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Tim was fairly sure that his first memory always would have been of his family's trip to Haly's Circus, even if that night hadn't turned out to be the infamous final flight of the Flying Graysons. Because even before the show had begun, Tim had experienced what his parents lauded as a very important moment in the life of a young drake.
The Flying Graysons had been posing for photos with fans entering the circus grounds. Their son was hamming it up for the visitors, performing a fluid and seemingly never-ending string of flips and somersaults and cartwheels, absolutely soaking up the sounds of awe and delight from the crowd they were drawing, and Tim had taken one look at him and felt something clench tight in his chest.
"Mama," he'd said, tugging fiercely on the hem of her dress and pointing desperately at the scene taking place near the entrance of the big top. "Mama, it's mine!"
She'd crouched next to him, balancing perfectly in heels even as she got down to a toddler's height so that she could follow the direction his pudgy fingers were pointing in.
"Ah, an aerialist," she'd hummed, a note of admiration in her voice. "Not a bad choice at all. Their work is beautiful and very skilled, and they understand what it's like to fly through the air. But..."
And here she scooped Tim up into her arms, rolling to a smooth stand and nuzzling her nose into the soft baby curls next to his ear.
"The problem with hoarding people," she'd said, quiet, secret, just for the two of them. "Is that they have a tendency to wander. And performers in a circus wander even more than most. You may have to wait until you're older and are capable of protecting and traveling with a moving hoard."
Tim may not have understood all of the words that his mother said, but he could understand the sympathy in her voice, the fondness in her scent tinged with the bittersweet scent of resignation, and he knew that his first ever imprint on a hoard was being denied to him.
"But Mama!" he'd whined quietly, eyes beginning to burn as he tugged now on her sleeve. "It's mine!"
"Maybe one day, my love," she'd murmured, scenting his hair again while her eyes scanned the crowd for his father, who was supposed to be buying them snacks. "But for now, perhaps a photo will suffice?"
Tim hadn't been pleased, but part of him understood why he was being turned down.
Any dragon worth his hindclaw's weight in gold knew that in order to amass a hoard, you first needed to be able to protect a hoard.
So today Tim would collect a photograph, and it would have to do until he was old enough to come back and claim his acrobat.
That turned out to be the last day that Tim's acrobat ever took to the air – at least, until Tim was watching the news one night many years later and saw Robin perform the very same quadruple flip that had been permanently seared into Tim's mind by Dick Grayson so many years ago.
"Mama!" he'd hissed on the phone that night, his voice sounding even more sibilant in his excitement. "Mama, I found my acrobat! He's Robin now! He does the same flip and everything!"
His mother's thoughtful hum echoed down the line, even all the way from her dig in Tibet. "Dick Grayson of the Flying Graysons is Gotham's own Robin now? That is unexpected. Darling, you realize what that means, don't you?"
Tim bounced on his toes, almost jostling the phone from his own hand. "That he stayed in Gotham because he wants to be part of my hoard?"
The sound of his mother's laugh brought that same curl of warmth to his chest that thinking about starting his hoard did.
"Perhaps not quite yet. But it does suggest that Dick Grayson's foster father may be the Batman himself. He may be a challenge in collecting your hoard."
Tim froze on his tip-toes, blindsided by the remark.
Dick Grayson's foster father was Bruce Wayne, a man Tim had only seen from the fringes of his mother's skirt at a high-profile gala years ago. Tim's parents were wealthy enough to run in the same circles as the Waynes, but by nature of amassing and maintaining their hoard on their digs, they were rarely in town for most of the society events hosted by Gotham's elite.
Bruce Wayne, the Batman, may give Tim a hard time about trying to collect his son for his hoard, even if at this point in Tim's development "collecting" Dick Grayson would mostly mean following him around and jealously defending him from interloping drakes keen on stealing his hoard and territory.
Unless...
"Mama? What if aerialists aren't my hoard? What if it's bats?"
