Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone in Gotham City knows the tragic story about Thomas and Martha Wayne. 

Thomas and Martha, beloved doctor and generous kind wife, went out to the movies with their young son Bruce. 

Three people left the Manor that evening… 

Only one person eventually returned…

At least… only one person returned “back then”…

---

The old grandfather clock in the darkened foyer of Wayne Manor… the one even more ancient and disused than the one hiding secrets in Bruce Wayne’s study… stuttered to life late one cold night in early October. The bronze pendulum slowly creaked to life, swinging first one way, then the other with audible ticks and tocks that echoed in the otherwise empty space. Above it, the hands of the clock spun wildly to life, spinning around until all hands in question reached a specific hour and froze.

3:00

The old clock shuddered to life with a short haunting melody.

“Bing bing… Bong bong… Bing bong bong bong…”

It repeated the short melody one more time. Then it chimed the hour.

“Bong… … … Bong… … … Bong… … …”

As the remnants of the clock’s chimes echoed away into nothingness, the front door of Wayne Manor burst open inward, blown open by a sudden stormy gale of wind. The gusts of wind were so wild and forceful that random bits of debris from the outside were dragged into the foyer like leaves and twigs. Along with the debris rushed in two figures, a tall man with strong broad shoulders and a far smaller and slender woman. Both clutched their hats to prevent them from being tossed about by the wind that pulled roughly at their coats and clothing.

“Tom! I’m fine! Get the doors!”

With a nod to his wife once she was safely inside, the man fought against the wind toward the door. Even with his size and strength, he couldn’t quite get both of the double doors to shut on his own. Seeing her husband’s struggle, the smaller woman moved to help him, putting herself on the side of the left door while he put all his weight into the right one. Together, they pushed as hard as they could against the wind until finally both doors shut with an air of finality.

For a moment, the only other sound that could be heard was that of the two of them gasping for breath.

“Martha,” Thomas managed to get out once he caught his breath. “Dearest, are you alright?”

His wife nodded. “I’m fine, Love. Just a little... 'winded'.” As Thomas good-naturedly groaned at his wife's small pun, Martha leaned heavily against the door. “Goodness! It’s like a hurricane out there. Where did that storm even come from?”

“I dunno.” The tall man glanced back at the door. “I didn’t see anything in the newspaper today about a storm coming through. Never would’ve taken you or Bruce out if I knew a squall like that was--”

Martha’s face paled with a gasp, looking about herself in alarm. “Bruce! Oh god… Where is he?!” She pushed herself immediately away from the door and she looked about herself wildly. “Bruce! Oh! I swear he was tucked right into my side as we were walking--” She shook her head. “Bruce!” she yelled before turning a horrified tearful look towards the door. “Oh no… did I lose him out there?!”

Thomas gripped his wife’s arms solidly. “Don’t worry! I’ll go back out and look for him. Wake up Alfred and get him to hurry and help!”

As soon as he finished giving his wife instructions to get their butler, Thomas Wayne rushed back to the door and braced himself before opening it and rushing back into the storm. 

Only there was no storm? And it was blindingly bright!

With a shout of surprise, Thomas tumbled out the front doors of Wayne Manor, down the stone stairs, and came to a stop in something soft, but gritty that shifted beneath his body. Gingerly, the large man pushed himself up. “What the--” He dug his fingers into the ground beneath him and looked at it more closely as the grains slipped through his fingers. “Sand?”

“TOM!” 

Martha’s shrill scream of terror cut through Thomas’s confusion and he jerked his head up and froze.

Instead of the driveway and roundabout that normally rested in front of Wayne Manor, all that stretched out in front of him were miles and miles of yellow desert, occasionally dotted with what looked like giant pieces of twisted blackened driftwood among random massive jagged stones. When he looked backwards towards where the Manor ought to have been, there were only the open twin doors, which his terrified wife was holding open. 

If it were possible, Martha suddenly looked even more horrified. She screamed and pointed at something in the distance. Thomas jerked his head around once more and saw, to his own terror, something large and serpentine undulating through the sand, as if it were just water to the creature, making a beeline straight for him. 

As fast as he could, Thomas got to his feet and ran for his wife and the open doors. Though his feet tried to sink in the sand, as if the desert itself was trying to suck him down, he still managed to reach the door, where his wife reached out with her hand as far as she could reach while holding the door frame with the other. With her help, he hoisted himself through the door and before finally turning back. 

From the desert sand a giant black and white striped demonic looking serpent breached. It glared balefully at Thomas and Martha before opening its gaping sharp-toothed maw to reveal A SECOND horrifyingly similar head hiding within it. The second head opened its maw and roared at the Waynes. 

As quickly as he could, Thomas pushed his wife further into the house and slammed both doors shut!

Chapter Text

Martha sat on the hardwood floor and stared numbly at the now closed double door that led to the outside. Her husband rested with his back pressed against the door, ready to put his entire strength against the barrier if that monster on the other side wanted to try and break in.

But it didn’t. 

The only sounds in the Manor were the harsh breaths of the Waynes and the steady tick-tocks of the grandfather clock.

“Tom,” Martha whimpered softly. “What… What was that? What happened to the front of our home?” Shakily, she started getting to her feet. 

Once he was certain that nothing was coming through the door, Thomas moved forward quickly to help steady his wife. He couldn’t disguise how his own hands shook as he held her. “I don’t know.” He hugged her tight as they both tried to calm their rattled nerves. Then he glanced at the side windows that rested on either side of the doors.

Cautiously, he moved forward with his wife by his side and moved aside the drapes. Confusion lit his face as the scene beyond the glass was the normal roundabout driveway that rested beyond the stairs leading up to the house, and the lawn and trees and gated fence beyond that under a clear night sky. Gotham City’s skyline peeked out slightly from behind the tops of the trees.

“It looks normal now?”

Thomas curiously tried to open the window. He unlatched the lock and lifted it up. To his horror, the world beyond the open window shifted. Beyond the open glass wasn’t the rest of Wayne Manor’s exterior landscaping, but that same alien yellow sand desert he’d just narrowly escaped! He didn’t even bother looking for the black and white demon snake. Thomas immediately slammed the window shut and backed away. Once closed, the images beyond the clear glass panes returned to normal.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think we can leave the house,” Thomas whispered.

Martha drew in a shaky breath and glanced around as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Something doesn’t feel right,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “Where’s Alfred?”

Thomas looked at her with a pinched brow. “What?”

“Even if he was dead asleep, he’s never been a heavy sleeper,” Martha remarked as she moved around the foyer, clearly unsettled by how dark and quiet the manor still was. “With all the noise we made when we came home, he would’ve stormed down here armed with that shotgun of his.” She looked worried and confused and miserable. “First Bruce is missing and now Alfred?” 

Her husband nodded. “Let’s go check his room to be sure he’s not there… And Bruce’s as well. Once we know for sure, we’ll call the police.”

The pair began to move through the manor, walking swiftly from the foyer towards the main stairwell that would lead to the family wing of the mansion. At the top of the stairs, Thomas and Martha split up. The husband went towards the butler’s bedroom door while the wife made a beeline for their son’s.

“Alfred!” Thomas’s voice boomed in the otherwise deathly quiet hallway. He followed with several sharp and loud knocks on the hardwood door. “Alfred, it’s Thomas! Open the door! We have an emergency!”

No response.

Thomas Wayne stared at the door with trepidation. An uncomfortable churning settled in the pit of his stomach. But he pushed through it, firmly grasped the doorknob, and turned.

“What is going on?”

Thomas stepped into the butler’s room in utter confusion. All the furniture that belonged to Alfred was there… The bed… The night stand… His dresser… The end table…

But everything was covered with large white drop cloths. 

Thomas went to the small cold fireplace of the butler’s room and touched his fingertips to the surface of the mantle. 

Dust.

Alfred was gone… but it looked like he’d been gone for awhile, not just this night.

Thomas whirled about on his heel and rushed out the door toward Bruce’s room. Once he got there and stepped into the already open door, he froze. 

Martha was already inside, but she was similarly frozen, standing stock in the bedroom that was their son’s, but had none of the things belonging to their eight-year old boy. And unlike Alfred’s room, this one did not have any drop cloths covering the furniture. Everything was out in the open, covered in dust, and clearly belonged to someone else’s child.

The walls held posters of movies and bands that Thomas had never heard of. The bookshelf carried lots of the classics though. Novels by Jane Austen… Charles Dickens… Shakespeare… Mary Shelly….

There was a well used desk on the wall opposite the bed. High school textbooks in Chemistry, History, and English Lit were stacked one on top of the other. At the foot of the desk was a denim backpack that held a binder full of papers and another couple of books. There was a photo on the desk as well of a man in his mid thirties with two boys, one a young adult, maybe in his late teens or early twenties, and another who was clearly still a teenager, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. 

It looked like a happy photo.

And the man in it did look familiar, though Thomas couldn’t place why.

“Thomas?”

Martha’s voice jolted her husband out of the examination of the bedroom. “Yes Martha?”

Her back was still to him, her gaze fixed on something on the wall next to the desk. “How did we get home from the theater?”

Thomas blinked. “We… drove?”

Martha shook her head. “We didn’t. We were walking, remember? Walking to the car after the movie… but…” She lifted her hand to her bare neck. Thomas noted the motion, his brow furrowing. Something was missin--

Suddenly a flash of memories ran through Thomas’s mind! 

…walking through an alley…

…a man with a gun…

…pearls bouncing on the pavement…

…blood pooling beneath the streetlight…

Thomas came back to himself with a gasp. He staggered until his back met the wall and he leaned against it heavily. His hand unconsciously rose to the spot where he suddenly remembered a bullet had torn through his chest. 

“We never made it home,” Thomas said mournfully, shock etched in every syllable out of his mouth. 

Martha nodded. “Not just that,” she added as she finally turned to her husband. “But this isn’t our son’s room anymore.” She went to his side with a small rectangular card in her hand and offered it to him. It was a high school ID badge for Gotham Academy. It had a picture of the same teenager from the desk photo, but in a school uniform.

The name on the card read “Jason Todd-Wayne - Grade 11”.

The school year read “20XX-20XX”... over thirty years beyond what the current date ought to have been!

“I think this is our grandson’s room.”

Chapter Text

Thomas Wayne, from the moment he met her, married her, watched her give birth to their son, often found himself in awe of the woman named Martha Helena Kane. She was the perfect balance to him. An ideal partner in life. 

Where he was strong in logic and reason, she was strong in empathy and emotion.

Where he was knowledgeable in sciences and maths, her knowledge ran deep in creative pursuits and language.

While Thomas kept an eye on the past to make sure lessons learned were never forgotten, Martha’s vision aimed towards the future and the next horizon. 

The two of them also had an agreement from the day they married… 

If one of them didn’t feel strong enough in the moment, if the weight of a conflict or crisis was too much for them to handle, the other would be strong for both of them until they could get back on their feet.

In this moment, in the bedroom that used to belong to their son but now apparently belonged to their grandson thirty years in a future they were never expected to see because of a murderer’s bullet, Thomas just didn’t have it in him to be the strong one.

Martha could see this and understood.  She straightened her spine, took and released a measured breath, and clapped her hands together.

“Okay!” she said with authority.

Thomas looked up and gave her a puzzled look. “Okay?”

Martha nodded. “Mm-hmm. No two ways about it. We’re dead... or at least we're supposed to be.”

Her husband gave her a rather unwell look. “Must you be so blunt?”

His wife shrugged negligently. “Unfortunately yes. Either of us having a mental breakdown about being dead.... undead?.... dead-ish? Well, whatever it is, we can figure it out later when we don’t have so many more important and pressing questions to answer first.”

“Questions?” 

Martha nodded as she paced. “Like, where are Bruce and Alfred? Why are the two of us suddenly here trapped in our own home some 30-plus years in the future? Also, who is Jason, and are there any other children?” Martha paused and tapped her lips thoughtfully before glancing around herself. “And why is there no one else in the Manor? Are they merely out for the evening or has the Manor been abandoned?”

Thomas chuckled fondly. “You always did love sinking your teeth into a good mystery.”

“You only say that because I’ve been devouring Nancy Drew, Agatha Christie and Black Jack Justice stories since I was twelve.” Martha smiled reassuringly “Despite all the weirdness we’re apparently trapped in now, I’m pretty sure we’re still the same people. I’m your wife, and you're my husband, and we’re in this together.”

“For better or worse…” Thomas rose to his feet and encircled his wife with his arms.

“In sickness and in health…” Martha returned his hug. 

Thomas made a curious hum. “Till ‘death’ do us part?”

Martha blinked. “Apparently not?” She giggled softly. “Guess you’re stuck with me till the end of time.”

Thomas smiled and gave her a kiss. “I suppose I can live with that.”

---

The next several hours were spent investigating the various empty rooms of the Manor. Unlike Jason’s room, the other rooms in the family wing appeared to more closely resemble Alfred’s abandoned bedroom. The furniture that had been left behind was covered in drop cloths and those were covered in a thin layer of dust. It was as if no one had been living there for at least several weeks, if not a few months. However, there were a few belongings left behind that provided clues to their previous occupants.

One room belonged to a girl. The clothing left in the closet certainly didn’t belong to a boy, and a pair of forgotten ballet slippers had been tucked away in a corner. Martha found a photo of black haired teenage girl hugging a blond haired one. They both appeared to be quite happy, though she couldn’t deduce if either girl was the original owner of the bedroom, or if they were just pictures of friends of the former occupant. On the ballet slippers, on a small tag stitched into the lining of the heels, was a name tag. The name had been written in neat script that the two Waynes immediately recognized as Alfred’s handwriting. “Cassandra W.”

---

Another room appeared to belong to a small boy. The clothing left in their drawers were sized for a child. Whoever they were appeared to be interested in art. There was a sketchbook half-filled with drawings of animals on a bookshelf, along with other books. Most were in English, but some of them appeared to be written in Arabic? They were all text books, and Thomas noticed they appeared to be the kind used by private tutors, having recognized the publishing company as one his own parents used back when he was a child. There was a name on a worksheet that had been folded in half and tucked into one of those books. “Damian Wayne.”

---

“I remember Haly’s Circus.” Thomas remarked as he looked at the contents of the third bedroom, standing before a framed old circus poster, headlined by The Flying Graysons. This bedroom appeared to belong to a young man. The clothing was sized for an adult. No signs of anything hinting that the occupant still went to school. 

“We went to the circus for our first date.”

Thomas noticed a small dark blue velvet box on one of the shelves in the closet. He pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a police officer’s badge. 

“Bludhaven PD?”

A closer examination of some of the suits that were zipped up in dark plastic bags revealed that one of them was holding an officer’s uniform. The metal name tag pinned right above one of the breast pockets of the crisp white button down shirt bore the name “Grayson”.

---

As they were about to check the next bedroom in the family wing, an unexpected sound caught their attention. 

“Someone’s coming up the driveway?” Martha remarked as she turned her head, trying to see where the sound was coming from.

“Sounds like a motorcycle,” Thomas remarked as he took his hand off the bedroom door knob and led the way back to Cassandra’s bedroom, which had a window that faced the driveway in front of the Manor. The pair of them watched as a dark figure rode in on a sleek red motorcycle and paused with the engine still purring as they looked up at the Manor. They couldn’t tell who this could possibly be though. The motorcyclist was wearing a red helmet with a black visor in a similar shade to the bike. Martha clutched her husband’s arm. 

“Do you think they can see us?”

“No clue.” Thomas patted her hand reassuringly. 

Then they both watched, with a measure of surprise and increased curiosity as the cyclist started moving the bike forward again, this time towards the attached garage. The stranger pulled a small device from his pocket and pressed a button. The garage doors opened obediently.

“Whoever they are,” Martha gasped. “They must have a key!” Her blue eyes widened with hope. “Maybe it’s Bruce?!”

The two of them immediately hurried out of the bedroom and towards the top of the stairs leading down into the foyer. Once there, they froze at the sound of doors opening between the garage and the main house. And then came the footsteps closer and closer to the foyer. 

Thomas and Martha watched as a slender male figure walked down the hall. The helmet had been left in the garage, and they could see the young man’s hair was dark, but their features were bathed in shadows. They briefly paused in the hallway and fiddled with a light switch. The chandelier overlooking the foyer lit up, illuminating the area below. Some of the light reached the second floor landing, but Thomas and Martha lingered in the shadows, too cautious to make themselves obvious as they looked at their visitor. 

It was a teenage boy. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old with wispy black hair, pale skin, and pale blue eyes. He wore a black leather jacket over skinny blue jeans, and he had a well-worn denim backpack slung over his shoulder. The teenager glanced around the foyer, a sadly nostalgic look in his eyes until they settled on a photograph hanging on a wall near the stairs. He walked up to it and reached out, resting his gloved fingers against the glass where an older man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties was sitting in a formal portrait surrounded by what appeared to be his family.

