that others can’t.”
Stark sighs. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Look,” Tim says, deciding on going the direct route. “I don’t trust you. I know that Jason and Dick respect you, and that there’s something they aren’t telling me about you and your husband.” The man’s eyes narrow. Tim keeps talking. “It’s clear that you and your family have helped a lot of people in the Bowery, and in Crime Alley. I appreciate that.”
Stark stares at him for a moment, then turns their conversation in a different direction. “Don’t you wear kevlar? How did you injure your ribs?”
It’s so out of left field, that Tim answers honestly. “I was punched repeatedly by a man much stronger and larger than me. I have a few different suits for patrolling. I didn’t think I was doing anything but observing, so I wasn’t wearing heavy armor. Plus, I was distracted. It was stupid mistake that I won’t make again.”
I hope. Tim knows he isn’t as skilled in the fighting arena as some of his other siblings. He doesn’t have Dick’s grace, or Jason’s powerful form. He isn’t disciplined or as skilled in weaponry as Damian. He is nowhere near as fluent in martial arts as Cas. He relies on his quick wits and his focus to compete. When he’s distracted, bad things happen.
“You need better gear,” Stark says thoughtfully. A strange look settles on his face. Tim has no idea what it means.
Anger stirs in his chest. Bruce spares no expense when it comes to R&D for their patrol gear. “I have great gear,” Tim says in defense. “I just need to make better judgement calls. Practice more. Stay focused.”
Stark looks him up and down. Then he says, “You’re about my size. A little taller.”
“What?” Tim asks.
“I’ll need a few days to settle my current projects,” the man says, mostly to himself. He snaps his fingers then points at Tim. “Come over next weekend. We’ll test some things out.”
“What?” Tim says again. He’s completely lost the thread of this conversation.
Stark grins. “Gear. I’ll make you better gear. It will take time of course.” He eyes Tim. “Though, if you want to swing some of that money you have my way, it will help things move faster.”
“I’m not giving you any money.”
The older man chuckles. “You will.”
Tim shakes his head. “I’m not coming over to your house.”
“I’ll let you snoop through my workshop.”
Now that intrigues him. “You have a workshop at your apartment?” Tim thinks about the small place and wonders where he has it stored away.
“You’ll have to come over and find out.” Stark’s grin has morphed into more of a smirk. “Come on, it will be fun.” A wrinkle appears on the man’s forehead. “Though,” he muses, “Jason will probably be upset that I offered something to you first.” He taps his fingers against his arm. “I’ll have him come over too. I can make things for both of you. Between the three of us– and Peter– we’ll figure out how to get enough materials for the nanites.”
“Nanites?” Tim’s mind is whirling. This man works in nanites? According to Cyborg, that type of technology is decades away from fruition.
Stark twists on the bench and looks at the parking lot. “Do you think they’ll be much longer?” He doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “Peter isn’t great at regulating his conversation. He likes to talk. I should probably go check on them.”
He leaves Tim sitting, and wanders away. Tim stares at his back. He can’t look away.
What in the world just happened? He feels like he was just flipped on his back in a surprised knock out.
Did I just make a new friend, or did I get tricked by an enemy?
There’s only one way to find out.