He could hear the echo of surprised amusement in her voice as she said, "Well, it may be a small hoard for now, but I dare say an incredibly valuable one. You may be a bit young still to defend a hoard like this, though. In my experience, Bruce Wayne doesn't do well with following directions, even when it's to his own benefit. You may need to wait until you're older to make sure you can keep the hoard together. But for now, perhaps a photo will suffice?"
It wasn't the answer that Tim wanted to hear, but in retrospect, he knew that his mother's logic was sound. The Batman would need careful handling if Tim were to integrate him into his hoard. Ideally, none of his hoard would know that they were part of the hoard until they'd been appropriately settled in to it. Tim would have to be a bit older still in order for Batman and Robin to take him seriously and respect that he could protect them.
So, a photograph would have to suffice.
He had immense appreciation for the brand new professional-grade camera that his mother had express-shipped to him the following day. It came with a note stating that often for the sake of appearances she and Tim's father were forced to part with antiquities they'd hoarded, lest they risk the bad publicity of wealthy white Americans jealously collecting relics from around the world solely for their own enjoyment. "Which is exactly what we are doing," his mother's note added cheekily, "But unlike our peers we at least take enjoyment from our possessions. But when we cannot keep them, I know that a photograph I have taken for myself always makes me feel better than one taken by someone else."
And with that implicit permission, Tim began his nocturnal adventures following Batman and Robin, always in the search of the perfect shot.
It wasn't abnormal for drakes to be nocturnal. The degree of nocturnal behavior was often influenced by the specific breed of drake, but it wasn't uncommon for the species on a whole. Their eyesight was just as good at night as it was in the daytime – it had to be, for them to survive so long with only their own flames to light the way at night – and in combination with their enhanced sense of smell, it made them ideal hunters at a time of day when the prey couldn't see them coming.
Tim's prey just so happened to be Batman and Robin.
He didn't really want to admit to how long it took him to finally map out their normal patrol routes. Tim thought with chagrin that perhaps his mother was correct about him still being too young to maintain a hoard (a living one, at least), because when he finally determined how to sneak out without his nanny discovering him, make his way to the city, and track down Batman and Robin's location, a few months had passed since he'd realized that he was meant to hoard the Bats.
And during that time, he'd made some headway in his research on the potential identity of Batgirl (because surely she was meant to be part of his hoard too), and Robin had disappeared from the streets of Gotham. Tim had been following the news, and Dick Grayson also hadn't been making any headlines recently. He had hoped whatever injury Dick had sustained wasn't too bad...except then Nightwing appeared in Blüdhaven, and once Tim had figured out who Dick Grayson was, he could recognize him anywhere.
It made his chest tighten with discomfort, the opposite of the warmth he usually felt thinking about his hoard. He didn't like having his hoard separated like that, spread out where it would be difficult for him to watch them, to protect them and keep them safe.
It would be really difficult for him to sneak off to Blüdhaven to check on Dick, because he'd have to get public transportation and even in a place like Gotham, bus drivers were a little leery of taking small, unaccompanied minors across city lines, even when they offered uncomfortably large sums of cash as hush money.
Tim's mother had laughed uproariously when he grumpily shared this story, louder than he'd heard her laugh in quite some time. She'd also, infuriatingly enough, refused to aid him in his endeavors, and she wouldn't order his nanny to take him on a "field trip" to Blüdhaven as he'd requested.
"You're a Drake, darling," she'd said with a smile in her voice, "You'll have to use some ingenuity."
"You could help me," he'd grumbled.
His father's voice cut in here, sounding not a single bit apologetic as he said, "Where would the fun be in that? Half the satisfaction of having a hoard is knowing that you fought for it, champ. Like this one time, this museum curator was part of a dig we were on, and he tried to sneak off with a piece of Roman pottery that your mother had her eye on-"
"It was already mine," she interrupted, in a voice that would have sounded petulant if it was coming from anybody but Janet Drake, who had likely never sounded petulant even as a small child. "He didn't even want it for a museum. He was trying to take it before it could be properly documented and accessioned to keep it for his own personal collection."