“Hi B,” the teenager said quietly, his voice so soft that Thomas and Martha might not have heard it if it wasn’t already so quiet in the big otherwise empty house. “I’m home.”

Chapter Text

“His name is Timothy,” 

Martha whispered as studied the numerous photos lining the bedroom walls of the teenage boy who had set down his backpack, placed a pair of small black “plugs” into his ears, and was fiddling with a strange rectangular device that appeared to be made of dark glass and silver metal. One of the photos which caught Martha’s eye was a gorgeous image of the skyline of Gotham at sunrise with a rare clear sky. It appeared to have won some sort of photography award. The title of the piece and the name of its photographer were part of the matted and framed picture.

“The Dawn Will Come” was the title, and the photographer was “Timothy Drake-Wayne.” 

Thomas lingered in a corner of the room, out of the way as he watched Tim move about the room, first removing the drop cloth from the bed before stepping out of the room towards where Thomas knew the closest linen closet in the hallway was.

“Well… it’s clear he can’t see or hear us,” Thomas remarked after he’d gone down the hall. The teenager hadn’t even noticed them standing at the top of the stairs or when they followed him into one of the bedrooms that they hadn’t had a chance to investigate yet. Neither he nor his wife, though, had worked up enough nerve to test if they could touch the boy. 

Martha sighed. “I will admit that… it is a bit unnerving to be so close to someone and be completely ignored by them.” She watched as Tim re-entered carrying an armful of pillows and linens. As she watched him, her heart ached, which reflected on her face. “He appears to be another child of Bruce’s, but why is he here alone? Where is Bruce, or his mother, or anyone else for that matter?”

“I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

Thomas looked at his wife thoughtfully. “...if perhaps these photos have more information about who the people in them are.” He walked over to the photo wall. There were a large number of photos. Some were clearly teenage friends at school or hanging out. Others, though, were casual photos taken with the Manor as the backdrop, and these included a group photo that included a much older Alfred Pennyworth, that man from the photo in Jason's room in his late thirties/early forties, a young dark haired man in his early-mid twenties, a young asian girl who was likely in her mid-late teens, and the teenager himself looking at least a year or two younger with shorter hair.

“Thomas! What are you doing?” Martha whispered harshly as she watched her husband reach out to take the photo from the wall. Her eyes darted from her husband to the boy, whose back was to them as he was trying to get the fitted sheets into place on the mattress.

“I just want to see if the boy has written any names or dates on the other side of the photo,” Thomas said. Despite being some sort of ghost now, he and his wife were able to interact with the physical items in the Manor just fine. Martha bit her lip as she watched her husband pull the photo off the wall and flip it over in his hand to start undoing the little tabs holding the back panel in place. 

“Can’t we just wait until he’s asleep or out of the room?”

Thomas struggled with the stiff tabs that wanted to resist being manipulated. “It’ll be fine. He’s not even paying atten--” 

Of course, at that precise moment, Thomas lost his grip on the frame and it tumbled out of his hands. Additional misfortune stacked upon itself as the frame landed on its corner and snapped both the wooden frame and cracked the glass held within. 

---

At the sound of the breaking wood and glass, Tim whipped around almost immediately, his body automatically falling into a ready fighting stance even as he pulled out his retractable bo-staff from a hidden pocket in the back of his jacket and extended it to full length. His blue eyes darted around the room warily before zeroing in on the broken photo frame on the floor.  

Before he dared to move, he looked to the window, noting it was closed and latched. He shifted his stance as he pulled the wireless earbuds out and pocketed them. Then he cautiously moved to the still open bedroom door, peering carefully into the hallway. With a similar amount of caution, Tim checked the closet and the space underneath his bed before he finally knelt on the floor and released a slow breath of air. Only then did he finally reach over to examine the damaged frame and picture. 

Gingerly, he nudged his fingers around the broken glass and splintered wood until he snagged a corner of the formerly trapped photo. He gently pulled it out and shook it free of any particles that wanted to cling to it. After closely examining it to make sure it hadn’t been damaged by the fall. Once he was certain it was alright, Tim laid it carefully on his dresser.  

Then he looked at the remains of the frame..

Tim’s eyes narrowed.

Instead of doing anything about the frame, though, he pulled out his cell phone and went to his contact list until he found the name he was looking for.  Once he initiated the call, he set it on speakerphone while he decided to check the window, starting with the latches.

“Timothy? Is everything alright?” a familiar voice came out of the phone after several rings.

“Yes… No… I dunno…I’m sorry to wake you, Alfred, but can you check to see if the demon brat is still at the penthouse?” Tim managed to get the window open. Cautiously, he stuck his head out and glanced around the exterior of the building.

“Still at the penthouse? While I know you and Damian are not getting along--”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tim muttered under his breath.

“--Your room is just down the hall from his. You could quite easily check on him yourself if you think he’s flown the coop again at this hour of night.”

The teenager stiffened. “Umm… About that….” He drummed his fingers against the frame of the windowsill nervously.

There was a moment of pause on the other end of the conversation. “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,” Alfred said sternly as there was a sound on the other end of shuffling and doors opening and shutting. “I swear by all that is holy if you are not in your room--”

Tim chuckled uncomfortably. “Technically, I am in my room right now.” He pulled himself fully back into the bedroom and sat on the windowsill. “Just… not the room at the penthouse.”

Another pause. “You’re at the manor?”

“Yeah.”

There was a heavy hearted sigh on the other end of the line. “My dear boy… I know you and Damian got into another fight this evening, but that’s no reason to leave in the dead of night like this.”

Tim closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Alfred… He cut my line tonight.” Tim’s hand tightened on the bo staff, which he still held in one hand. “And I’m pretty sure he sabatoged my gear the other night too.”

After a tense moment of silence, Alfred found his voice, tinged with horror. “Dear lord, not again… Are you alright, Timothy?! Were you hurt when he--?!”

The teenager sighed. “I’m fine. I managed to catch myself this time so I didn’t hit the ground, but understandably I was pissed. THAT’S what actually started the fight between me and Damian.”

“Does Richard know?”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t tell him.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?!”

The boy leaned against the window frame and turned a tired gaze towards the night sky. “How do you think Dick would’ve reacted tonight if he knew Damian cut my line and tried to drop me out of the sky from several stories off the ground?” Tim sighed. “The demon brat may want me dead, but you and Dick are all the kid has until Bruce is finally rescued by the Justice League. If Dick knew what really happened tonight…” Tim swiped a hand over his face with a groan. “Despite that… I can’t live under the same roof as him right now. Please don’t ask me to, Alfred.”

There was another sigh from the other end of the line. “I won’t, Timothy… And I just checked the other bedrooms. Both Damian and Richard are sound asleep here.” Another pause. “Was there a reason you suspected the boy was gone?”

Tim glanced back at the photo frame. “Paranoia? I’m sorry for waking you for this, Alfred. I think I’m still on edge after everything tonight. I’m jumping at shadows.”

“It’s quite alright, my dear boy. Honestly, I’m glad you called me and told me where you are now. I assure you if I had woken up in the morning to find you missing... AGAIN…”

Tim winced. “I’m sorry.”

"I know. You can make it up to me by going straight to bed and getting a solid eight hours of sleep after this call. Once I complete my morning errands, I'll come by the Manor to check on you."

"Alright." Tim smiled fondly. "Good night Alfred."

"Good night Timothy. Rest well."

---

"Oh Thomas… What has happened to our family?"

Martha's voice wobbled as she sat at the foot of their grandson's bed. Perhaps it was a side effect of being a ghost, but even in the near pitch dark bedroom the two elder Waynes could still see everything just fine, though most everything was in grayscale. Her eyes were focused on the now sleeping teenager. 

After the phone call with Alfred had ended, Tim had decided to resign himself to sleep. He didn't even bother changing out of his street clothes entirely. Just removed his jacket, toed off his shoes, and slid beneath the blankets once the light had been turned off. It didn't escape either Wayne's notice that the poor boy had passed out hard almost the moment his head hit the pillow. 

"I thought if we learned a little more about the people who used to live in these rooms… our grandchildren… we'd find some answers as to what's going on. But I think I have more questions than I know what to do with."

On the other side of the room, Thomas was fixing the thing he broke. While Tim had been preparing for bed, he'd slipped away for a few minutes. Once the boy was asleep, the man returned with an unbroken picture frame. He found one in a spare guest room that had some generic picture of flowers. 

"Bruce is missing… Alfred and others are living elsewhere… and apparently one of our grandchildren is so physically violent towards this one that they feel as if their life is in danger around them. Suddenly us being ghosts trapped in our home seems like a small problem in comparison."

He placed the photo into the new frame and hung it back on the wall where it belonged. Then he proceeded to clean up all the broken wood and glass. 

"Are you sure you should be doing that, love?"

"Timothy shouldn't have to worry about this in the morning. Seems he's got enough on his plate as is."

Martha nodded. "I wish I just knew what we could do to help him. But what can we do? I may have read a lot of mysteries, but the only thing I know about ghosts are from horror movies or Halloween specials."

"Oh! That reminds me! I found this in the spare room I found the picture frame in. It was just sitting on the end table. I almost overlooked it until I noticed the title. You know how some people say that 'life doesn't come with an instruction manual'?" Thomas paused in his cleaning and offered Martha a hardcover book. Curiously she took it and read the title on the cover.

"Handbook for the Recently Deceased?" 

Thomas shrugged. "Apparently death does?"

Chapter Text

"Good grief, this thing reads like stereo instructions." 

It was a little after daybreak as Thomas grumbled slightly as he lounged in his favorite wide wingback chair in the study. In one hand he held The Handbook for the Recently Deceased. In the other, he held his favorite long stemmed churchwarden pipe. He found the pipe and an unopened tin of tobacco still in the usual desk drawer he always kept them in back when he was alive. Martha had watched with bemusement as her husband fished out both along with a small box of matches upon entering his old office.

"Really, love?" she'd said as she watched him load the pipe.

"Dearest, I'm not a hundred percent certain, but I'm relatively sure that I'm well past the need to worry about the long term negative effects of smoking."

Martha smirked as she sat on the corner of his desk and crossed one leg over the other. "Is this your expert medical opinion, Dr. Wayne?"

Thomas chucked as he struck a match and used it to light the pipe. "Damn right it is."

While Thomas studied the strange book's contents, Martha busied herself with getting Thomas's office back in order. Starting with removing the drop cloth covering his favorite chair, she moved to uncover the rest of the furniture. She also took the opportunity to examine the most recent desk calendar, a various assortment of notes and documents, and all the new and old books and framed photos that had been neatly stored in the desk drawers and in the study's storage closet. 

After about an hour of comfortable silence, Thomas took a break from the book. "Learn anything new about our family dearest?"

Martha nodded as she walked over to sit next to him on the arm of his chair. "It seems Bruce has taken leadership of Wayne Enterprises. He's a businessman."

"Hmm… So not a doctor?"

"No, but look." Martha scooted in closer and showed him a few papers. Thomas looked them over, his gaze softened.

"The Thomas Wayne Foundation?"

Martha nodded with a smile. "A medical charity. And he founded one in my name too, to help the 'at risk' families and children of Gotham." There was a touch of pride in her voice. "We may have died a long time ago, but we haven't been forgotten. And Bruce… he's still continuing our good work and helping our city and her people." Then she showed her husband a few photos. They were all predominantly of several boys and one girl. "And while I don't think he's married, he has adopted a number of children."

Thomas smiled. "Our grandchildren." Then his smile faded. "And yet, the family seems to be in shambles right now. Bruce is in some kind of trouble, waiting on a rescue of some sort, while the grandchildren are hurting each other for some reason."

Martha nodded solemnly herself. Then she gestured to the book. "Does that thing have anything useful to say? Anything that could help us figure out what's going on?"

"It's… I don't know… Maybe?" Thomas had bookmarked several sections of the book already and made notations with a pencil in the margins. He flipped open to one of his marked pages. "As far as why we're ghosts trapped in our home surrounded by a yellow desert that's infested with giant demon snakes, oh and it's thirty years in the future, it doesn't explain much, except for some vague passage about how, and I quote, '...Functional parameters vary from manifestation to manifestation'..."

"What does that even mean?" 

"You're guess is as good as mine."  Thomas shrugged and flipped to a different page. "It tries to explain a bit about why Timothy couldn't see or hear us last night."  The man smirked sardonically. "You'll love this one, dear." He cleared his throat. "'Live people tend to ignore the strange and unusual.'"

Martha scoffed and gave her husband an incredulous look. "In Gotham City? Was the author drunk, high, or from Metropolis?"

Thomas laughed at that, then plucked up his pencil and scribbled his wife's comment in the margin next to the quote. Martha watched him do it and laughed to herself. 

"Ok, love. Before I put that book to use as a doorstop or to line a birdcage somewhere, does it have any actual useful information?"

"Well. I found this business card tucked in a tear in the back cover." He pulled out a small white rectangle and handed it to Martha. She looked at it and squinted. The card read as follows:

"Betelgeuse the 'Bio-Exorcist'
"Call Betelgeuse Betelgeuse Betelgeuse
"Speak my name 3 times."

Then she flipped it over to read the back side:

"Free! DEMON POSSESSION with every EXORCISM!*
"Call now!
"* Offer valid for one possession per exorcism"

Martha read the card silently, brows furrowed. Then she handed it back to her husband. "Yeah no. That totally smells like a trap."

"Right?" Thomas tucked it back into its makeshift pocket in the back of the book. "I'd just rip it up or burn it, except who knows if that'd just end up releasing something worse."

Martha sighed. "Anything else, or is that book well and truly useless?"

"I don't think it means to be useless. Based on the style and quality of the book, I suspect it's likely decades outdated."

"Like an out of date medical journal?"

Thomas nodded. "There is something I would like us to try." He flipped to another marked page. "Here it says 'In case of an emergency, draw a door and knock three times.'"

Martha read over the page curiously. "Why do you want to try this?"

"Well. I figure it's the safest way to prove if this book has any accurate information. If we draw a door and nothing happens, we know this book is garbage. However, if it works, perhaps it will lead us somewhere or to someone who can actually help us."

Martha thought for a moment. "I don't want to permanently mar any of the walls of the manor." She snapped her fingers. "There might be some chalk or pastels in my old art room."

---

Tim paused as he descended down the stairs around eleven in the morning. He looked over the unbroken photo frame in his hands front and back before glancing back up the stairs toward his bedroom, his face a mask of confusion.

"I know this was broken last night," he thought to himself with a frown as he studied the photo behind the now uncracked glass. "And Alfred isn't here yet. His text said he won't be by until two." The teenager yawned and shook his head as he continued his descent and turned towards the direction of the kitchen. "I haven't had enough sleep or coffee to process any of this."

On his way to the kitchen, Tim wandered past Bruce's study. He had just cleared the door frame when an unexpected smell hit him full in the face and he stopped dead in his tracks. "What the-- Is that… cigar smoke?"

Tim slowly backtracked until he was at the doorway to the study. And he stared in shock.

One… The door was open.

Two… The drapes had been drawn open and light flooded in illuminating everything.

Three… All the drop cloths had been removed and the entire study was set back up for use… but not the way Bruce always arranged it. Bruce's desk itself may have been in the same location as always, but all the surrounding end tables and extra chairs were rearranged into an unfamiliar configuration.

Tim stepped cautiously into the room. The study appeared to be empty, but there was this weird "lived-in" vibe the place had now that made an army of goosebumps rise on his skin. The sensation only increased when the teenager noticed a long-stemmed pipe resting next to an ashtray and a round metal tin. A thin tendril of smoke rose gradually from the bowl of the pipe.

There was also an open box of chalk pastels with a piece missing. 

"What in the world is going on?" Tim whispered to himself, confused as hell as he looked around for anything else out of the ordinary.

And he found something else.

On the wall between the grandfather clock (which led to the Cave) and a narrow bookshelf that used to be right next to the clock but was now pushed all the way to the corner, someone had drawn in chalk a simple rectangular door with a circle for a doorknob.

"Shit! Is someone in the Cave?!"

Adrenaline raced through Tim's veins as he immediately entered the code of the grandfather clock and opened the secret passageway. He raced down the stairs and made a beeline for the computer. As soon as the computer screen came to life with his security codes, Tim initiated the security protocols, locking down both the Cave and Manor and starting a sweep of both areas for any intruders!

A few minutes later, Tim started incredulously at the computer screens.

"No one's here but me?"

