Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Janet Drake leaned closer to the mirror, expertly applying a line of jet-black eyeliner. Her crimson dress shimmered underneath the dim vanity lights, a diamond necklace caught the glow and cast tiny flecks of light across the room.

Tim sat crisscrossed on her bed, watching his mother transform. She was beautiful, usually like a star, distant and untouchable but still shining brightly. Tonight, however, she was talking to him.

“Do you know about Baba Yaga?” she asked, rolling her lipstick tube up, revealing a bold red shade.

She began to apply it, each stroke precise, her reflection composed, almost cold. “They say she guards the border between life and death. Her house stands on chicken legs, turning to face anyone who dares to find her.”

Tim shivered, hugging his knees. “What does she do to them?”

“That depends,” Janet said, pressing her lips together, perfecting the color.

“She’s not good or evil. She tests them. If they’re clever, they survive. If they’re not…” She shrugged, reaching for a gold bracelet. It clasped with a soft click. “They never come back.”

“Has anyone ever beaten her?”

Janet paused, her eyes flicking to his reflection.

“The бессме́ртный,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “The Deathless Ones. Our family name… бессме́ртный… It means deathless. There’s an old story that we’re blessed by death itself.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “Does that mean… we can’t die?”

Janet laughed, the sound sharp and cold. “Everyone dies, Tim. But the Deathless don’t stay dead for long. That’s the curse, you see. We’re too familiar with death. We attract it.”

Her eyes darkened, a flicker of something haunted passing over her face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She turned to face him fully, her red lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s just a story,” she said, patting his head with a gloved hand. The gesture was almost affectionate, though her touch was cold, distant. “Don’t go believing in fairy tales.”

Tim watched her leave, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air long after the door clicked shut. The shadows in the room seemed to stretch, bending towards him, as if curious. 

He stares at his own reflection, his own cold blue eyes staring damningly back at him and for a moment—he swears—he sees a flicker of a man behind him in the reflection before it disappears. 

He turns around, seeing nothing, “Tim!”

“Yes, father?” Tim questions slowly, blinking and turning back to face his father who’s glancing at him oddly.

“Come,” Jack murmurs and holds out his hand, “we have to go or we’ll be late to the gala.”

Tim beams, grabbing it lightly and following his father’s loud steps with his silent ones.

It started like this:

Tim’s parents aren’t around much, but when they are, they try to make up for lost time. This visit to Gotham just happens to coincide with his birthday.

His father, eager to play the role of the doting parent, secured circus tickets from a business partner, calling it a special treat. Tim doesn’t go out often, so he jumped at the chance.

The circus tent was crowded, voices loud and children giggling. His mother looked severely out of place in her expensive clothing, and his dad looked like an easy mark for any skilled pickpocket with that thousand dollar watch on his wrist but Tim was too busy brimming with excitement to comment.

The air smelled of sawdust and popcorn, thick with the lingering scent of sweat and humidity. Tim sat in the stands, his mothers hand curled around his own. He watched in amazement as The Flying Grayson’s soared through the air. Their movements were fluid, almost effortless. 

They performed the impossible, quadruple summersaults that defy gravity and physics. It’s the freedom that Tim has only ever imagined. 

But then there had been a snap, and Tim looked around for the source of the noise when his eyes landed on the couple falling.

The audience screamed in horror.

Tim could do nothing but watch as John and Mary Grayson plummeted from the air. The moment stretched, slowed, as their bodies twisted midair and landed with a sickening thud.

Dick Grayson's screams had cut through the rest of the crowd, a sound so tortured and hoarse it filled Tim with an aching pain. Tim was grabbed by the wrist, his mother tugged him along as the circus erupted into chaos.

He’s shoved around in the crowd, barely hanging onto her slim fingers by a thread. He turned around to look back at the scene, watching as Batman smashed in from the outside.

But then Tim stopped, an odd strength in his body that forced his mother to halt. He stared at the bodies, unable to move as something altered within his mind and body. 

It felt like death, a cold, shivery, aching sensation—almost as if his body was going through rigor mortis.

He saw something others didn’t—John and Mary Grayson’s figures stood over their own bodies. They had been so very pale, almost translucent and their limbs were crushed, bleeding from the head. 

They didn't react right away, almost as if they’d been in shock themselves until the cries of Dick interrupted their stupor. Tim watched as the figures of Dick’s dead parents attempted to comfort the boy stuck in between their bodies. 

And for a moment, just one moment, Mary Grayson’s eyes flickered off her sons and landed on Tim. He flinched—hard. 

“Timothy!” His mother yelled, her hand pulling almost painfully, he turned to look at his mother and icy blue eyes stared into his own, “Come on! We need to leave, darling.”

Tim nodded shakily, his breath shallow as she pulled him out of the tent. Janet’s hands moved from his hand and onto his shoulders, squeezing almost gently as he threw up onto the perfectly green grass.

Tim was a rational child, raised strictly and properly by a business couple. He was raised to look at the facts, “don’t let emotions cloud your judgment” or so his father would advise. Tim was not superstitious, he didn’t not believe in odd things such as ghosts. They couldn’t be proven.