"Which, to be fair, is what we were also trying to do," his father admitted. "But we're drakes, so."
Tim could hear the shrug in his voice. It was really all the explanation any of them needed.
"So I ate him," his mother announced, voice quick, obviously still proudly relishing in her achievement. "And then I took the vase home. It's that lovely piece in the east drawing room, darling, the one your father always hides Easter eggs in."
Tim frowned. He couldn't remember ever finding eggs there before. Then again, he wasn't sure he'd ever even looked there before. He said as much to his parents.
"Yes, I know," his mother hummed. "That's why it's full of Easter eggs right now."
Tim perked up. His father always filled the eggs with coins. All sorts of coins from all over the world, new and old, different colors and shapes, varying materials each with a different shine. He could lay them out on a sunny day and spend hours gently moving them around, watching the way the light reflected off of them. His parents had more than a few pictures and videos of him doing just that; coins were practically a rite of passage for a young drake, one of the first things that they ever had a compulsion to collect.
He'd have to look in the vase as soon as they hung up the phone. He was about to have so many coins.
In his distraction, he let himself ask the one question he'd been trying not to ask all night, because he knew what the answer would be.
"Mama, can't I just fly to Blüdhaven?"
The humor drained from his mother's voice in an instant.
"Absolutely not! And if you even think about showing your true form outside of the house when we aren't there with you-"
The threat trailed off, but Tim didn't need her to complete it. He sighed, though he'd already known that would be the answer.
"Yes, Mama," he mumbled. "I just...it would be easier-"
"It might seem like that at first, bud, but then it would be really dangerous if someone spotted you," his father said gently. "Drakes your age aren't strong fliers yet, and your magic hasn't come in enough for you to shield yourself without one of us there to do it for you. I know you're excited for your hoard, but unless you can figure out a safer way to get there, you may just have to wait until you're a little older."
"Or until Bruce Wayne holds an event that requires his son to return home," his mother added.
Which, it wasn't a bad idea, but something gave Tim the feeling that if Dick had fled Gotham to set up his own territory elsewhere, there must have been some sort of altercation with Batman to trigger the urge. And if Dick and Bruce were fighting, Dick may not be coming back for any Wayne galas any time soon.
"I guess," he sighed, slumping against his bed even if his parents couldn't see it.
"Chin up, darling," his mother said, as sure as if she could see exactly what he was doing. "When we get back, we'll take you to Blüdhaven and you can get your picture."
It wasn't as good as following Dick himself, as sussing out where he was living and maybe spreading his scent all over it so that no Blüdhaven drakes tried to mess with him. (According to Tim's parents drakes were few enough and territorial enough that the closest ones to Gotham were in New York City, and Blüdhaven was still technically part of their territory, but still – he couldn't afford to take any chances.)
While it hadn't been the answer Tim had wanted, and it hadn't stopped him from trying to trick his way onto buses out of town (his disguises hadn't worked yet but he felt they were improving), his parents did hold true to their promise: when they came home three weeks later, they spent a whole weekend stalking Dick Grayson from the police academy to his shoebox of an apartment and then around the streets of Blüdhaven as Nightwing, and Tim had more photos than he knew what to do with.
But it was also around this same time that something strange, something unexpected and utterly fascinating happened:
Robin reappeared on the streets of Gotham, dogging Batman's steps in those same scaly green shorts and pixie boots, and he had curly dark hair and was clearly only two or three years older than Tim and Dick Grayson was an adult now and also in Blüdhaven and-
And there was a new Robin for his collection.
Tim had been smitten before he'd even had a chance to meet him.
While he wasn't able to get anyone to take him out of the city, it wasn't unusual for kids to use public transportation within Gotham, and Tim could make himself blend in after getting his father to take him to a thrift shop to buy clothes that wouldn't make him stand out too badly (his mother normally took him to buy clothes, but she said it pained her too much to see him dressed that way and it was best that his father took him instead).