Chapter Text

“I assure you, Master Timothy, in all the years I’ve lived and worked in Wayne Manor, I have never heard of or personally witnessed anything resembling a haunting in the mansion. What would make you think there were ghosts in the Manor?”

Tim had just managed to make his way back up to the study from the Cave, closing the grandfather clock door behind him. He had Alfred on video chat on his phone. With a sigh, the teenager flipped his phone’s camera so that he could show the old butler what the study looked like. 

“Because I definitely did not redecorate Bruce’s study in my sleep.” A thought crossed Tim’s mind as there was a long uncomfortable moment of silence from the other end of the phone. He winced a little. “You are seeing this, aren’t you? This isn’t just all in my head?”

“Good heavens,” Tim heard Alfred gasp softly when the old man found his voice. “It looks just like it used to when…”

“When?”

“...When Master Thomas was alive.” 

Tim slowly walked a more deliberate circuit of the room.  He let the camera on his phone linger on the pipe, and Alfred quietly confirmed it was Thomas Wayne’s favorite, and last he knew it had been stored in a desk drawer along with the adjacent tin of tobacco. Bruce had kept it there as a reminder of his father, but had never loaded the pipe or opened the tin himself in the past.

“Have any other rooms in the Manor been similarly affected?” Alfred asked Tim curiously. 

“Based on the security cam footage from the Cave, I haven’t seen anything obvious, but I plan to start investigating the rooms in the Manor myself after I get off the phone with you so I can get a closer look."

"I'd rather you wait for me to get there before undertaking the investigation," Alfred said hesitantly. "If someone or something is turning back the clock in rooms of the manor, I'd be able to identify the changes and if they hold any significance."

Tim nodded. "Ok then. I'll wait. One thing though… I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I think whoever was responsible for changing the study may have been in my room last--” Something caught Tim’s eye on the end table next to the open box of pastel chalks. “--night?”

“Is something wrong, Timothy?”

Tim reached out with his free hand and picked up what looked like an old ordinary hardcover book that had been face down on the table. When he flipped it over, the teenager blinked at the title. "‘Handbook for the Recently Deceased?’"

"Timothy?”

“Oh sorry Alfred. Nothing's wrong. Just found a book.”

---

Thomas felt Martha cling to his side as they both came to the end of the long hallway from the door they drew in Thomas’s study. The end of the hall led to a dimly lit and unsettlingly occupied waiting room. It reminded Thomas of his own practice's waiting room back when he was a living doctor, except all the people waiting there looked like they were long past the need for medical treatment. 

There was a woman who looked like a magician's assistant, except she was literally cut into two pieces. Her lower half sat on one waiting room chair, legs crossed primly, while her upper half rested on the seat right beside the lower, casually reading a book.

Another man looked like some sort of explorer. He wore the kind of survival gear and clothing Thomas imagined that someone exploring a jungle might wear. The only thing out of place on the man was his obviously shrunken head that looked about three or four times too small for his body.

There was a man who was a literal burnt corpse, still smoldering as he read a newspaper with a cigarette dangling from what was left of his lips.

Martha gasped slightly as she nearly tripped over the tail end of a shark that was somehow still alive enough to thrash about even though it was also swallowing up a former swimmer’s leg, its teeth buried deep into the person’s thigh. The swimmer in question smacked the shark on the head in irritation, muttered something about how “...you brought this on yourself, asshole fish…” and then glanced at Martha sheepishly and murmured a quick “Sorry bout that,” before turning back to their own magazine.

Another woman with pale white skin who, while in one piece, wore a face mask covering her nose and mouth. She also occasionally indulged in a quiet fit of giggles, though she followed both Thomas and Martha with her eyes and a curious tilt of her head. .

Unconsciously, Thomas wrapped a comforting arm around his wife and held her protectively close as they approached the receptionist's desk. With a measure of authority he didn’t quite feel in the moment but he forced himself to exude for the sake of his wife, who clearly felt disturbed in this creepy environment, he knocked on the receptionist’s desk.

The thin wooden barrier that seperated the the receptionist from the waiting room was shoved aside with a rattle, and the woman behind the desk eyed Thomas and his wife up and down with a weary put-upon expression. The woman was blue skinned and, for some reason, dressed like a beauty pageant contestant, complete with sash that said “Miss Argentina”.

“You don’t have an appointment do you?”

“No. We didn’t know how to make one,” Thomas answered cooly, almost immediately irritated by her condescending tone. “We were not informed that one had to be set up ahead of time.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes. “What do you want?” she asked in a clipped tone.

Martha was the one who answered. “We need some help--” But before she could elaborate further, the receptionist rudely scoffed, interrupting her.

“Huh. Already? You just bit the big one what--” Miss Argentina looked them both over again with a shake of her head. “--a few days ago, and you want help?”

Thomas bristled at the beauty pageant’s attitude. “A few days ago?! Now just wait one min--” But even he was cut off by the receptionist's voice.

“You’re going to use up all your help vouchers.” She slapped a stack of forms in front of Thomas and Martha. “D-90s.” Thomas picked up one of the forms and glanced over it. Each form was a packet made of around 20 pages, and there were three of them. Miss Argentina continued, heedless of the Wayne’s growing confusion and frustration. 

“If you spend a hundred and twenty-five years on Earth, actually in your house, during which you only get three Class 1, D-90 intercessions with Juno.” She rolled her eyes with obvious exasperation. “You probably haven’t even read through your manual completely yet.” She shook her head. “You’ll have to wait if you don’t have an appointment. 

“An appointment with who?” Martha asked.

Miss Argentina groaned. “With Juno! Your caseworker!” She then tried to close the barrier between her and the Waynes, but then Thomas put his own hand on it and shoved it back open midway.

“Listen here, young lady!” he snapped irritably. “None of what you have said makes any sense, or is just completely wrong.” Before Miss Argentina could get a word in edgewise, Thomas barreled forward with his own voice. “My wife and I haven’t been dead for a few days. Apparently based on the calendars back home it’s been over thirty years!”

The receptionist blinked owlishly at that, surprise clear on her face and growing even as Thomas continued. “And I did read that damned book. ‘Handbook for the Recently Deceased’, right? I spent hours reading that thing cover to cover and… well… that book was practically garbage! It didn’t explain anything about why we were hopscotched three decades into the future, why we’re trapped in a house surrounded by a yellow desert, or why said desert is infested by giant man-eating black and white demon snakes!” He glared at her. “The only semi-useful thing that book provided was how to draw a door to get here ‘in case of emergency’ and no, nowhere in that blasted book did it say anything about how to set up appointments to… whatever the hell THIS place is!”

Thomas felt a pressure on his arm. “Thomas please calm down,” Martha pleaded. “I know you’re frustrated but I don’t think this is helping.”

He looked at his wife, a small apologetic expression on his face. “I’m sorry Martha, but THEY are being so diffi--”

“You’re Thomas and Martha Wayne, aren’t you?”

The Waynes and the receptionist all turned to the thin voice who spoke from the other side of the waiting room. Thomas nodded. “You recognize us?”

The woman giggled, even as she covered her masked mouth with her hand. “Of course I do. Everyone from Gotham knows who you two are. Your murders were the crime of the century back in the day.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense why you two are here. Shouldn’t you both be up in the ‘upstairs place’?”

“Upstairs place?” Martha asked.

More giggles. “Of course! Good people like you? Shouldn’t you be sipping tea behind the pearly gates?” Her eyes narrowed with amusement. 

“What in the world are you talking about?” Thomas asked, clearly getting agitated again.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

Thomas and Martha turned back to Miss Argentina, who was looking at them now with a cautiously suspicious expression. She pointed at the two of them. “Are you two from Gotham City, New Jersey?”

Martha nodded while Thomas glared back. “Yes, we are.

The receptionist’s eyes narrowed. Then she looked for something beneath her desk. After a brief shuffle, she pulled out two books. They were both copies of “Handbook for the Recently Deceased”, but one was clearly an older hardcover book looking like something published in the 1940s or 50s, while the other looked newer. It had a glossy softcover and was about twice as thick as the other one. It also had a subtitle beneath the main one that said “21st Century Edition”.

“Ok now,” Miss Argentina said. “Which of these two Handbooks did you receive?”

Thomas pointed to the old copy. Once he did so, the receptionist groaned. She also muttered a string of words that sounded like cursing in her native tongue. 

“Ay, ay, ay… That explains… a lot.” she finally muttered in english. Her earlier condescending attitude had been replaced with something more weary and defeated. “Fucking Gotham.”

“What’s wrong with Gotham?” Martha asked curiously.

“EVERYTHING if you die or are buried there,” the receptionist said with exasperation. Before Thomas or Martha could ask any more questions, she held up one finger, silently asking them to wait a moment, as she grabbed her phone receiver and dialed a number.

“Hola, Juno? It’s Dolores. Sorry to interrupt but I have a G-72 escalation that will need your attention…” There was a brief pause on Miss Argentina’s side as an irritated voice rumbled through the other end of the phone receiver. It sounded like cursing. Argentina rolled her eyes as she tucked the receiver between her ear and her shoulder. Then, with her now free hands, she reclaimed the D-90 forms from the Waynes and began stacking different forms in front of them. They were salmon colored and had “G-72” stamped on top of the pages. 

“Yes, apparently Gotham has found ANOTHER loophole to exploit. Some kind of timey-wimey bullshit.” THAT was met with even more cursing on the other line as the receptionist handed Thomas a clipboard along with the papers and a pen. ”Of course I will have them fill out the appropriate forms and will expedite the processing… Mhmmm… Mhmmm… Ok. Adios.”

Thomas had been flipping through the forms again, brow furrowed. These were clearly different from the D-90 forms. “I’m sorry, but what is going on now?”

Miss Argentina sighed. “Because you are an undead citizen of Gotham City, you automatically qualify for an in-person introductory interview with your caseworker. Normally, these are automatically scheduled by the Great Beyond at time of death. However, due to whatever the hell Gotham did this time to screw with your personal afterlife timelines, you never got the interview. So we are scheduling an escalated G-72 intervention.” She tapped on the forms. “Please fill these out as completely as you can. Once done, I will submit them for processing and Juno will make a house call within the next three to five business days.”

“Three to five days?!”

The receptionist raised her hand to abort any attempt at arguing. “That is the best we can do to expedite the appointment. Juno will require at least that much time to look into what exactly Gotham did to bring you to this point here and determine if there is any way to fix it.”

As Thomas flipped through some of the pages of the form, Martha gave Miss Argentina a curious look. “Why do you keep referring to Gotham City as a person?”

Argentina sighed. “Gotham is not a person. She is a living city…. A city big enough and old enough to have both a soul and a personality all of her own…”

Suddenly, she slammed an angry fist down on her desk, startling everyone around her. “And she is a greedy selfish manipulative bitch when it comes to the souls of the dead, and she has no consideration for the massive headaches she creates for us in this department when she plays her stupid games!”

Both Thomas and Martha gave the receptionist a startled look at that, but the undead beauty queen gave them no mind. She recomposed herself and waved the two of them toward an empty table with a few chairs. “Please take a seat and fill out those forms as completely as you can. If there is any question you do not understand, just skip them over and move on to the next one. Once you’re done, place them in the drop box here and you can return home. Again, Juno will visit you in three to five business days. In the meantime, you can take this copy of the correct Handbook home for review. I suggest you read through it before Juno's visit.”

And with that, Miss Argentina closed the shutter to her desk window.

Chapter Text

It had been a very long afternoon for both Tim and Alfred.

Once the old butler arrived at Wayne Manor, actually cutting short some of his errands to get there around noon instead of two, the pair of them began meticulously examining every room in the mansion, from top to bottom.

It was exhausting! Tim knew the manor was huge… but never in his life had he had to investigate every single square foot of it in one go before, from the attic to the wine cellar.

And there was history in EVERYTHING.

And, of course, Alfred KNEW everything… and the old butler delighted in sharing all the information he had as they went room to room. Something about seeing Bruce’s study redecorated in the way Thomas Wayne used to keep it put Alfred firmly into a nostalgic mood. While on the one hand it was nice to hear Alfred speak so fondly about the past and about both Thomas and Martha Wayne, on the other hand, it was A LOT of information for Tim to absorb in the space of one afternoon.

Going through the manor, there weren’t any other major changes except for the study. Most rooms in the mansion were untouched. However, there were small signs that someone or something had been going through some of the other bedrooms in the family wing.

“It’s certainly a very strange situation,” Alfred said as he served Tim a meal made with some of the groceries he’d brought over earlier to help restock the kitchen. The older man set the bowl of soup and several sandwiches on the kitchen’s island next to where Tim sat on a tall barstool, reading over the odd book he’d found in the study. “What do make of that… Handbook?”

“Long story short… It’s dumb.” Tim reached for a sandwich with one hand and took a small bite before continuing. Then he leaned back and flipped a few pages back. “Listen to this: ‘Live people tend to ignore the strange and unusual.’”

Alfred arched an eyebrow incredulously. “In Gotham?”

“I know, right?! Whoever’s been scribbling notes in the margins thought the same thing. Look, they wrote here, ‘In Gotham? Is the author drunk, high, or from Metropolis?’” Tim snickered as he took another bite of his dinner, but paused when he noticed a strange expression on Alfred’s face. All traces of amusement were wiped away, replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s Thomas’s handwriting.” 

Tim’s eyes widened. “Really?!” The teenager moved so he could look over the now spread out pages of the book alongside Alfred, who dabbed his eyes lightly before nodding.

“Unlike most physicians, Master Thomas always prided himself on having neat legible handwriting, though he had his own form of shorthand when it came to note-taking that could be difficult to decipher if you weren’t familiar with it… Although…”

“Although?”

Alfred smiled fondly at the page. “That might be Thomas’s handwriting, but the comment itself? Oh, I can hear Martha’s voice behind it. That flavor of sass is all her.”

“Not very fond of Metropolis?”

“Not after her parents tried to marry her off to Lionel Luthor.”

“WHAT?!”

Alfred chuckled again. “Oh that… that is a… ‘colorful’ story. I really would like to share it with you, but considering the hour, there’s no time tonight.” The old man sighed as he began to clean up. “I need to return to the Penthouse. Barbara is taking the evening off to spend with her father, and so I’ll be monitoring comms tonight.” He paused while setting the dishes in the dishwasher. “Will you be joining your brothers on patrol tonight?”

Tim’s face fell and he turned his full attention back onto the remains of his meal. He picked up his spoon and nudged pieces of meat and vegetables in his soup this way and that. “I don’t think so. Not tonight.” The teenager sighed. “Even if I wanted to go out tonight, I don’t trust the state of my gear right now at the Bunker, and I don’t really know what’s down in the Cave for me right now that I can use. I haven’t suited up down there since…” 

Unpleasant memories of seeing Damian for the first time in HIS old uniform colors flashed in his memory. 

Alfred nodded solemnly. “After patrol tonight I’ll gather up your gear from the Bunker and deliver it all to you tomorrow. We’ll go over each piece together to make sure nothing else has been tampered with.” Then the older man frowned. “Are you sure you wish to remain overnight? Clearly something strange is going on within the Manor. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you being here alone.”

Tim nodded. “I’m sure. Something strange is going on, but if it’s a legitimate haunting, then it makes sense that if something else is going to happen it’s going to happen at night. I should stay here to investigate.” 

"Would you like me to inform Richard--"

Tim shook his head. "No. Dick doesn't need to know about any of this. If he thinks the manor is a danger to me, he'll try to force me back to the Penthouse, or worse he'll come over and drag Damian here with him."

"If he asks?"

"Tell him I don't want to patrol with Damian. I'm still sore about the fight and the brat hacking my files. I also don't trust that the gear I left behind hasn't been tampered with." Tim sighed. "If something serious goes down like an Arkham breakout or a major Rogue causing trouble, go ahead and call me. I'll cobble together some gear from the Cave to help. But really I just want to stay here and figure things out."

---

It was just a little past one in the morning and Tim indulged in a long leisurely yawn while stretching before settling back in the comfortable wingback chair in the study with the Handbook for the Recently Deceased had been reading most of the night. The lights in the study were all dimmed except for a lamp next to the chair that Tim used as a reading light. He had on his favorite well worn hoodie and a soft weighted blanket wrapped about his shoulders. Music played softly from his phone on the end table. And even if ghosts had redecorated the room, it was still Bruce's study.

And there was no Damian.

Tim could almost pretend that he was staying home because he had to finish homework or because he had a big test the next day. He could almost pretend Alfred was down in the Cave helping with comms while Bruce was out patrolling as Batman alongside Dick as Nightwing or Cass as Batgirl.

He could almost pretend everything was back the way it was before his life went to hell again.

It was quiet and lonely, but it was home.

But then…

It wasn't quiet anymore.

A small crackling sound snagged at the edges of Tim's hearing as he was reading. The boy lifted his head and looked around. When he couldn't zero in on the source of the noise, he turned off the music app on his phone. At first there was nothing but silence. For a moment Tim wondered if he was just hearing things.

Then he heard the crackle again.

Tim turned his full attention to the wall with the chalk drawing of the door. 

After grabbing his phone and turning on the video camera app to start recording, propping it up against the lamp so it was focused on the drawing, Tim went to the wall and looked at it closely. His eyes widened as he saw a small gap open up the chalk lines with every crackle he heard. He could even feel it with his fingertips! The drawing was separating itself from the wall! When the entire door had completely separated itself from the wall, only then did the crackling stop completely. 

For a brief moment, there was silence again.

Then Tim heard something from behind the wall door.

Cautiously, the teenager pressed his ear against the wall.

It sounded like…

…Footsteps?

They WERE footsteps! And they were getting closer! 

Tim stepped away from the wall, backpedaling as the footsteps grew louder and more ominous. The lights began to flicker in the study as well as tendrils of green light began to seep through the gaps around the drawn door.  Quickly, Tim moved to duck behind the wingback chair, peeking out just enough to watch as the wall door slowly began to creak open.

As a tall, broad, painfully familiar silhouette stepped out of the green-lit doorway that really shouldn't have been there, Tim quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent a sob from escaping.

For a horrible moment, a string of awful panicked thoughts ran roughshod through his mind as tears pricked his eyes.

"Oh my god! It looks like Bruce!

"What if I was wrong?!

"What if he IS dead?! What if he's the ghost?!

"How am I going to tell Alfred?!"

Thankfully the moment passed once the figure stepped more fully into the light of the study. While the body frame looked similar to Bruce's, the face and hair were different. The most notable differences were the nearly trimmed mustache and the ghostly man's brown eyes, which were focused entirely on an open book he appeared to be reading one handed. The man's other hand was used to hold the wall door open as a second smaller figure breezed on by in an obvious huff.

“That was the single most bewildering experience of my entire life!”

Tim slowly dropped his hand from his mouth even as his eyes widened at the sight of the woman he’d only ever seen in the portraits around the manor. She was fairly short compared to her husband, perhaps even a bit shorter than Tim himself. She was also slender and willowy as she moved further into the room, her long skirt swirling about her legs fluidly. 

Behind her, the man closed the door. As soon as it was closed, Tim watched along with the couple as the chalk drawing of the door dissolved away into the wall. 

The man sighed, and when he spoke, it was with a deep tone similar to Bruce’s. It made Tim’s heart ache. 

“At least we’re home, and things are settled for now.”

The woman scrunched up her face in irritation. “For three to five business days you mean,” she grumbled. Then she rolled her eyes and threw her hand into the air. “I can’t believe what we just experienced. We went to them for help and all we got for our trouble was a mountain of paperwork while we were stuck for hours in… in… that DMV of the damned!”

Tim blinked. “Wait-- What?” he thought to himself.

The man had been walking towards the wingback chair where Tim was hiding, though the direction of his motion was aimed at the end table with the pipe and tobacco tin, which Alfred had decided to leave out, just in case. He paused though and turned back to his wife, the corners of his mouth quirking upward as his eyes crinkled with amusement. “DMV of the damned? Don’t you think you’re being a little over-dramatic, dearest?

His wife huffed with indignation as crossed her arms across her chest and she spat out a very familiar “-tt-” If the crazy direction of the conversation hadn’t been causing his brain to melt already, hearing THAT sound coming out of THAT woman’s mouth would’ve caused Tim’s brain to initiate an immediate blue screen.

As it was, though, the teenager was too busy being frozen in place as he met the gaze of the ghostly older man, who had frozen himself when, as he turned to pick up his pipe, he caught the startled bright blue gaze of Tim’s eyes shining from behind the chair.

Thomas’s amusement at his wife’s continued venting turned into shocked surprise as he met and held the gaze of the teenager in the study. Though his wife was still venting, voicing her frustration and displeasure loud and clear for all to hear, he was close enough that Tim could hear the man whisper directly to him, “You can see us?”

Tim nodded.

“And hear us?”

He nodded again.

Thomas’s expression softened into a small smile, and in that moment, even with the mustache, Tim’s heart ached because it looked so much like Bruce’s.

“Martha dear…”

The woman sighed. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her back was to her husband and grandson. “I am not being over-dramatic…”

“Martha…”

“ANYONE in our situation would be… completely unsettled… with what has been happening! We’re ghosts trapped in our own home, surrounded by a desert infested by man-eating demon snakes…”

“Dearest…”

“And then I tripped over a dead surfer wearing a thigh high shark on his right leg… And we just spent I don’t even know how many hours filling out paperwork while being leered at by an Indiana Jones stunt double with a shrunken head that was ten times too small for his body!” She stomped her foot a little. “I am well within my rights to be a bit upset right now!”

Tim had been about to add his own voice to try and catch Martha’s attention. However, after those words the teenager just snapped his mouth shut. His gaze darted between Martha and Thomas briefly before he just shook his head and turned to hide completely behind the wingback chair. 

Thomas wasn’t certain. The boy was muttering very softly under his breath, but he thought he caught a thread of, “...oh my god, I’ve completely lost my mind…” floating out from behind the chair. There were also mentions of “...Scarecrow?…” and “...janky fear toxin knock-off?...”

Thomas sighed and rose to his feet. Once at his wife’s side, he grasped her shoulder gently to ground her. This close, he could see tears filling her eyes, though she made quick sweeps with her hand to keep them from falling. 

“I know you’re upset dearest, and you have every right to be,” he started gently. “If you need to vent and break down a little, I’m here for you.”

Martha sniffled and nodded. 

“But..” Thomas continued, still gently. “I need you to pull yourself together a bit. We’re not alone right now.”

His wife looked up at him with shining confused eyes. “What?”

Thomas motioned toward the chair. From their position, Martha could see the silhouette of someone crouched behind it, hiding. Her breath caught in her throat. 

“Our grandson is here, and he can see and hear us now.” 

Martha’s expression fell. “Oh my god! I must’ve sounded like a stark raving lunatic just now!” 

Thomas smiled a little. “Actually, I think he’s questioning his own sanity at this point.” He directed her toward the chair. “Why don’t you go and give him a proper hello.”

Martha nodded and recomposed herself as she went to the chair. Quietly, she moved to the backside of it and knelt down in front of the teenage boy who was sitting there, knees drawn up and face buried in his arms. She hesitantly reached out until her fingertips rested gently atop Tim’s exposed hand. 

At the cool, tingly sensation of the ghost’s barely there touch, Tim lifted his head from his arms and found himself facing Martha Wayne’s gentle face, complete with a kind, apologetic smile and Bruce’s blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She shrugged her shoulders slightly and she rubbed at her eyes again. “You kinda caught me on a bad day.”

Tim watched as she recomposed herself again. She was clearly upset, but was forcing her emotions under control. She was trying to put on a stronger, calmer front for him. The thought stirred up something warm in his chest.

“I… I understand,” he murmured softly. He shrugged his own shoulders. “I’ve had bad days too.”

Something about the way he said that broke Martha’s heart a little. Still, she smiled reassuringly. “Let’s start over then. Just for a moment.” She motioned to her husband who’d come to kneel beside her. “This is Thomas, and I’m Martha,” she introduced. “You’re one of Bruce’s sons, right? Our grandchild?”

Tim let Martha’s words wash over him. Hearing her say it out loud; calling him “...one of Bruce’s sons… our grandchild…” 

“Bruce’s son.”

It made Tim feel happy.

He nodded. “My name’s Timothy,” he told his grandparents. “But almost everyone else calls me Tim.”

Chapter Text

When Tim woke up the next morning, it wasn’t to the sound of his alarm from his phone as normal. It was to the unexpected signs of life coming from within the Manor itself.

Which was strange considering that Tim was technically the only living person within the walls of the Manor. 

It was the smell of breakfast and coffee coming from the kitchen and wafting into his room that caught his attention first and dragged him from the realm of dreaming. Once he blearily woke up, trying to clear the fog from his head, his eyes snapped open to another unexpected surprise.

“Is that music?”

After quickly throwing on some casual clothes, Tim made his way down the stairs from the family wing of bedrooms to the kitchen. The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear the music. It sounded like songs from the 1960s and 70s. The smell of breakfast was getting stronger too. Coffee… Eggs… Toast… It was all making Tim’s mouth water. 

Now if it was just the smell of food that had woken him, Tim would have assumed it was Alfred in the kitchen. However, the music threw that theory off. Alfred didn’t listen to music while making breakfast. He listened to morning news reports, starting off with NPR and BBC for world events and then eventually making his way to local stations for Gotham City and US news. 

Tim cautiously peered into the kitchen. His blue eyes widened at the sight. There in the breakfast nook were several place settings were laid out and very real solid food was being laid out by a semi-translucent figure of Martha Wayne. It was fascinating watching her move between the kitchen and breakfast nook. When she was in the slightly shaded area of the nook, she was mostly visible, but whenever she crossed into the bright light cast by the windows or the kitchen lights, her figure became nearly invisible. The only way Tim could track her movements was by following the now empty solid silver serving tray she was carrying back to the kitchen. Once that was set on the counter, Tim lost track of her. 

That is, until he felt a cool touch on his arm. Only his years of Robin training kept him from leaping out of his skin. 

“Good morning, Tim,” Martha said cheerfully from his immediate right. As she moved from his right to left towards the nook again, he caught sight of her once more  in the less bright part of the kitchen. She was smiling warmly at him. 

 “Um… Good morning… er… Mrs. Wayne?”

Her expression shifted a little bit. her lips curling into a bit of a pout and her nose wrinkling slightly, as if she’d bitten into something sour. “Oh no no no no. That will not do at all!” 

“What won’t do?”

“Calling me ‘Mrs Wayne,’ of course,” Martha clarified matter-of-factly. “You’re my grandson! I refuse to be ‘Mrs. Anything’ to my own grandchild!” Then she tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “But what should you call me? This is my first time being a grandmother after all…” She tapped her lip again before shrugging. “I’ll have to think about it later.” Then she smiled at Tim and reached out to snag his wrist. “C’mon Tim. Go sit and eat! Don’t let your food get cold.

Tim allowed himself to be led to the breakfast table and only then did he notice that Thomas was already there. His grandfather was translucent, but mostly visible, and sitting at the head of the table as if he always belonged there. He had a cup of coffee in front of him, though his attention was firmly on the book he was reading. Tim noticed it looked like a newer version of the “Handbook for the Recently Deceased”.

Martha frowned at him. “Seriously Tom. What have I said about bringing your work to the dinner table?”

“Mm-hmmm.”

Martha and Tim both blinked at Thomas. Tim in confusion. Martha in exasperation. “Thomas you haven’t even said good morning to your grandson.”

“That’s nice dear.”

Tim’s eyes darted back to Martha, who had her arms crossed and was drumming her fingers against her arm irritably. Then she gave a long-suffering sigh, ghosted her way through the table and pushed Thomas back away from the table, chair and all, startling both her husband and grandson. Thomas dropped the book to the table in surprise.

“Martha what the--?!” 

Thomas never got a chance to finish his exclamation as Martha immediately sat upon his lap once she had enough space. Then she snagged him by his tie to pull him into an aggressively determined kiss.

Tim blushed and reflexively covered his face with his hands as the ghostly couple relaxed into the impromptu show of affection. 

After a moment, the married couple parted and appeared to have eyes only for each other. 

“Do you remember what I said about bringing your work to the dining table?” Martha asked coyly

“Don’t do it?” Thomas replied in a bit of a daze.

Martha smiled. “That’s right. Don’t…” She his chest lightly with her fingertip. “...Do…” She tapped his lip right beneath his mustache. “...It.” She tapped the tip of his nose.

“Or else?” Thomas grinned coyly back at her, which drew out another sultry playful smile from Martha.

“Or else,” she echoed in agreement. Then she gave him one more quick peck of a kiss before hopping off his lap, smoothing out her dress, and taking her own seat at the table while looking quite pleased with herself. 

Thomas then finally noticed that the pair of them weren’t alone at the table. He had the good grace to look sheepish at his grandson. “Oh! Um… Good morning Tim. I’m sorry… I didn’t notice you there.”

Still blushing slightly, Tim peeked out from between his fingers to confirm that his ghostly grandparents were finally behaving themselves. “Clearly,” the teenager remarked as he tried to recompose himself. He noticed out of the corner of his eyes that Martha was still beaming cheerfully. He picked up his fork and almost started in on the delicious looking omelet resting on his plate, but paused. “Can I be perfectly honest?”

Both Thomas and Martha looked at him curiously. “Well of course, son,” Thomas said with a nod. “You can always be honest with me and your grandmother.”

Tim took a measured breath. “You two are nothing like what I imagined Bruce’s parents would be like. Not in a bad way! It’s just…” Tim rolled his fork between his fingers as he tried to find the right words. 

Martha rested her elbows on the table, interlaced her fingers, and rested her chin on them as she looked at her grandson. “It’s just that neither of us are like the stuffy, arrogant, old money, pretentious, self-absorbed, spoiled assholes who normally make up Gotham City’s two percent?”

Tim blinked at her. “Well… Yeah… In a nutshell.”

His grandmother smiled brightly at him. “Awwww! Thank you!” she cooed. “I’m so glad that you noticed!”

The teenager studied Martha’s openly delighted expression curiously, Then he shifted his gaze to Thomas, who while more subdued was similarly pleased like his wife. Tim then watched as, to his amazement, Thomas reached over, wrapped his hand around the handle of his coffee mug, and pulled out a ghostly duplicate of it. Tim’s eyes widened as he watched his grandfather drink from the “spirit mug” while the real one remained on the table as if it had been untouched. 

“How did you do that?!” Tim asked in amazement. 

“Do what?”

Martha had noticed what happened and was watching things curiously too. “Your coffee, dear.”
 
Thomas looked between the mug in his hand and the one on the table. “Oh! That’s curious. Wasn’t even thinking about it when I picked it up.” Thomas took a long draught from the mug, swallowed, and shrugged his shoulders. “Tastes just fine to me.”

Tim looked over and noticed that some of the liquid was diminished in the mug Thomas held, while the real one remained the same. He focused his attention on that mug. “Do you mind?” he asked politely, motioning to the real mug. 

“Be my guest. Now I’m curious.”

Tim reached over and pulled the mug to him and noticed something almost immediately. “It’s ice cold!” he exclaimed as he compared his grandfather’s mug to his own. Thomas’s eyes lit up with interest as he watched Tim take an experimental sip of his own coffee as a control and to confirm it was still hot. Then both ghosts watched with interest as Tim took a sip from Thomas’s mug and made a wry face before swallowing it reluctantly. “Oh my god! That was awful!”

“Awful?”

“It was so… bland,” Tim remarked as he stared at the cup of coffee like it had betrayed him. “It didn’t taste like coffee at all.”

Thomas looked at the remains in his ghostly mug and drained the rest of it. “Fascinating,” he remarked as he set the mug down and all three of them watched as the mug vanished into thin air, as if it never existed. 

Her eyes lighting up with delight, Martha experimentally reached over to pluck up a cherry tomato that she’d used to garnish Tim’s breakfast. Just like with the mug, she appeared to pull out a ghostly duplicate of the tomato, leaving the real one behind. She popped it into her mouth. “Tastes just like a real one.”

Tim eyed the real tomato suspiciously. He picked it up and popped it into his mouth. As soon as he bit down, though, he immediately grabbed his napkin and spat it out. “That… ugh… a tomato shouldn’t taste like that!” 

Thomas eyed Tim with interest. “What did it taste like?”

“It was the texture of the tomato, but all the flavor was gone.” Tim complained. “That just… didn’t feel right in my mouth.” Tim shuddered before taking an untouched tomato and putting it in his mouth. Relief washed over his face when he realized it tasted normal. 

“Absolutely fascinating!” Thomas said as he picked back up the “Handbook for the Recently Deceased” and began flipping through it. “So ghosts can ‘consume’ essences of food and drink, and while it appears untouched it will lose its flavor in the real world to mortals.” He picked up the pen and notepad he’d had next to him on the table and began jotting down notes.  

Tim didn’t like the amount of mischief that was sparking in Martha’s eyes as she now eyed his breakfast, so he finally began to eat his breakfast in earnest, though he did pause after the first bite of his omelet to complement its taste. His grandmother beamed. After he’d eaten a fair bit of his breakfast, he turned his attention back to his grandfather. 

“It sounds like you’re both still pretty new to being ghosts?” Tim asked curiously. 