When the new Robin started appearing in the news (who acted like Robin had returned from a hiatus, could they truly not tell it was a different boy?), Tim began making the trek into Gotham every night, staking out Batman's normal patrol routes with his camera at the ready, desperate for a flash of yellow cape.
He ended up getting a lot more than just a picture.
Tim had been hiding out in an alley, having just heard the sounds of a fight coming from inside the warehouse to his left. He was trying to climb some crates so that he could see into one of the windows, maybe even get a shot of the action, when he was suddenly yanked backwards by the collar of his sweatshirt.
"Kid are you crazy?" a young voice behind him yelled as Tim was roughly dropped on the pavement. "This building could blow any minute, you gotta get out of here!"
The voice was rougher than Dick Grayson's had been in the recordings Tim had downloaded from the internet. It sounded younger, and the accent was much more Gotham than Dick's had ever been.
But Tim knew before he even looked up that this was the new Robin.
His Robin.
He stood there clutching his camera to his chest, eyes wide and star-struck as Robin frowned at him.
He smelled like engine oil and old books.
He was perfect.
"Kid, are you even listening to me? Geeze, I can't- do I gotta do it myself? Okay, fine."
The next thing Tim knew a gloved hand was wrapping around his forearm and he was being tugged out of the alleyway and down the street. Tim stumbled over his feet as he tried to keep up, not because Robin was dragging him too quickly but because Tim was distracted staring at Robin's hand on his arm. He wished he wasn't wearing a sweatshirt so that he could feel it better. He wished Robin wasn't wearing gloves. He'd never been able to touch his hoard before, not since Dick Grayson held him for a photo when he was just a toddler, and he hadn't known well enough to savor it back then, but this was-
"Kid!"
The hand that had been on his arm had moved to his shoulder and given Tim a little shake enough to make him finally look up into the black and white of Robin's mask.
"Look, are you gonna be okay? Batman wants me to finish clearing the area while he tries to defuse the bomb, I have to look for more people – are you gonna be okay to get home?"
Tim wanted desperately to say no, taking in deep, gulping breaths of Robin's scent to make sure it was properly imprinted on his memory. He listened to the quick thrum of Robin's heartbeat – more like a hummingbird than a robin – and thought about how maybe if he said no, Robin would come all the way home to Bristol with him, and maybe he could get Robin to come into his house, and he could show Robin his room, and maybe Robin wouldn't want to leave and they could be friends and he could have his hoard somewhere safe, and-
But Robin was working right now. He was being a hero and following orders from Batman and Tim would never want to interrupt their work, would never want someone else to get hurt just because he wanted to get his hoard sooner than later.
He could be patient. He could wait until he was older to collect his hoard, until he was better able to support them and protect them.
He bit his lip and nodded. "Yeah," he rasped, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. "Yeah, I'm okay."
This was all the answer Robin needed. He started to turn away, but Tim's hand fastened in his cape.
"Wait!"
Robin turned back to him, frowning deeper, scent a little frustrated, but Tim couldn't stop staring at his hand in shock that it was actually touching part of Robin's uniform.
In a rush he spat out the words, "Can I get a photo first?"
Robin's mask hid the movements of his eyes, and yet Tim knew he was being stared at in disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now?"
"Just real quick!" he begged, holding up his camera and fumbling with the settings.
For a moment he thought that Robin would deny him, would go running off back to the warehouse, in which case Tim would still take his picture as he left. But then he relented, and Robin stood with his hands on his hips, looking a little grumpy and pressed for time.
"Fine. Be fast, I gotta go."
Tim was thankful for the amazing shutter speed on his camera because he probably took an album's worth in that moment.
"Thank you!" he said a little too loudly when Robin started to move again.
Robin cast him another unknown but prolonged look; Tim hoped he sensed their connection too.
"You're a little strange," he said, but not like it was a bad thing. "Now stay outta trouble!"
He ran off before Tim could think of a reply.
Tim still took photos of him as he left.
As he sat on the floor of his bedroom over the next few days, a mess of photographs spread out around him as he gently touched each one, deciding where it should go in his album, he thought that while Dick had been super cool as the first Robin, he was even cooler now as Nightwing. But this Robin, the second Robin...this one might be his favorite Robin.
The newspaper that morning had announced that Bruce Wayne had adopted a new child. A street kid from Crime Alley named Jason Todd. There was a whole spread about him, complete with photographs that Tim didn't hesitate to cut out. He had curly dark hair and a surly expression on his face and Tim felt like his heart would burst with how much he loved him already.
He had the best hoard.
The next few years were perhaps the heyday of Tim's stalking habits. He continued following Batman and Robin around; he was getting better at keeping up, had figured the trick to scaling fire escapes (he asked his parents to sign him up for gymnastics to get better at reaching the bottom rungs), and he got some of the best shots of his life. He'd put together who Batgirl was (he was so curious about if the police commissioner knew about his daughter's hobby) and one time she'd saved him from a mugger and told him to go home and he'd even gotten a picture of her telling him off.
He framed it and put it on his wall.
Tim was also thrilled to attend galas now, because there was usually a chance that at least Bruce would be there, if not Jason or Dick. There was definitely some bad blood between Bruce and Dick, and Tim wished so badly that he was already in possession of his hoard so that he could figure out what it was and fix it, but he was still too young to fly on his own, and Dick's appearances in Gotham were sporadic and too random for Tim to plan around.
To Tim's immense disappointment, Jason was in high school now, meaning that Tim couldn't go to the same school as him even if his parents transferred him, or at least not for another few years. But sometimes Tim could find him at a gala or charity event and try to approach him, and that was still more than he'd ever had before, even if Jason seemed to think it was weird that some tiny middle schooler was attempting to offer him a plate of hors d'oeuvres.
"They don't put the pigs in a blanket on the main food table because they think it looks bad," Tim had whispered conspiratorially, "But they still make them if you ask because they know that's what people actually want."
This time he could watch the frown overtake Jason's features, the way his lips pursed and his blue eyes narrowed. Tim's heart was in his throat as Jason slowly took a croissant-wrapped cocktail weenie off the tray he'd stolen from the kitchen.
"Hey, kid," he'd said after he took a bite of the hot dog. "Are you, like, by chance into photography?"
Tim could have just about died on the spot. He was providing for his hoard and Jason remembered him. His parents would never believe this.
"Yes!" he'd squeaked. "Especially the Bats, they're my favorites!"
Jason continued frowning at him, but he'd gone for another pig in a blanket, chewing a little faster now that he'd decided Tim hadn't, like poisoned them or something.
"Isn't that a little dangerous? Batman and Robin don't really go to safe parts of town..."
"But Robin's just a kid too!" Tim protested. "If he can do it, so can I." His little chest had puffed out as he'd added, "He makes me feel brave enough to do scary things."
Bruce should really give Jason more training in schooling his features. He looked both immensely flattered and charmed and also like he'd just eaten something sour.
He also grabbed a napkin and started filling it up with hot dogs.
He'd made an excuse to run off and find Bruce a moment later, but Tim still counted the interaction as a success.
Tim had created a timeline for his hoard. He'd started putting a plan together for how to ingratiate himself to the "Batfamily," as some of their other online followers had dubbed them. Once he was in high school with Jason he could befriend him properly, and then become a normal part of their daily household (and make sure it all smelled like him). Bruce was difficult to get close to, but he'd be used to his son's friend being over all the time and then he'd relax around Tim. Maybe they could all even go on outings together, convince Bruce to take his son and his best friend out to a baseball game or something. And Tim could get a better understanding for the rift between Dick and the rest of the family and get him to come back home, and Dick had always publically been friends with Barbara Gordon and the tabloids said they had dated at one point, so if he came home maybe she'd be around more too, and then Tim could have them all together, his hoard in one place where he could keep an eye on them and make sure they were safe.
His plan was perfect.
His plan didn't account for the Joker.
He didn't account for what the Joker would do to Barbara, and he didn't account for what the Joker would do to Jason.