Thomas huffed a little. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Tim frowned. “But I don’t understand. You’ve been ghosts for, what, about thirty years? Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?”

Both Thomas and Martha looked at Tim.

“Has it really been thirty years since we died?” Thomas whispered.

Martha sighed. “That’s just it, Tim, it actually hasn’t been thirty years for us.”

“What do you mean?”

And so, over the remains of breakfast, Thomas and Martha described how they “arrived” at the Manor the same evening Tim returned home. By the time their story was over, Tim was staring contemplatively at his empty plate, absorbing everything. 

“So even though it’s been thirty years for us, for you it’s barely been a few days since…” Tim sighed. “This is awful. And you have no idea why your ghosts were sent this far in the future for you?”

Thomas shrugged his broad shoulders. “None whatsoever. From what Miss Argentina in the DMV of the Damned said, something about being from Gotham makes dying… complicated. But she didn’t really explain anything in a way that made any sense.”

“Nothing in that god-forsaken place made any sense,” Martha groused. “All they gave us to ‘help’ us was that new handbook and an assurance that we’d be getting a visit from our ‘case manager’ in three to five days.”

Tim looked between his grandmother and grandfather. He could tell they were going through a lot, and he felt like he had to help them. Felt it deep in his bones just like how he knew he had to help find Bruce because his adopted father wasn’t dead. 

“What if… I knew a few people who might be able to help figure out what’s going on?”

Martha looked at Tim. “What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re friends with witches or exorcists.”

“Well,” Tim gave them a sheepish look. “They wouldn’t exactly be my friends. They’re more like… co-workers of Bruce?”

“Co-workers?” Thomas raised an eyebrow at Tim. “What kind of people is Bruce employing at Wayne Enterprises?”

Tim winced a little. A part of him reflexively wanted to protect this family secret, but another part of him reasoned that (1) Thomas and Martha were technically the heads of their family so they had a right to know, and (2) this was their home first and they were ghosts who could travel through walls. It was only going to be a matter of time before they learned the truth. 

He sighed and stood up from his chair. “It has nothing to do with Wayne Enterprises, but it still involves Bruce’s life work. Honestly… It’ll be easier if I show you.”

And with that, Tim led the way back to the Bruce’s… Thomas’s study and entered in the secret time code on the grandfather clock to open the secret door neither Thomas nor Martha knew existed.

Chapter Text

“Oh my god… There’s a dinosaur underneath our home.”

Of all the things Tim could have imagined his grandparents saying or asking him when he revealed the secret entrance into the Bat Cave, the home base of their only son’s vigilante crusade against crime in Gotham City, the deadpan… almost resigned… delivery of Thomas Wayne’s simple observation had not even made the list. 

The only thing more unexpected than his grandfather’s reaction was his grandmother’s.

“Oh my god!” Martha exclaimed with what could only be described as sheer delight as a brilliant smile lit up her face. “There’s a dinosaur underneath our home!” 

Tim blinked owlishly as he watched his grandmother clap her hands happily with a giggle before making a beeline for the T-Rex robot that stood vigilante at the entrance to the Cave’s trophy room. All of the other souvenirs from Bruce’s years of work were hidden beneath large drop cloths to protect them from dust. The only reason the T-Rex remained uncovered was because they simply didn’t have any cloth large enough to cover it.

As Martha began circling the dinosaur robot, like a hummingbird orbiting its favorite flowers, Tim chanced a glance at his grandfather. The older ghostly man was in the midst of a sigh and a shake of his head. 

“Umm… G-Grandpa?”

Thomas’s eyes lit up a bit at the hesitant testing of the word “Grandpa” from Tim’s lips. His expression softened with a fondness that made the living teenager’s heart warm in his chest. “Yes Tim?”

“I… Err… Well… I’m a little confused.”

“About what, son?”

Tim glanced around the two of them before settling again on the sight of Martha, who was floating upward to get a closer look at the gleaming white fangs of the robot. “I kinda figured you two would have lots of questions about the Cave as a whole and what Bruce was doing with everything here underneath the manor.”

Thomas nodded. “Oh I assure you. Martha and I will have plenty of questions for later.” Then he sighed again as he watched Martha attempt to test the sharpness of a fang with her finger, which seemed rather futile considering her ghostliness. “We just have to wait for Martha to get…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “...this out of her system.”

“This?” Tim started to ask but was interrupted when Martha noticed something behind the dinosaur and called out to her grandson.

“Tim? Tim dear? What’s under all those drop cloths back there?”

Tim walked over to the T-Rex along with Thomas and peered behind it. “Oh that’s just the rest of Bruce’s trophy room.”

Martha gasped. “Oh… Bruce has trophies?”

When Tim nodded, Martha’s face lit up again like it was Christmas morning. She smiled hopefully at her grandson. “Is it alright if I take a peek?”

“Um. Sure?” 

Martha took Tim’s hesitant affirmative response as a definite one with an excited giggle. She gave Tim a quick kiss on the cheek before she breezed her way through the room, pulling down the drop cloths and cooing happily over everything that was revealed within the glass cases. Tim hung back with his grandfather, though, as they moved at a more leisurely pace through the room. Thomas’s gaze lingered here and there, mostly pausing to read the plaques attached to each case before moving further inward. 

“Do you know what it means when they say a person has ‘crow brain’?”

Tim looked at Thomas and shook his head at his grandfather’s question.  

“Well, that is what your grandmother has.” Thomas glanced back at Tim. “People who are ‘crow-brained’ have a fascination with collecting shiny little trinkets and tchotchkes. Martha’s been like that since we were children. She’s always collected things, especially if it’s something shiny, sparkly, or otherwise completely unique.” Thomas sighed. “Looks like Bruce has definitely inherited his mother’s ‘crow brain’.”

There was the sound of a very large drop cloth falling to the ground and Martha’s voice echoed excitedly back to her husband and grandson. “Tom! Thomas, darling! Come here! You have to see this!”

Tim led his grandfather around a nearby corner, but the older ghostly man froze when he saw what Martha was floating in front of, his eyes widened in disbelief. 

“Oh. My. God.”

Martha sighed dreamily. “It’s the biggest, shiniest penny I’ve ever seen in my life.” she murmured wistfully as she stroked the shiny face of Abe Lincoln on the side of the gigantic coin. "Isn't it glorious?!"

Tim watched with growing bemusement as Thomas literally facepalmed with a shake of his head while muttering to himself. “Oh my god, Bruce. You are definitely your mother’s son.” 

“Yes. Yes he is,” Martha agreed fondly with a decisive nod of her head as she finally settled down on the ground once more. 

Thomas wiped his hand down his face as he glanced around at the trophy room again. “Although this has to be some sort of generational evolution of Martha’s crow brain? These ‘trophies’ definitely aren’t simple tchotchkes… and he’s hiding them in a cave out of sight instead of up in one of the rooms in the Manor… ‘dragon hoarding’ perhaps?” 

Tim couldn’t help himself. In that moment as Thomas was musing and muttering to himself, he sounded so much like Bruce it almost hurt. The only reason it didn’t was because the words coming out of his mouth were about Bruce himself potentially being crow brained and dragon hoarding! The mental image it brought up was so ludicrous. A dragon-shaped Batman the size of Smaug commanding flocks of crows to collect weird little trinkets for his growing hoard! Tim never would’ve imagined it up himself in a million years. But now that it was in his brain, the thought happily took up permanent residence in a quiet corner of his memory banks. A snicker bubbled out of Tim. He tried to cover it up with a cough when Thomas glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, but he couldn’t entirely hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

Before Thomas could ask what was on Tim’s mind, Martha had rejoined them, a content smile on her face, but a lot calmer than before. 

“Alright, Tim dear. Storytime!”

“Storytime?”

Martha nodded. “I may be thirty years removed, but I know my son. Bruce never collected random things without reason.” She glanced around at the wider expanse of the Bat Cave. “And clearly there is a reason for everything here, not just these ‘trophies’. Can you tell us what your father’s been up to all this time?”

“And where he is now?” Thomas added. 

Tim’s expression became a little melancholic. “It’s a long story… and not all of it is good,” he admitted to his grandparents. 

Thomas laid a translucent hand on TIm’s shoulder comfortingly. “As long as it’s the truth… or at the very least accurate from your perspective… That’s the important thing. Besides, perhaps something about what’s going on with him is the reason why Martha and I are here now?”

Tim sighed. “With all the crazy things that have gone on in our lives? That… honestly wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

Chapter Text

The last of Tim’s words hung heavy in the air of the Batcave. He’d just finished telling his grandparents about Bruce’s double life as Batman, the ever-expanding family Bruce had built, how Tim’s own fractured childhood led him into the Wayne family, and the bizarre time-travel situation that had landed Bruce currently lost somewhere in the past.

Across from him, both Thomas and Martha’s expressions had sobered. Gone was the earlier amusement and playful delight at the Batcave’s “trophies”. Instead, their faces were etched with concern, their eyes filled with a quiet sorrow that mirrored the weight of Tim’s story.

Tim squirmed a little in his seat, the silence suddenly oppressive. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, feeling a pang of guilt for burdening them with the troubling revelations about their son and his family.

Martha was the first to speak, her voice soft but firm. “Oh, Timothy,” she said, reaching out a translucent hand to gently touch his arm. “Don’t you apologize. You did nothing wrong. If anything, it appears you’ve been forced to be far, far too strong for entirely too long.”

Thomas’s voice, usually full of booming questions and curiosity, was subdued as he spoke. “Martha’s right, Tim.  You have nothing to apologize for.” He placed his own hand on top of Martha’s, creating a comforting sandwich over Tim’s arm. “How are you feeling, my dear boy? Is there anything your grandmother and I can do for you?”

Tim stared at their translucent ghostly hands, a lump forming in his throat. Years of training, years of holding everything in, threatened to crack as the unexpected and genuine concern from his grandparents flooded through him. He almost lied, almost choked back the truth and pretended he was fine.

But something in their eyes, a depth of understanding that seemed to resonate with something deep within his own wounded and aching heart, made it impossible.

He took a shaky breath. “I’m… not okay,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I haven’t been for a long time. But… now that you’re here, even though it’s crazy… I don’t feel so alone anymore.”

A small, watery smile played on Martha’s lips. “And you won’t be, Tim. Never again. Not so long as Thomas and I are here.”

Tim wiped a stray tear from his eye, surprised by the sudden vulnerability he felt. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved this kind of reassurance, this kind of familial support. He couldn’t even recall the last time he felt something like this from anyone. Certainly not from his biological parents while they were alive… Certainly not after Bruce got lost in the time stream… Maybe… Not even before that?

He hesitated for a moment to recompose himself before speaking again, finally voicing the question that had been nagging at him in order to shift the conversation a little away from his own fragile emotional state. “Honestly, I was surprised by how… well you both took the news about Bruce. You aren’t shocked or appalled about him becoming a vigilante?”

Thomas chuckled, a dry but genuinely warm sound. “Not really? Taking a different path, fighting for a cause you believe in… Honestly, that’s kind of a long-standing Wayne family tradition, wouldn't you agree, love?”

As Martha agreed with a soft smile and a nod to her husband, the conversation shifted directions, the weight of Tim's story seemed to settle a little. The air between them wasn't heavy anymore, replaced by a newfound understanding. The quiet sounds of the Cave around them… the chirps of the bats as well as the running water from the stream that ran through the lower areas beneath them… created a calming counterpoint to the earlier moment of emotional intensity.

Tim considered his grandfather’s words, a spark of curiosity igniting in his eyes. He hadn't known what to expect when revealing Bruce's secret life and their makeshift family, but the idea of a rebellious streak running through the Wayne bloodline was a fascinating revelation he hadn’t anticipated.

"What do you mean?" he prodded hesitantly.

Thomas, with a mischievous glint in his spectral eyes, launched into a tale. "Take myself, for example. Business school was supposed to be my destiny, a future of board meetings and stuffy suits. But my heart belonged to medicine. I dreamt of wielding a scalpel, not a pen. I wanted to save lives, " He glanced fondly at Martha, who floated beside him, her form shimmering with a knowing smile. "And let's just say, your grandmother here was quite the accomplice in thwarting my supposed predestined familial obligations at the time."

Martha chimed in, the amusement in her voice. "Oh yes! Orchestrating daring late-night escapes all for the sake of fulfilling a beloved dream while also telling oppressive authority figures to shove off is one of my favorite pastimes!"

Tim's jaw dropped. He'd known his grandparents were interesting, but defying societal expectations to such an extent? It was a far cry from the ideas of silver spoons and debutante balls he'd vaguely imagined Thomas and Martha Wayne would’ve been born and raised to uphold as part of Gotham City’s foundational upper class families.

Encouraged by Tim's wide-eyed interest, Thomas continued, his voice taking on a more reverent tone. "Even your great-grandfather, Samuel Wayne, wasn't exactly a model heir. Originally my own father had been destined for the temple. Apparently his mother, my Bubbe, was a very pious and… ‘traditional’ woman when she was busy raising her children. But this was also during the middle of World War II. So, what do you think my father did?”

Tim shook his head with a shrug. He had no clue. 

Thomas grinned. “Your great-grandfather secretly graduated a full semester early from high school, lied about his age, and enlisted in the army! Bubbe was apparently furious and disowned him for a few years. But eventually she let him back in the family when he came back a decorated and respected war hero. Still it's a far cry from the devout rabbi they envisioned for him to become."

Tim whistled, a low sound of impressed disbelief. "Wow," he breathed, feeling a strange sense of pride blooming in his chest. These were his ancestors?!

“Don’t forget Victor’s story, dear.”

Thomas chuckled at Martha. “Why don’t you tell the tale? It’s your favorite story, after all.”

Martha’s face lit up with delight as she dove into the tale she told their grandson. "Back in the 1920s, there was quite the commotion going on within the Wayne family. You see, despite the best efforts of the patriarch and matriarch of the Wayne family, they were unable to give birth to any ‘heirs’ before both passed away due to illness. No sons at all. Only three daughters orphaned by their parents’ untimely deaths. It caused quite a stir in high society. The eldest was supposed to marry some pompous aristocrat to secure the family fortune, though the greater tragedy was that it seemed the Wayne family name was going to die out with that generation. But our family… well, let's just say that even back then, not even the women of our family were known for their docility."

Amusement laced Martha’s voice as she continued. "The youngest sister named Annelise, bless her heart, couldn't bear the thought of her older sister trapped in a loveless marriage. And she certainly did not want the Wayne family name to die off so easily. So, she concocted an audacious plan.”

“What did she do?” Tim was practically leaning on the edge of his seat, completely engrossed in his grandmother’s story.

Martha giggled with delight. “She faked her own death, took a year to prepare herself and documents to complete her ruse, and reappeared in Gotham dressed like a man and claiming to be a long-lost 'bastard son' of her father named Victor that he supposedly conceived from his own travels abroad in France years ago. Once she had everyone convinced that Victor was the legitimate male heir to the Wayne empire, she lived quite contentedly as Victor for the remainder of her days. Though she never married and had no “children” herself, she named one of her older sister’s children as the Wayne family heir and eventually changed the rules so that no matter if they were a man or woman, as long as they were considered a Wayne they could inherit the family’s properties and businesses.” 

Tim stared at Martha, completely floored. This wasn't just defying expectations, this was rewriting the family narrative entirely. A sense of wonder washed over him as he contemplated the stories he'd just heard.

Suddenly, Bruce's double life as Batman didn't seem so outlandish anymore. In fact, it almost felt like a continuation of a family tradition. Bruce, defying the expectations of a comfortable foppish life he pretended to indulge in so that he could secretly fight for what he truly believed in to make Gotham a better place.  

Tim chuckled, a genuine laugh that echoed warmly through the Cave.  He looked between his grandparents, seeing a new reflection of his father in each of them. The stubborn determination in Thomas's jawline, the playful rebellious glint in Martha's eyes – it was all there, a tapestry woven from generations.

"Wow," he breathed, a smile playing on his lips. "I can totally see Bruce in you both now, and I understand now why neither of you are shocked he became Batman.  But…" he hesitated, a question lingering in his mind. "I can see Grandpa probably is where B got his detective instincts from, and Nana is the one who inspired his need to collect things like trophies…”

“...And children?”

Tim nearly choked on his words as he looked to Martha, who was smiling lovingly. “You are certainly in your own way shiny, sparkly, and completely unique. I’d collect you if you weren’t already my grandson.”

Tim blushed to the tips of his ears and stammered for a response.

Thomas chuckled fondly. “Martha dear… Please don’t detail Tim’s train of thought. I believe he had a question he was trying to ask?”

After recomposing himself a bit, though he couldn’t completely will away the blush from his face, Tim finally asked his question. “Um… Yeah… I wanted to ask which one of you might’ve inspired the whole… bat-themed secret vigilante thing? That doesn’t really seem like either of you."