It would take a long time before Tim ever got the full story of what had happened, but there was no mistaking when Bruce Wayne's PR team announced the tragic death of his son Jason.
Tim attended the funeral, but he didn't cry. He didn't think he could. He'd spent the past few days in a haze, absolutely numb to the outside world. His parents were on their way home from somewhere in Mozambique to be with him, said they didn't want him to be alone after such a loss.
He felt like the worst kind of friend, because he hadn't been able to be Jason's friend, not really, not yet. He felt like he didn't have the right to grieve him the way that Bruce was, or his butler, Alfred Pennyworth, who was dabbing at his eyes throughout the service. Tim wasn't grieving a friend because he hadn't been Jason's friend. He was grieving a future he'd imagined of them together, the friendship he wouldn't get to have.
And he was a drake, and so he was grieving for a part of his hoard, one that he'd never really gotten a chance to have and never would again.
Even if he was able to claim the rest of his hoard, it would always be incomplete. An irreplaceable piece would always be missing.
A new person in the role of Robin would never make up for Jason's loss.
Tim grieved for himself, and for the Bats, and for Bruce and for what could have been, but mostly he grieved for Jason.
Jason had been so young. If Tim hadn't been young too, he could have saved him.
When his parents had finally arrived home, Tim had stared at them with big eyes, a tear finally starting to build in the corner of his vision.
"I can't wait anymore," he'd said. "I have to keep them safe."
It said something that when his parents exchanged grim looks, they never once tried to talk him out of it.
Tim's path to becoming the third Robin wasn't an endeavor he'd ever wanted to take. He'd always been satisfied with observing the action, being able to watch over his hoard without needing to interfere in their activities. As his mother would say, half of the fun of being around humans was watching them run around doing their little human things.
But Batman was behaving more violently, more erratically, and Tim finally was able to introduce himself to Dick Grayson in Blüdhaven only for Dick to shoot him down, and Tim was starting to get desperate.
He couldn't let this be the end of Jason's legacy. He couldn't let the rest of his hoard destroy themselves from the inside, not if he could do something about it.
Nobody wanted him to become Robin, including Tim, but it was what he'd had to do, and it had worked.
He didn't think Bruce was ever quite the same – Tim had never known him very well, but he somehow seemed even more somber, more cautious, and Dick and Alfred had both all but confirmed that losing Jason had changed something in him.
But he was getting better. Batman was injuring fewer people, was working better with the police. Dick was coming around Gotham a lot more, and he and Bruce were slowly starting to talk to each other again (Tim was still only getting bits and pieces of this story, but apparently Dick coming to dinner regularly was a huge change from before). Barbara was taking on a new role as Oracle, and while she seemed to be thriving in it, something in Tim still smarted at not having been able to save her.
He couldn't save any of them, before, and now they were all hurting.
Never again, he swore.
His parents were supportive. Sure, they started scenting him a little obsessively, and his mother draped him in so many charms and illusions that he felt like he could feel the physical weight of them baring down upon him, but he knew that they were just trying to look out for him.
"Your scales aren't strong enough to deflect bullets yet," his mother had chided when Tim had grumbled about feeling smothered. "And you won't get your fire for at least another hundred years. Let us keep you safe."
He may have put up a token protest, but that didn't stop Tim from nuzzling under his mother's chin all the same.
The Teen Titans weren't something Tim had ever really given much thought to. He'd known from Dick that the older iteration had basically been his baby, but Jason had never really been a part of it (Dick looked immeasurably guilty when Tim tried to ask about it) and Tim hadn't been interested in leaving his hoard or his family's territory. As much as the Bats would hate to hear it, he'd become Robin to take care of his hoard, and to a lesser extent to take care of his family's territory by helping the citizens of Gotham; he really didn't have much interest in protecting random other humans in a foreign territory.
But both Dick and then even Bruce had encouraged him when he was invited to join the new Teen Titans, and Tim could see in their eyes that it had something to do with Jason, just the same way that he knew that Dick and Bruce playing nice for weekly family dinners had something to do with Jason.