A look of amusement, laced with a hint of conspiracy, passed between Thomas and Martha. Their ghostly forms flickered faintly as they shared a silent conversation, a knowing glint in their spectral eyes. Finally, they both spoke in unison, their voices deadpan.

"Alfred."

Tim burst out laughing, a surprised and delighted sound that echoed through the hallway. The unexpected answer completely disarmed him, and even his grandparents couldn't help but grin at his reaction.

"Alfred?" he gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "You can't be serious! You're throwing Alfred under the Batmobile!"

Martha giggled. "Oh, we're quite serious, Tim. Alfred seriously has the most dramatic soul in the entire Wayne family, you know. He actually went to university for theater in England and was an actor for a short time before coming to work for us."

Thomas added, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "There's more to Alfred than meets the eye, Tim. Before joining our household, he also served in the British military and… well, let's just say he belonged to a certain… clandestine organization known for their discretion."

Tim stared at them, his jaw slack with disbelief. Alfred? The ever-stoic, perfectly mannered butler? A vigilante inspiration? He scanned his grandparents’ faces, searching for a hint of jest. While their spectral forms shimmered with amusement, there was a sincerity in their eyes that squashed any doubt.

His brain wrestled with the revelation. Alfred, a soldier, yes. An actor, he knew that too. But a secret agent? That part of Alfred's life had been a tightly sealed vault, never a whisper escaping its secure confines. Tim felt a strange mix of amusement and something akin to betrayal. All these years, living under the same roof, Alfred had kept this massive secret.

"He... he never mentioned being a spy," Tim stammered, his voice a mere whisper lost in the vast hallway. The revelation was like a logic bomb detonating in his mind, fragments of memories of Alfred's cryptic comments and odd skillsets suddenly aligning with the image of a seasoned spy. He remembered how Alfred could disarm a tense situation with a well-timed quip, or how he always seemed to have exactly the right tool Bruce needed, no matter how obscure. Now, it all made a twisted kind of sense.

Thomas winked, his spectral form shimmering with barely contained laughter. "Some things are best left unsaid, wouldn't you agree?"

Tim's gaze darted between his grandparents, the pieces finally clicking into place. Alfred's theatricality, his resourcefulness bordering on the fantastical at times, his unwavering loyalty – it all fit. He could practically see the young Bruce Wayne, impressionable and yearning for purpose, subtly influenced by the man who not only cared for him but also possessed a secret life filled with intrigue and daring.

"Oh my God," Tim breathed, the realization dawning on him as a light bulb went off in his head. "Batman IS all Alfred's fault!"

This time, his proclamation wasn't a surprised outburst, but a wry acceptance laced with a hint of fondness. The revelation brought a wave of genuine laughter from both Martha and Thomas, the sound echoing through the Cave like a sweet melody. It was a laugh that acknowledged the absurdity of the situation, the weight of his secret life, and the undeniable influence Alfred must have had on Bruce's path. In that moment, Tim felt a newfound respect for the unassuming butler, the man who not only served his family but may have inadvertently birthed a legend.

The shared laughter seemed to bridge a gap between them. Thomas and Martha, their ghostly forms shimmering with a newfound warmth, exchanged a look of pure delight. The more they interacted with Tim, the more they were charmed by this brilliant, expressive teenager. He possessed a spirit that resonated with their own, a defiance of expectations and a burning sense of justice. Despite never having met him when they were alive, a powerful familial connection bloomed between them.

"We're so glad we could share these stories with you, Tim," Martha said, her voice soft yet infused with a maternal warmth.

Tim nodded, a lump forming in his throat. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like an outsider, or someone who forced himself in like a square peg in a round hole. He was a part of this family. Despite being adopted, he was a descendant of a long line of unconventional men and women.

"Thank you," he finally choked out, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for being here. For being my family."

Thomas placed a translucent hand on Tim's shoulder, a comforting gesture that sent a warmth radiating through him despite the spectral chill of the ghostly touch. "We'll always be here for you, Tim. Now and always. After all, you're a Wayne."

A single tear escaped Tim's eye, but it wasn't a tear of sadness. It was a tear of relief, of belonging, and of the dawning hope for a future he wouldn't have to face alone. His living family might be in turmoil at the moment, but he was assured his spectral one was firmly in his corner.

Chapter Text

Damian scowled, refusing to meet Richard's or Drake's gazes as they all perched on a Gotham rooftop. Despite a successful patrol, the tension between him and Drake hung heavy in the air.

It had been a fairly calm night with no major incidents with any Rogues in the city. Damian and Drake had both chafed at the idea of patrolling together. Richard, however, had requested it, and neither could come up with a good excuse to refuse.

Richard's voice broke the silence. "It's late, Tim. Why not stay at the Penthouse tonight? Movie night, just like old times?"

Drake glanced briefly toward Damian, and the boy could feel his unwanted other brother’s eyes from behind his cowl scanning over him. Damian glared back defiantly. Then Drake shook his head and turned away. 

"Maybe some other time.” Drake pulled out his grapple gun and checked that it was loaded properly. “I’ll see you around.” And with that he flew off into the night toward where his motorcycle was hidden.

Damian observed as the line of Grayson’s shoulders slumped slightly beneath the weight of Batman’s cape. There were no other signs of discomfort or disappointment as the older man motioned for his Robin to follow him home. 

Once back at the Bunker, Damian frowned as he meditated on the evening and interactions with his estranged adopted brother as he neatly removed his gear.

He’d won, hadn’t he?

Drake moved out of the Penthouse two nights prior.

Damian was still Robin.

But…

Damian lingered in the shadows just outside the kitchen as Grayson spoke with the butler Pennyworth.

“Alfred, are you sure you won’t help me convince Tim to move back into the Penthouse?”

“Absolutely not,” the butler said calmly, but resolutely. “Timothy is quite comfortable at the Manor and doesn’t mind the commute into the city for either school or work at Wayne Enterprises. He's also got a... project he's working on in his spare time when he is at home."

"But he's living all alone there in that huge house! It's too big for just one teenager! It can't be healthy for him!"

"He's not going to be living alone there." Alfred said firmly. Then he sighed. "I plan to check in on him every day at the Manor. I will divide my time equally between there and the Penthouse. Additionally, most of his days will be spent working on the Neon Knights project he's starting at Wayne Enterprises. And in three weeks the new school year starts and he'll be busy with his final year of high school on top of his responsibilities as the current majority shareholder of the company, so he’ll hardly be at home most of the days anyways."

Dick sighed. "That's just it, Alfred! Tim is going to have a lot on his plate soon, not even counting his vigilante work. He should be here with his family to help support him."

Alfred gave him an incredulous look. "You honestly think ALL of the souls under this penthouse roof would 'support' Timothy were he to move back in?"

"Damian is getting better…"

"Would you trust him alone with Timothy? Can you honestly say without a shadow of a doubt that the boy wouldn't lift a finger to try and undermine Timothy, either directly or indirectly?"

The pause from Grayson ran too long. From the shadows, Damian felt something bitter twist in his stomach. 

They still didn’t trust him around Drake? Even after Damian gave Richard his word that he wouldn’t antagonize the teenager anymore after that night they had their fight in Crime Alley? Did Damian's word mean nothing to them?

The more Damian thought about it as he stalked back to his room the more irritated he became. “This is all Drake’s fault!” he thought to himself as he barely resisted the urge to slam the door behind him. “How can I prove to Richard and Pennyworth that I can be trusted around the interloper if he’s not around for me to show them I’m different now?!”

As Damian laid down on his bed, staring at his ceiling in frustration, a realization crossed his mind that made him groan with exasperation. If he was going to prove to Richard and Pennyworth (and eventually Father when he finally returned) that he could co-exist peacefully with useless older “brother”, he needed to somehow convince Drake to return to the Penthouse. 

It shouldn’t be too hard, right? If “family” was as important to Drake as Richard made it sound like, it should be no problem at all to persuade Drake to return to the Penthouse to be in closer proximity to Richard and Pennyworth. They were the only "family" Drake's had left currently after all.

---

The engine of Tim's motorcycle rumbled comfortingly beneath him as he sped towards the outskirts of Gotham. The cool night air whipped through his hair, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and exhaust. Once he got to his favorite overlook that rested between Gotham and Bristol, he paused to glance back at the urban skyline. a tapestry of twinkling city lights against the pitch dark starless night sky. Despite the respite he was indulging in on his way home, there was a bittersweet pang in his chest.

He missed Dick. Missed racing each other on their way home after a slow night of patrol like that evening. Missed their late-night talks over lukewarm pizza while watching old movies. Missed having his older brother all to himself without threats of violence from their newest abrasive youngest brother.

Dick, ever the optimist, was doing his best to try and bridge the growing chasm between him and Damian. Even Tim could admit it was a valiant effort on his older brother’s part. Tonight's patrol had been an attempt, however awkward, to recapture some semblance of their past version of a normal vigilante family dynamic.

But normal just wasn't in the cards for them, not with Damian's constant hostility hanging in the air like a noxious cloud and Tim’s foundation of mistrust and suspicion born from Damian’s past acts of violence towards him.

Tim grimaced internally. He knew how much Dick wanted him and Damian to get along, but how could they when Damian hadn’t apologized even once for all the pain and suffering he’s inflicted upon him? How could Tim rest at all in the Penthouse when he could never drop his guard around Damian for fear of being attacked again?

Was it too much to ask to just have a little sense of safety within his own home while he slept?

He pulled up into the Cave through a secret tunnel in the darkest part of the woods that surrounded Wayne Manor. Though from the outside in the darkness it seemed ominous and spooky, the house seemed to emanate a sense of welcome to  and comfort to Tim, a stark contrast to the tension that simmered beneath the surface at the Penthouse whenever he had to spend any time there.

After he parked his motorcycle and made his way to the heart of the Cave’s command center, a playful spectral hand flickered across his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly. However, rather than being alarmed, Tim couldn't help but smile.

"Easy there, Tim," Martha's voice, warm and familiar, echoed in the spacious Cave. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Thomas and Martha materialized before him, their translucent forms shimmering faintly. His grandmother was standing by his side while his grandfather was sitting at Bruce’s chair in front of the main computer of the command center, eyes focused on the modern copy of “The Handbook for the Recently Deceased” he was studying. 

"It’s alright, Nana. I’m fine," Tim replied, his voice softer than usual. Despite the tensions of the earlier evening on patrol with his brothers, and despite the fact that he still missed his older brother and Bruce, Tim was honest when he told Martha that he was fine. Now that his grandparents were here, despite the fact that they were ghosts, he didn’t feel as lonely as he once did.

"How was patrol?" Martha asked, her brows furrowing as she scanned Tim for injuries. Her concern was a constant, and a little unnerving, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Tim sighed, a small puff of air escaping his lips. "Quiet, crime-wise. But the tension… between me and Damian…" He left the sentence hanging, trusting his grandmother to understand.

A wave of sadness washed over her translucent form. "Oh, Timothy," she murmured, her voice laced with worry. "Is that boy still giving you trouble?"

Tim managed a wan smile. "No, Nana, not tonight. Nothing escalated to violence."

Relief flickered across Martha's face, replaced a moment later by a new furrow of her brows. "Then what troubles you, dear?" she prodded gently.

Tim ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up. "Dick," he began, then stopped to take a steadying breath. "He wanted me to stay at the Penthouse tonight."

Martha's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "He did? Well, that's good, isn't it? He wants to spend time with you. What did you say?"

"I declined," Tim admitted, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

Concern deepened on Martha's face. "Why, Timothy? Wouldn't it be nice to be closer to your brother? I know you miss him."

Tim's hand tightened into a fist. "It would be, Nana, if things were different. But spending time with Dick means being around Damian, and being around Damian, even with Dick as a buffer… it's exhausting. I'm always on guard, waiting for the next… provocation." He stopped himself before he could say "attack." The memory of past violence was still a raw nerve.

Martha reached out, her cool, spectral hand settling on his shoulder. Though the touch was feathery light, it held a grounding weight. Tim leaned into it subconsciously. "He hasn't hurt you again, has he?" she asked softly.

Tim shook his head. "No, not tonight. But Nana, it's like… he hasn't apologized, not really. Not for anything. And I just… I don't think I can relax, not truly relax, while he's there. Not in the same house."

His words hung heavy in the air. Thomas, who had been engrossed in a book moments before, swiveled in Bruce's chair, his spectral form solidifying with a sigh.

"Timothy," he began, his voice a comforting rumble, "this Manor is your sanctuary. As long as Martha and I reside here, it will always be a safe haven for you." His gaze held a steely glint. "No one, and I mean no one, will be allowed to cause you harm within these walls."

Tim looked up, a flicker of hope battling the weariness in his eyes. "But what about Damian? He is your biological grandson…"

A gentle hand, cool but comforting, settled on his other shoulder. Martha squeezed his arm reassuringly. "We heard, darling," she said softly. "And we understand your reservations. But know this: blood ties do not dictate the depth of love or the strength of a bond."

Tim stared at them, a question hanging unspoken in the air.

"You are our grandson, Timothy," she said, her voice firm. "Adopted or otherwise makes no difference. You are as loved, as cherished, and as deserving of protection as any child born of our blood."

Thomas nodded in agreement. "We love all our grandchildren, but love does not equate to condoning their actions. Just because they are loved, does not mean they are given a free pass to hurt each other."

He sighed, a sound that rustled through the silent cave like wind through dry leaves. "Martha and I… we regret deeply that we were taken from this world before we could raise Bruce fully. We weren't there to guide him when each of you entered this family. But now," he continued, his gaze unwavering, "we are here. And we will do everything in our power to love and support you all."

A lump formed in Tim's throat. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but the fierce protectiveness emanating from his grandparents was a balm to his troubled soul.

Tim let out a slow breath. His grandparents' unwavering support washed over him, a warm wave dispelling the chill of loneliness and mistrust.

"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you both for understanding. It means a lot."

Martha beamed, her ghostly form seeming to shimmer with joy. "Of course, darling. That's what grandparents are for."

Thomas gave him a curt nod with a small smile curling beneath his mustache. "Now, get yourself cleaned up. You look like you could use a long soak and a good night's sleep."

A small smile tugged at Tim's lips. "You're right. Thanks again." He quickly put his armor and gear away before heading upstairs out of the Cave and towards his bathroom.

As he sank into the embrace of the blissfully hot water, Tim allowed himself to truly relax for the first time that night. He might miss Dick, and Damian might still cause him no end of grief, but for now being here in this sanctuary with his grandparents was the perfect antidote to the pain and chaos of his life from the past couple of years. 

However, rest didn't come easily for Tim after his bath. Nestled in his bed, his mind buzzed with the day's events. The past few days, since encountering Thomas and Martha, had been a whirlwind, and Tim was still grappling with the implications.

One thought, however, brought a sliver of solace. He may not be able to control the actions of others, but he could control his own response. He could choose his battles, both on the gritty streets of Gotham and within the tangled Wayne family tree. Right now, his family-side battle was for a simple haven – a space where he could breathe, feel safe, and be loved unconditionally.

The irony wasn't lost on him. After all this time, the solace he craved had materialized in the most unexpected form – his grandparents, ghosts who'd been gone for three decades. A bitter pang stabbed at him. He'd poured so much of himself, his childhood, his literal blood, sweat, and tears, into this family – particularly Bruce and his never-ending mission.

Wasn't it ironic? The ghosts of Bruce's parents, the ones who weren't even physically present, were the ones offering him the most unwavering support. Their love was freely given, with no strings attached. Thomas and Martha were even willing to shield him from his most volatile siblings, even their own youngest biological grandson.

All Tim had ever wanted was a place in a real family where he was loved, cherished, and valued for who he was. And now that he'd finally found it, he wouldn't let it go without a fight. A newfound determination settled within him. He might not have a perfect family, but he had a start. And with his grandparents by his side, he was ready to face whatever came next.

Chapter Text

Sunlight streamed through the ornate bay windows of the Wayne Manor breakfast nook, dappling the mahogany table where Tim sat across from his grandparents. A plate of pancakes was placed in front of him by his Nana.

"So," Tim began, hesitantly cutting his breakfast, "any word from your… case worker at the… um… DMV of the Damned?" He couldn't help but chuckle at the phrase. Bureaucracy in the afterlife – it still struck him as hilarious.

Thomas sighed dramatically. "More like the Bureau of Eternal Delays," he grumbled, buttering a ghostly slice of toast with a vengeance before looking to Martha. "We filled out that mountain of paperwork last Friday, right?"

Martha nodded as she poured out coffee for each of her boys before making a cup of tea for herself. "That’s right dear."

"Exactly!" Thomas boomed. “So why haven’t they--”

Martha gave her husband a look over the top of her translucent teacup. "Technicalities, Thomas. Remember, they did specify 'business days.'” She left her teacup floating in midair as she released it to make air quotes with her fingers. Then she noticed her teacup was floating, blinked at it with a twinge of surprise, before shrugging and taking it back in her hands as she continued speaking. “Friday evening wouldn't count, and neither does the weekend."

"So, three days?" Tim offered, a touch of sympathy creeping into his voice.

"Two, actually," Thomas countered with a sigh. "Don't forget Monday was a federal holiday."

Tim winced. "Ugh, bureaucracy in any form is the worst. Can't you guys just… go back and ask them to hurry it up?"

Thomas chuckled. "As much as I want to move things along, subjecting your Nana to another visit wouldn't be ideal. It wasn't exactly… pleasant for her."

Martha shuddered at the memories of the other “clients” they met when they first visited the DMV of the Damned. "Not just that, but the office receptionist, Miss Argentina, did not appreciate my inquiries about expediting the process." She mimicked the ghostly receptionist’s abrasive Spanish accent. "'If you try to get pushy about seeing Juno too early, dearie, I'll bury you so deep in red tape you won't see the light of day until the next century!'"

Tim snorted, unable to stifle a laugh. "Wow, she sounds lovely." He lifted a piece of pancake to his mouth and made a pleased hum. His Nana’s pancakes were absolutely delicious. He immediately speared another piece and took a thoughtful bite. "Speaking of visits, Alfred's supposed to be coming around noon today. You guys want to try and see if you can interact with him?"

Martha's eyes sparkled at the mention of Alfred. "Oh, how wonderful! We'd love to see him again." A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. "But Thomas, do you think he'll be able to… you know, see or hear us?"

Thomas stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "That's a good question. The Handbook for the Recently Deceased was pretty clear – living family members who knew the deceased in life usually can't interact with their ghosts." He cast a glance at Tim, who was now frowning at his plate.

"But then why can I see and hear you two?" Tim asked, voicing the question hanging in the air.

Thomas shrugged, a phantom wisp of smoke dusting his spectral form for a moment. "There seem to be some exceptions to the rules. Technically you’ve never met us while we were alive. You weren’t even born when we both died. The book also mentions certain circumstances that allow interaction with the living, but apparently it 'varies from manifestation to manifestation.'"

Tim crinkled his nose. "What does that even mean?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Thomas admitted with a chuckle. "Maybe we have to do some experimenting? After all, you didn't see or hear us directly the first night we arrived either. It wasn't until the next evening when we actually met face to face."

Tim's face fell slightly. The thought of Alfred, their loyal friend and butler, coming to the Manor and not being able to interact with his cherished family was a sad one. A darker thought brushed against his mind – if the rules applied to everyone, that meant Bruce wouldn't be able to see them either when he was finally rescued and brought home. He pushed the thought down, a sliver of hope flickering within him. They wouldn't know for sure until they tried, right?

"Maybe," Tim said, a flicker of determination replacing the sadness in his eyes. "I’ll do whatever I can to help."

Martha reached out a translucent hand, gently squeezing Tim's shoulder. "Thank you dear. Thomas and I will come up with a plan, and we'll give it our best shot. After all, Alfred deserves a warm welcome back into the Manor, even if it's a little… unconventional."

A smile tugged at the corner of Tim's lips. "Unconventional is kind of our thing around here, isn't it?"

------

The midday sun cast long shadows across the Wayne Manor driveway as Alfred pulled his car into the garage. He popped the trunk, revealing a canvas tote bag overflowing with groceries and a folded laundry basket tucked into a corner. Though Tim was a responsible young man, Alfred couldn't help but worry. Teenagers, even mature ones like Tim, still needed a little looking after, especially with the chaos that had descended upon the Wayne family. Bruce was gone, Dick was stretched thin between his duties as Batman and managing Damian, and Tim – well, Tim deserved some normalcy after everything he’d been through recently.

Tim emerged from the back door just as Alfred was about to step out of the car. A smile, genuine and warm, spread across his face. "Alfred! You made it. Let me help with those groceries."

Alfred chuckled, handing Tim a bag. "There's no need, Master Timothy. You know I can manage."

"Nonsense," Tim insisted, taking another bag. "Besides, it's good to see you. How are things at the Penthouse?"

As they walked side-by-side towards the house, Alfred began listing his plans for the day. "Well, Master Tim, there are a few things I thought I'd tackle while I'm here. The media room hasn't been used in quite a while, and it could use a good dusting and airing out. Perhaps we could open up some of the windows and let some fresh air in there, and maybe even the sun room and the library as well. It wouldn't hurt to have a few more comfortable spaces for you to use while you're staying here."

Tim nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up. "That sounds great, Alfred! I could definitely use a change of scenery. Do you know if all the video game systems got moved over to the Penthouse, or were they put into storage?"

Alfred smiled warmly. "I believe some of them were taken by Master Richard to the Penthouse, but I think a few were left behind. We can certainly check."

It wasn't much, just the simple comfort of everyday conversation, but it filled a void in both their lives. They continued chatting about chores and plans, a sense of normalcy settling around them despite the extraordinary circumstances.

Meanwhile, unseen in the backseat of Alfred's car, Damian shifted impatiently.  He'd stowed away during Alfred's pre-Manor stop, squeezing into a cramped space beneath a pile of towels.  He'd heard enough of their conversation to understand Tim was clearly settling in to staying at the Manor for the foreseeable future.  This wasn't good.  He needed Tim back at the Penthouse, needed to prove to Dick he could keep his word.

The moment Alfred and Tim disappeared into the house, Damian silently slipped out of the old butler’s car.  He was a shadow in the shadows, clad in his black uniform, a scowl etched on his youthful face.  His plan was simple: infiltrate the Manor, observe Tim in his element, and discover a weakness, a leverage point to use in his manipulation.  He needed to make Tim's return to the Penthouse seem like his own brilliant idea.  With a silent oath, Damian crept out of the garage and into the interior of Wayne Manor.

-------

Martha hummed softly, dusting a delicate porcelain teacup with a spectral fingertip. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow across the polished granite countertops. Tim's laughter, a melody that soothed the ache in her ghostly heart, drifted in faintly from somewhere in the house.

"Do you think they'll be here soon?" Martha asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Thomas, perched on a high stool next to the counter, sighed. "Alfred's always like clockwork. Shouldn't be much longer."

His voice, however, held a tremor of doubt. A flicker of anxious hope danced across his translucent features. He longed to see Alfred again, to share a familiar smile, a witty remark, the way they used to before. He yearned for a connection beyond the one they shared with Tim. As much as he cherished his bond with his grandson Alfred was family and a link to the past when he and Martha were both alive. As Martha reached out and placed her ghostly hand on his arm, he shared a look of longing with his wife, Thomas could tell she was feeling the same.

Despite the uncertainty, a strange perk of their spectral existence had emerged. They could now sense the presence of living souls within the Manor – faint echoes that resonated with the footsteps and voices that carried through the air. Just moments ago, a distinct, warm signature, like a familiar melody, had announced Alfred's arrival through the large oak doors. Shortly after, Tim's signature, a brighter, more youthful echo, had joined it, their movements weaving together as they made their way through the Manor.

But then, there was another presence. A faint, jarring note within the familiar symphony. It was faint, almost indiscernible, but Thomas, with his heightened senses, couldn't ignore the prickle of unease that crawled up his spine.

"Martha," he began, his voice low. "Do you… feel that?"

Martha paused, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Feel what, dear?"

"Another presence," Thomas explained, a tremor running through his spectral form. "Someone else is here. Someone who shouldn't be."

Martha focused, her translucent eyes widening in surprise. "You're right! It's faint, but there's definitely someone else in the house besides Alfred and Tim."

A wave of anger, hot and fierce, momentarily darkened Thomas's spectral form. Someone was in their home, uninvited and unseen. His gaze narrowed, a surge of protectiveness flaring up for his grandson, Alfred, and the Manor itself. It mirrored the same fierce protectiveness that had driven him and Martha to do everything they could to protect their son Bruce the night they were murdered.

(In the hallway leading to the kitchen, Alfred and Tim paused for a moment as the light from some of the wall sconces along the way suddenly flickered for a moment.

"Well that's odd," Alfred remarked as he tapped one of the flickering sconces. It stopped flickering and held a steady light once more. "I suppose it's been awhile since the bulbs were changed? I'll have to pick up some during my next shopping trip."

"Yeah. I guess," Tim agreed uncertainly as he continued following after Alfred, his eyes darting this way and that for any sign of his grandparents or any other ghostly visitors.)

"Who could it be?" Martha whispered, her voice laced with worry. "Do you think it's the case worker from the DMV? What's her name... Juno?"

A tense silence hung in the air as Thomas considered the possibility.

"No," Thomas finally said, shaking his translucent head. "This presence… it doesn't feel like another ghost. It feels…alive… younger, more… volatile."

His words hung heavy in the air, a chilling premonition settling over the once-warm kitchen. The unexpected visitor was a mystery, and their intentions were far from clear.

Chapter Text

Tim entered the kitchen, a couple of grocery bags swinging from his hands. Alfred was already straight to business,  laying out the contents of another bag on the kitchen island for sorting. He'd also refilled the coffee pot and started brewing a fresh carafe. The sound and smells of the brewing pot filled the air, a comforting audible and aromatic combination that always made the Manor feel like home.

“Alfred, you didn’t have to do this yourself,” Tim said, placing the bags on the counter. “I could’ve handled it.”

Alfred paused, a gentle smile curving his lips. “I know you could have, Master Timothy, but I enjoy these small tasks. It gives me something to do.”

As Tim watched Alfred move about the kitchen with practiced ease, he couldn’t help glance around, searching for his grandparents. Just fifteen minutes ago, they’d been sitting at the breakfast nook to wait for Tim as he went to greet Alfred at the garage. But now, they were nowhere to be seen.

A wave of confusion and worry washed over him. Had they gone back to the study? Or perhaps they needed some time alone, nervous about finally seeing their old friend? The questions lingered, a nagging itch at the back of his mind.

As he watched Alfred carry an armful of boxes into the walk-in pantry a voice, soft and apologetic, cut through his thoughts.

“Timothy, dear, I’m so sorry,” Martha’s voice drifted in from the entrance to the hallway, her words carrying a sense of urgency.

Tim turned to face the doorway, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched his grandmother silently sweep into the kitchen and straight towards the breakfast table. “Nana? Where were you? Where's Grandpa?” he whispered.

There was a brief pause, then she spoke up as she lifted the “Handbook for the Recently Deceased" from the table. “We’ll explain everything later dear, but Thomas and I need to go take care of something. We’ll be back soon, promise.”

Her words hung in the air, leaving Tim more puzzled than before. He reflexively reached out for her to try and slow her retreat, to ask if he could help. However, his fingers passed through her arm like trying to catch cold mist. The sensation sent a chill down his spine as he watched as she breezed out of the room, fading into complete invisibility before she even reached the doorway. 

“Is everything alright Master Timothy?”

Tim jumped slightly, causing Alfred to raise a concerned brow at him. It wasn't every day the old butler was able to startle his adopted grandson. “Were you speaking with someone on the phone?”

Something was amiss, and Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something important. Still he shook his head. “Um… it was just a wrong number. Nothing to worry about Alfred.”

---

Though invisible to the human eye, Martha's spectral form flickered anxiously as she navigated the Manor's familiar halls, the Handbook clutched tightly in her spectral hands. A sense of unease gnawed at her, a premonition of something amiss. She was alone, separated from Thomas, and a growing sense of isolation crept into her. A wave of longing for Thomas washed over her, and she yearned for his comforting presence. 

Suddenly, the world around her seemed to shift. One moment she was in the hallway, and the next, she was tumbling forward, her translucent form disintegrating and reforming in an instant. A gasp escaped her lips as she found herself caught in a strong embrace.

“Whoa! Where did you come from?”

Martha blinked, disoriented. "I don't know," she replied, her voice still laced with surprise. "I was just in the hallway, and then... I appeared here." She glanced around, taking in her surroundings. "This is Timothy's room."

Thomas nodded as he took the Handbook Martha offered him, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I think the Handbook mentioned something about ghosts being able to teleport within their 'haunt.' It's a new one on me, but it seems we're about to learn more about it."

“What are you doing in Timothy's room?” Martha asked as she recomposed herself.

“Whoever the intruder is, they're moving about in the vents.”

Martha looked up at the nearest wall vent that was positioned just a few inches away from the ceiling. “The vents? But that doesn't make sense. They’re far too small for a grown person to fit through.”

Just as she was about to ask more questions, a strange sensation washed over her. A presence, foreign and unsettling, seemed to pulse through the room. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it sent a shiver down her ghostly spine.

"Thomas," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I think they're already here."

After a moment the vent opens quietly and a boy dressed in black slips out of it and into Timothy's bedroom. He's a shadow in the darkened room, the midday sun blocked out by the thick drapes hung over Tim’s windows. Though the boy’s face is initially concealed by the bedroom’s lack of light, his movements are swift and silent, like a predator stalking its prey. His attire is practical, a dark suit that blends seamlessly with the shadows, and split-toed boots that make no sound on the carpeted floor.

Though the darkness would be a problem for normal mortal eyes, the vision of the ghosts in contrast is amplified in the darkness, like the eyes of a cat. As such, as soon as the boy turns  in their unseen direction, both Waynes get a good look at the details of his face. 

Martha is almost immediately beside herself in shock and heartache as she mistakes Damian for her son Bruce as she remembers seeing him last as an eight year old child before she died. "Bruce?" she whispers, her voice filled with a mix of disbelief and longing. She reaches out to touch him, her spectral hand passing through his solid form.

Thomas, ever the observer, quickly recognizes the intruder isn't their son. The boy's features, while bearing a resemblance to the Wayne family, are distinct. His eyes, a piercing green, are not the soft blue of their little boy. "This isn't Bruce," he murmurs, his voice steady despite the churning emotions within him.

His wife's heart shatters into a million pieces as the realization dawns on her. This isn't her beloved son, but a stranger, a child who has invaded their home and their grandson's privacy. Anger darkens her spectral form, a protective instinct ignited. This was their Timothy's sanctuary, and it had been violated.

The boy, unaware of his ghostly observers, moves with a purpose. He crosses the room, his eyes scanning the space, searching for something. He stops at Timothy's desk, where he pauses just long enough to reach into his pocket, pull something out, and stick it onto an out of the way corner of the underside of the desk.

Thomas and Martha exchange a worried glance. “What in the world is he doing?” Once the boy had moved away from the desk, Martha quickly moved forward. Being a smaller figure than Thomas, it was easier for her to kneel down low enough to peer under the desk and pull out what looked like a little black bat-shaped flat metal and plastic trinket with a blinking red light. “What the heck is this thing?”

Thomas glanced at the thing on his wife’s palm. “I don’t know. Maybe Tim knows what it is? It is shaped like a bat. We can definitely ask him later.”

The ghosts’ conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door to Tim’s room being opened. Both of the Waynes looked up in time to see the boy quietly slipping into the hallway.

“Don’t let him get away,” Martha said as she shoved the trinket into her pocket. There was no way she was just going to leave some strange whatchamacallit in her beloved grandson’s room.

“Not gonna happen, love,” Thomas agreed as he followed after the boy peered out in the hallway, watching as the child stealthily crept down the hall.

---

Damian moved with silent efficiency, his movements practiced and precise. He navigated the familiar halls of Wayne Manor with ease, a ghost in the shadows. His objective was clear: to place listening devices throughout the manor, ensuring he could monitor Tim’s activities without being detected.

As he moved through the house, he paused at intervals, slipping small, inconspicuous devices into various locations. Behind a painting in the grand foyer, beneath a loose floorboard in the library, and even hidden within the intricate carvings of the dining room table, he placed his listening devices. With each placement, his sense of satisfaction grew.

Unbeknownst to Damian, his every move was observed by a silent audience. Thomas and Martha, their ghostly forms following him through the house, watched with growing concern and anger. The intrusion into their home, their grandson's sanctuary, was a blatant violation of the sanctity of their home.

At one point in the library, Martha glared at the loose floorboard that Damian had hidden a listening device at with a frown. Lifting it up to remove the bug wasn’t impossible, but it was a squeaky floorboard. Even Damian couldn’t move it without it making a noise, which had caused him to freeze momentarily as he scanned his surroundings looking to see if the sound had attracted anyone.

“How are we going to get that thingamajig out of there?” she mused aloud. 