They tried to right their wrongs with Jason in how they treated Tim. He appreciated what they were trying to do, but it never failed to give him that visceral sinking feeling in his chest, that seasick feeling in the pit of his stomach, thinking that maybe they'd all made mistakes with Jason.
So Tim tried to appease them, and he joined the Teen Titans.
It wasn't what he'd expected. For one, he hadn't planned on actually making friends. For another, it was actually sort of...fun. Sure, it gave his parents heart attacks and they threatened to come out and see him any time he hinted at anything even mildly dangerous happening around the Tower, but that was half of the thrill – he finally got to do what he wanted, without his parents or Bruce or Dick or anyone else telling him that it was too dangerous, that he was too young, too small.
He could be a full-grown hero, even if he wasn't an adult yet. And if he could prove himself independent as Robin, then his hoard would take him seriously when he finally laid claim to them the way he should have years ago.
His plan was perfect.
His plan didn't account for Jason.
Tim was so excited that his plan didn't account for Jason.
He hadn't even realized what was happening until the Red Hood had burst into the hallway in front of him, which, in retrospect, had made him so proud of Jason's infiltration abilities. The Red Hood had broken into Titans Tower and systematically incapacitated all of Tim's friends and Tim hadn't even realized!
So impressive.
In that first moment, of course, he'd been shocked, scared for his friends more than for himself. Hood was armed like crazy and definitely looking for a fight, and Tim knew next to nothing about him because Bruce had been trying to keep him away from Gotham's newest villain, and-
And Red Hood smelled like engine oil and old books.
Tim relaxed immediately. He couldn't help it.
How could he ever feel scared around part of his hoard?
His pulse started to quicken as Jason talked – and it had to be Jason, the scent was the same, the sound of his heart was the same, the accent was the same, even if his voice was so much deeper, and he was so much bigger when before he'd been petite for his age. Tim missed most of the surely intimidating things that Jason was saying, just cataloguing the ways that he'd changed.
There was the blaring question of how the fuck this had happened, of course, but Tim ignored that because he didn't need to know right now.
His Second Robin had returned, with a fun new outfit and adult identity, the last piece of his collection.
He wasn't losing him now.
"-do you have any last words, Robin?"
Tim jolted back to the present, refocusing on the tail end of Red Hood's assuredly terrifying monologue about why he wanted to...kill Tim? Something like that. He was a little too distracted trying to huff as much of Jason's scent as he could to pay attention to the particulars.
"That was a very good speech," he praised all the same, because he felt that it was always important to start negotiations on a positive note. His mother always said that you had to lure them into thinking that they had all of the control and once they felt safe you snapped the trap.
She'd been talking about business executives, but he was sure she'd consider luring in wayward members of one's hoard to be a similar situation.
Tim followed up his compliment by tacking on, "Do you want to come back to my den, er, my room?"
Perhaps it wasn't a need but it was definitely a want. He always felt the best when his hoard was all safely contained within his territory. In Gotham it was a little easier, because his territory constituted both Drake and Wayne Manors. In Titans Tower he could only lay claim to his own bedroom as his den.
To get to have the second Robin in his den, when he'd thought that he was gone forever...
"-the fuck are you talking about?"
Tim put on his winningest, most charming talking-to-rich-old-ladies-at-a-gala smile (he was trying to copy it from Dick) and took a step closer.
"Just, you know. If you planned to kill me, wouldn't it be more meaningful of a message if you did it in my own bedroom? Surely that would hit...Batman...harder, right?"
He hoped Batman was the reason Red Hood was here. He'd missed too much of the manifesto to be sure but it made sense.
He couldn't see Jason's eyes behind the Red Hood mask (and what a travesty that was) but he could hear the frown in his voice when he growled, "What game are you playing?"
"Nothing, unless you want to play a game? I have some. In my room. Here, I'll show you."
Tim figured that Jason wouldn't come with him of his own volition, but he'd certainly follow his prey if it walked away from him. So he quickly began trotting off down the hallway, keeping at a healthy pace in case Jason did just decide to whip out a gun and shoot him. His scales were harder now than they were a few years ago, but he still didn't want to take his chances getting shot if he could avoid it.
Sure enough, after a moment of disbelief he could hear cursing and the pounding of heavy footsteps behind him.
Thankfully they weren't too far away from his room, and so his merry chase was kept to a minimum. Jason came banging in the door just moments after Tim had entered.
Tim was making himself busy digging under his bed.
"Let's see, I know I have Battleship under here somewhere, and Scrabble. I have Life but I think that was left in the lounge-"
"What the fuck?"
Tim looked up, ready to give a thrilling summary of the game of Life, when he realized that Jason was distracted looking at his photo wall. He had thousands of photographs in his bedroom back in Gotham, and even a few in the bedroom designated as his in Wayne Manor, but his room in the Tower had just felt incredibly empty without any piece of his hoard there.
So he'd taken copies of some of his favorite shots of his hoard and had them framed. Of course there were the more recent ones that included Tim with the rest of the Bats (and Alfred, who had been incorporated into the hoard upon the first time Tim had ever met him), but also the ones he'd taken before he'd met them properly: Dick, from the moment they'd met at Haly's to his time as Robin to his unfortunate turn as Discowing before landing on the current Nightwing costume; Barbara, back in her Batgirl days (he had Oracle pictures in his collection back home now); Bruce in a Batman costume a few generations old.
And of course, Tim's favorite, Second Robin standing with his hands on his hips, staring at the camera like he thinks the photographer is insane.
Tim had a copy of that photo in every one of his bedrooms. It was integral to the hoard.
It made his chest feel tight in the best way to see Jason standing next to it, even if he was waving a hand at the hoard and yelling, "The fuck is this shit?"
"It's my hoard," Tim said pleasantly.
"Your what?"
Tim stood up as tall as he could, which still wasn't much compared to Jason's ridiculous new height.
"It's my hoard. I've been collecting it since I was little. I was too young to take care of a hoard before, and that's why I could only take pictures."
He swallowed and added, lower, "That's why I couldn't protect you. But I'm older now. I'm stronger, and I know a lot more. I can keep everyone safe."
He could feel Jason's eyes on him through the helmet. "Are you the...fuck, that kid with the camera? The one who used to follow us around? The one with the, what was it, fuck, the fuckin' pigs in a blanket?"
Tim's smile was so wide it made his cheeks ache. "You remember me!"
He couldn't stop himself from making the dubious decision to dart forward and snatch Jason up in a hug. It was only for a moment – he only had a moment before Jason tried to gut him – but he was able to get a good whiff of his scent, like the library at Wayne Manor crossed with an oil change – before he had to jump back to avoid the blade that Jason slashed at him.
"I thought my hoard would never be complete," Tim said, smile still curling his lips as he began circling the perimeter of the room; Jason was turning with him, keeping an eye on him, and Tim's heart felt so full it could burst. He'd hunted criminals before, sure, but he'd never been able to hunt his hoard before. Not like this.
"But you came back to me," he breathed, biting his lip to try to contain his excitement. "And now my collection can be complete again, the way it was supposed to be."
He continued circling as Jason whipped out a gun and pointed it at him. By doing so he'd made it to the door; and while Tim's magic wasn't at all what it would be as an adult, it was strong enough that he could pass a hand over the door and force the deadbolt to jam so that it wouldn't reopen until he wanted it to.
"Don't worry, Jason, I'm gonna make you so happy," he cooed.
For the first time since the altercation began, the Red Hood actually took a step back from Tim. He hated to intimidate his hoard, but at the same time, his chest felt like it could burst. He felt powerful. He felt invincible.
He was going to win Jason back into his hoard, and then he would keep him safe, and they would all be happy together again.
A perfect family.
A perfect hoard.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jason breathed, voice crackling through the modulator in his helmet.
Tim held his hands out loosely at his side, and he let his eyes flash gold, just for a moment.
"I'm a drake," he said.
And then he pounced.