Meanwhile, Thomas had been thumbing through the Handbook for the Recently Deceased. His eyes lit up with satisfaction as he found what he was looking for. “Just like this, dear,” he said as he knelt down before the floorboard. 

Martha watched with amazement as Thomas phased his translucent hand through the hardwood floor, felt around for a moment, and then pulled the listening device out through everything without making a sound. 

“How did you do that?!”

Thomas chuckled and showed Martha the page he’d been reading. “It seems that as poltergeists, we have the ability to grab something and, with a bit of concentration, make it temporarily as intangible as we are.”

His wife smiled. “That is so useful! Ok! Let’s catch back up with that little gremlin!”

---

Thomas and Martha followed Damian for a solid half hour, quietly confiscating every bug the boy placed along the way. Eventually they all settled into one room. It was the music room that was located a couple of doors down from Thomas’s sitting room. At first Martha and Thomas were confused as to why the boy chose to stop here… But then they realized why as Alfred and Tim’s voices carried over into this room from Thomas’s study through the vents. The child was using this room to spy on their dear old friend and their grandson!

As Damian listened to Tim and Alfred speaking in the study, Thomas and Martha mused on what to do next. Martha was leaning against the wall next to Damian, glaring at him sternly as she tapped her foot while Thomas was sitting at the piano reading the Handbook. 

“We can’t let him continue to spy on our family like some sort of Communist,” Martha said with a glare at the boy. “Even if he is just a child, this behavior is completely unacceptable!” 

Then she sighed and her expression shifted to something infinitely sadder. “But he is just a child, and he looks so much like Bruce that it hurts. I don’t want to hurt him, but I do want him out of our home.” She looked to Thomas. “Does that book have any ideas on what we can do?”

Thomas nodded. “Quite a few ideas, actually,” he said. His mustache twitched a little. “I will admit a fair number of them are not the most… kind… to the living people involved. Although, it does state that while scaring children under the age of fifteen with restraint is perfectly acceptable, physically harming them in the process of forcing them to leave our ‘haunt’ is not. It seems maliciously damaging innocent children can cause backlash upon a spirit.”

“What kind of backlash?”

“Loss of sanity and humanity,” Thomas said with a frown.

Martha shivered as she wrapped her arms about herself. “Sounds dreadful.” She took a breath and released it slowly. “Does the book say anything that could actually help us get this child out of the house?”

Thomas shook his head before closing the book with a soft snap. “Nothing I think either of us would like to try or are experienced enough as ghosts to actually make happen.” He sat in silence for a moment as he looked around the room, the only sound the soft voices of Alfred and Tim floating in from the vents. His gaze drifted to the vent the boy was focused completely on and suddenly an idea came to mind. 

“Martha dear. Do you recall if the sounds from this room can carry over into my study? 

Martha nodded. “They do. We always had to be mindful that Bruce wasn't having his piano lessons while you had any phone calls or meetings at home.”

Thomas smiled as his eyes darted across the room to a small pedestal that held an antique decorative bone china vase.

Martha’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

---

Damian listened intently from his hiding spot, a smug grin creeping across his face. He'd managed to slip into the Manor undetected and was now tucked away in the mostly forgotten music room next to Father's study, eavesdropping on Pennyworth and Drake's conversation. 

Talk of a haunting? 

Ghosts? 

Utterly ridiculous. 

Still, a perfect distraction. He'd just successfully bugged the entire manor, a testament to his superior infiltration skills. A surge of satisfaction washed over him. He'd outmaneuvered Drake, proving once again who the superior Robin was. 

“CRASH!!!”

Damian's head snapped up, and his heart pounded in his chest. Had someone found him?!

He spun around, his eyes darting around the room, searching for the source of the noise. Nothing moved. The room was still, save for the faint murmur of alarmed voices from the next room. Then he saw it: a shattered porcelain vase lay in pieces on the floor.

Panic surged through him. How had that happened?! He was certain he hadn't touched anything! The vase had been all the way on the other side of the room from the vent he'd been listening at! A chill ran down his spine. He was alone… wasn't he? 

Well…

Not for long. 

“It sounded like it came from the music room!”

Damian cursed inside his head as he heard Drake's voice from the study. They were going to discover him! He needed to escape!

There were two doors that led into the music room and Damian dashed for the one furthest from the study that was already partially open from when he'd snuck in earlier. If he could get into the side hallway, he could make his escape!

Just as he was about to reach the door, suddenly it slammed shut in his face! 

“No, no, nonononono!” Damian desperately tried to get the door to move, but no matter how he tried to turn the handle the thing just would not budge! He tried pushing and pulling and was about to try and put his shoulder into it when--

“Master Damian!”

The boy froze as the music room erupted in light with the flick of a switch. Slowly, he turned around to see a very startled Drake and an extremely irate Pennyworth glaring daggers at him from the other now open doorway.

Chapter Text

Damian stood frozen, staring at Alfred as he stood in the doorway to the music room, his expression a storm cloud of anger and disbelief. Tim stood awkwardly in the off to the side of the doorway inside the room, not really wanting to get caught between the butler and the subject of his ire.

“Master Damian,” Alfred began, his voice low and dangerous. “What on earth are you doing in the Manor?”

Damian’s eyes flickered between the two men, his mind racing. He needed to think fast. “I… I was looking for… something,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper as inwardly he scolded himself for such a weak excuse. He’d been so confident he’d never get caught that the boy hadn’t even thought of what he could use as an alibi if his plan fell apart.

“Looking for what, exactly?” Alfred demanded, his British tone growing sharper.

“I… I don’t know,” Damian muttered sullenly, eyes shifted downwards.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. “I think a very serious talk will need to be had once we return to the Penthouse, Master Damian. But first…” The old man’s eyes shifted slightly to the mess of shattered ceramic shards on the floor. “...You WILL clean up the mess you made here.”

Damian’s gaze jolted up. “But I didn’t break the vase! It just… fell.”

“It just fell?” Alfred echoed incredulously before scoffing. “A likely story.” One of his white gloved hands snapped out to point at the closed door behind Damian. “March yourself straight to the nearest broom closet and fetch a broom and dustpan.”

The boy glanced back at the door before looking back to Alfred. “I… I can’t. The door’s locked.”

Alfred indulged in an exasperated sigh before starting to march towards him. “Master Damian, I know you think of all menial tasks as beneath you--”

“I’m serious! The door won’t open! It’s locked shut!”

“--But I’ve lived in this house for nearly 40 years and I know exactly which doors have locks and which ones…” Alfred reached out and grasped the door handle.

“...do not.”

Damian’s eyes widened as he watched the doorknob turn without a whisper of protest and swung open smoothly with little effort. 

“What the-- But-- It WAS locked! It wouldn’t move an inch! I’m not lying!”

Though Damian tried to argue his innocence with Alfred, the old butler clearly did not believe him. Unflinching, Alfred pointed again at the now open doorway. Futilely, Damian looked to the only other person in the room, but the moment his gaze met Tim's, his older brother turned away from him. A stung expression flitted across Damian’s face before he wiped it off and finally turned to leave the room to fetch the cleaning supplies Alfred ordered him to retrieve.

Once he was gone, Alfred sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose before turning to Tim. 

“I'm sorry my dear boy,” he apologized wearily. “I had no idea he'd try to sneak into the Manor.”

“It's not your fault, Alfred,” Tim said as he turned around to face him. 

“Still, I am afraid I will have to cut my visit here short. As soon as Damian is done cleaning up his mess, I’ll return him to the Penthouse and both Richard and I will speak with him at length about his behavior… again.”

As Alfred turned his attention to the broken vase on the floor, Tim 's gaze drifted to his grandparents, his heart aching as he watched their silent despair. While Alfred was scolding Damian for the broken vase, Tim observed his Nana standing amidst the shattered ceramic, her translucent form almost as fragile as the porcelain. Her shoulders slumped, and the once bright light in her eyes had dimmed to a sorrowful glow.  

He saw how Thomas, ever the stoic, tenderly gathered his wife into his arms, his spectral form a silent testament to their shared grief. The realization that Alfred couldn't see or hear them seemed to have struck them both with an unexpected force, a cruel reminder of their current existence as ghosts.

Alfred's voice pulled Tim back to the present. "Master Timothy?"

The butler's concern was evident, and Tim felt a pang of guilt for allowing his thoughts to wander. "I'm sorry, Alfred," he managed, his voice barely a whisper. "Just thinking."

He glanced back at his grandparents, but they appeared to be gone again. A sense of helplessness washed over him. Tim wished he could do something to help them, but for now there was nothing he could do to bridge the gap between them and Alfred. 

Alfred's gaze followed Tim's, a question lingering in his eyes. "Is everything alright, Master Timothy?"

"Just a bit tired, I think."

The kindly old butler nodded. “I understand. Dealing with Master Damian’s shenanigans is quite exhausting. If you’d like, you can go to your room and rest while I supervise him cleaning up this mess.”

Tim shook his head. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep an eye on him until he leaves. I don’t think I’ll be able to relax until I’m certain he’s gone.”

“As you wish.”

---

About an hour later, Alfred had left the Manor with Damian in tow. Once he was certain they were gone, Tim went on a search for his grandparents.

He paused at the entrance to the grand living room, his heart sinking at the sight before him. Martha was curled up on the plush velvet sofa, her spectral form fluctuating in its translucency. Thomas was beside her, his own form fluctuating a little, but not as much as his wife, his arms wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders. The image of his grandparents, so full of life and spirit just hours ago, now reduced to this fragile state, was a stark and painful contrast.

A wave of guilt washed over Tim. He had been so focused on both keeping an eye on Damian and not revealing his grandparents’ presences to Alfred that he had neglected to check on them sooner. He took a deep breath and stepped into the room, his presence barely registering a ripple in the still air.

“Nana?” His voice was hesitant, filled with concern.

Martha looked up at the sound of her grandson’s voice. She tried to manage a weak smile, but it was quickly replaced by a fresh wave of tears. “Oh, Tim,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be crying like this.”

Tim knelt beside the sofa, taking her hand in his. Her touch was as ethereal as ever, but it carried a weight of sadness that was almost tangible. It was a weight he was all too familiar with. “It’s okay, Nana,” he assured her, his voice gentle. “It’s normal to feel upset. We all do.”

Thomas squeezed Martha's shoulder. “It’s a difficult realization to come to terms with, not being able to connect with Alfred. He… is very dear to both of us.”

Tim nodded, his heart aching for them both. "I wish there was something I could do. There has to be a way to fix this? Maybe the Handbook has some information? I can reach out to some of the magic users that I know…"

Martha reached up with her free hand and stroked her grandson’s hair. “I appreciate the thoughts… but just being here with you, Tim, is enough.”

“Besides,” Thomas added solemnly. “We should wait on that until we meet with Juno first. Apparently being a ghost in Gotham City is complicated, so best to get information from her first before we attempt anything really “experimental”.” But he rested his own hand on Tim’s shoulder too and a sad smile curled under his mustache. “But at least Martha and I have you here to keep us company.”

A long silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. Tim sat with his grandparents, offering silent comfort, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of their emotions.

---

Damian sat hunched over his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. The dim glow of the screen illuminated his face, casting an eerie glow that contrasted sharply with the determined set of his jaw. His eyes narrowed. The security system at the Manor was proving to be more resilient than he anticipated.

Just as he was about to try a new tactic, the door to his room burst open. Dick Grayson stood in the doorway, his face a mask of disappointment and anger.

"Damian, what do you think you're doing?" Dick demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Damian stiffened, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He knew he was caught, but he wasn't about to give up without a fight. "I was... I was just checking something," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Dick stepped into the room, his gaze fixed on his younger brother. "Checking something? You were hacking into the Manor's security system. Barbara notified me the moment you bashed into her firewalls! She is absolutely furious with you right now! Was sneaking into Alfred’s car to skulk around the Manor not enough trouble to get into today?"

Damian's heart pounded in his chest. He had been so focused on proving his innocence that he hadn't considered the consequences of getting caught. "I needed to... I needed to see if..." he stammered, struggling to find the right words.

"See if what, Damian?" Dick pressed sternly.

Damian hesitated, his mind racing. He knew he couldn't lie to his older brother, not about this. "I needed to see if Drake set me up," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I think he somehow made the vase break and blamed me for it."

Dick was taken aback. "You think Tim would do something like that?"

Damian shrugged, his expression defiant. "I don't know, but I know I didn’t break the vase! I wasn’t anywhere near it in the music room!"

Dick sighed, his anger slowly dissipating. He knew Damian was capable of anything, especially when it involved Tim, but he also knew that the boy was often driven by a need to prove himself. "Alright, let's see the footage," he said, his voice firm. "But after this, you promise to leave Tim alone. No spying. No harassment of any sort. Absolutely nothing."

Damian hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Fine."

With a heavy heart, Dick sat down at the computer beside Damian.

Using his credentials, Dick sat down beside Damian on the boy’s bed, took his laptop from him, and logged properly into the security system for the Manor and accessed the video archives. It took a few minutes to find the right video from the music room from the time period Damian had been there. Once it was located, Dick expanded the video to fill the entire laptop screen before playing it.

At first the video was relatively calm. The two of them watched as the screen showed Damian’s small form stealthily slipping into the music room and creeping over to the vent on the far side of the room to crouch near the floor vent. 

Dick frowned and paused the video to look at Damian. “What were you doing in the music room?”

Damian sighed with resignation. “I was listening to Drake and Pennyworth speaking together in Father’s study. 

His older brother blinked with surprise. “You can hear them from the music room?”

Damian nodded. “You have to be right on top of the vent, but yes.”

“Why were you spying on them?”

The boy bit down on his bottom lip briefly. He really did not want to reveal this information, but he had no choice if he wanted to clear his name about the vase. “I… was trying to obtain information about Drake so I could manipulate him into returning to living at the Penthouse.”

One could almost see the gears in Dick’s head grind to a halt at that admittance. It took another minute before Dick shook his head and sputtered. “Wait… What? You’re trying to get Tim to come back here? To live with us? Both of you under the same roof? I don’t--” Dick shook his head again. “Why? I thought you were happy he moved to the manor.”

Damian looked down at the quilt he was sitting on and picked at the stitches pensively.

Dick felt confused. “Dami? What’s going on?”

Damian reluctantly admitted he wanted Tim to move back into the Penthouse because he thought it was the only way to prove to Dick that he can keep his promise to be better around Tim. He couldn’t prove to his older brother he’s better if Tim isn’t around after all. Dick was surprised by the admission. On the one hand he was proud Damian was actively trying to show he could be better around Tim, but on the other hand the way Damian was spying on Tim wasn’t going to improve his relationship with Tim at all.

“I think we should have another conversation about how to improve your behavior around Tim tomorrow. Let’s let the dust settle after everything that happened today,” Dick said after a moment of thought. “For now let’s just look over this security video, figure out exactly how the vase broke, and then you are going to get a solid night of sleep. Even if you didn’t break the vase, you still snuck into the Manor without permission and you’re still grounded because of that.”

“Understood.”

Dick smiled reassuringly at Damian before turning back to the laptop and restarting the video. 

For about fifteen minutes, there was nothing remarkable on the video. Though the video glitched here and there, and there seemed to be some orb-shaped dust motes that flitted about here and there, neither Dick nor Damian could see anything out of the ordinary.

But then…

Damian jabbed Dick in the ribs with his elbow. The screen had just glitched again, but this time something else happened in the video at the same time. “Look! Did you see that?”

Dick paused and rewound the video. He then saw what Damian did.

The vase had shifted on its pedestal.

But no one was near it.

“What the--” Dick breathed out in a whisper as both he and Damian watched as the vase shifted again. Though the video was glitching more now, patches of static playing at the edges of the screen, the two of them could still clearly see the porcelain vase silently levitate off the pedestal and up into the air until it was hovering a little over six feet above the floor. It held itself there for a moment before suddenly flinging itself downward, shattering explosively as it met the unforgiving hardwood floor. Both the boys in real life and Damian’s figure in the video jumped at the sound of the vase’s unexpected destruction. 

Then they watched as in the video Damian recovered enough to try and escape through the door he’d left open when he snuck into the music room, only for it to slam shut on its own before he could get through it. Dick watched, his heart in his throat, as he saw Damian struggle to open the door, twisting the knob futilely as he tried both pushing and pulling on the door to no success. 

The moment Alfred and Tim appeared in the music room and flipped on the lights, Dick finally paused the video. 

The two brothers sat on Damian’s bed in silence for a minute as they processed what they had just witnessed.

“I… I wasn’t lying,” Damian whispered finally. Dick could hear a slight shake in his voice. “I didn’t break the vase.”

Dick nodded numbly. “I believe you…”

Damian swallowed hard. “But… then… What did?”

“I don’t know.”