Until now.

Tim tried to ignore them at first.

After the Grayson’s died, everything became clear. As if a fog had lifted, revealing something that had been there all along. At first, he thought it was trauma…his mind playing tricks on him. But then they started noticing him.

They were wrong. Off.

They didn’t speak, they screamed. Their voices are piercing and chilling. Their movements jaunty, almost as if stiff from disuse, their bodies frozen in the state they died in—necks twisted, faces bruised, limbs shattered. They whispered nothings and wailed, talking over another like junkies in withdrawal. Some raged at him, some begged, some muttered. 

He couldn’t tell who had been kind in life, who had been cruel—death stripped them of reason.

The worst part? They were everywhere. The alleyways, the subways, lurking just outside crowds, there was even one in the Drake family wine cellar.

It had been fine though, Tim could have ignored them. He could have ignored their screams, the blood, the way their heads barely hung on. It would have been fine. 

Until one night, when he saw them standing behind Robin.

Tim hadn’t meant to be out so late, but he’d followed the familiar feeling—the cold prickle at the back of his neck that told him the dead were near. He saw Robin first, a blur of movement as he took down a pair of muggers. But then he saw them.

John and Mary Grayson, watching from behind Gotham’s Boy Wonder. Their bodies were still broken, still pale with death, but their expressions were softer, almost gentle. Unlike the other ghosts, they weren’t screaming or raging. They simply stood there, protecting him.

And that’s when Tim knew.

Robin wasn’t just some random vigilante. He was Dick Grayson.

His dad always warned him not to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, insisting that curiosity killed the cat—while his mother argued that satisfaction brought it back.

Chapter Text

The rooftops of Gotham carried a biting chill, October settling into that space between warm and cold. Below, distant laughter floated up from the streets, and a group of corner girls huddled together, sharing a cigarette near the base of the building. The weight of his camera hung heavy around his neck.

Tim had gotten a few good shots, barely noticing when his wandering led him straight into Crime Alley. He moved like he belonged there—small, quick, just another street kid. His clothes were cleaner than most, but even that wasn’t obvious after a night of running over rooftops and landing wrong on gravel-coated ledges. His shoes were damp from puddles, his shirt streaked with dirt, his hair stuck up from the wind, and his face smudged from the city’s grime.

He lifted his camera, angling it down at the girls below. They looked at ease, smiling, laughing—content, for now. How long would that last?

“That’s kinda creepy, kid.”

Tim flinched, fingers slipping around his camera. It nearly tumbled off his neck, but the strap caught it just in time. He rolled over quickly, scanning the rooftop behind him.

A blonde woman leaned against the wall. She wore a cheetah-print top and a tight black leather skirt, her curled blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. But on the right side of her head, blood oozed from a deep gash, trailing down her cheek—though the drops never hit the ground.

She was see-through.

Tim swallowed hard, his heart hammering. “What?”

The woman blinked slowly, as if just realizing something. Then, her eyes widened as if she was seeing him for the first time. She pushed off the edge, taking a slow step forward. Her heels clicking on the rooftop—except there was no real sound, just the ghost of it, like an echo with no source.

“You can see me.” She murmured, it didn’t sound like a question.

Tim stiffened, “No, I can’t.”

“Right’,” Her lips twitched into a dry, humorless smile, “‘Cause talkin’ to a ghost is totally normal behavior.”

“I need to go.” Tim murmured to himself, leave before he went crazy. He crawled up, his hands slipping on the gravel of the roof as he stood on his feet.

He begins to stumble back to the fire escape, ready to leave when he hears the woman’s desperate voice, “Please!”

Her voice cracked and it made Tim pause, movement halting. He squeezed his eyes shut, “Please…I—I need someone to talk to. Just for a minute. Just—just so I don’t feel so alone.”

His fingers curled into a fist, piercing into the palms of his hands. He shouldn’t do this. He knew better. But he also knew what it felt like to be alone.

With a sharp exhale, he turned, forcing himself to look at her, “Fine.”

“You—“ The woman gaped, before her shoulders sagged in relief, “Thank you.”

Tim stepped closer, cautious but curious.

“What’s your name, kid?” The woman asked, a small smile tugging across her lips.

“Tim,” He said slowly, “What’s yours?”

“Angela, my name is Angela.” She leaned back against the wall, and as Tim stepped closer he realized she looked much younger than he thought she had.

“This your haunt?” Tim questioned, glancing around the rooftop before sliding down to sit on the cool concrete. A chill breeze swept by, Tim ignored it but couldn’t help the shiver.

“Haunt?” Angela echoed, raising an eyebrow. Tim shrugged,

“Yeah. Some ghosts can’t leave certain areas, I call them haunts. If they try to leave, its like they run into a brick wall.” He explained, Angela merely made a soft sound as if amused by the notion.

“No, I can leave this roof.” Angela said, nodding towards the street, “but there’s a girl down there—the one in blue.”

Tim followed her line of sight, it’s one of the girls he had seen earlier. She’s wearing a blue, faux fur jacket that stands out against her pretty red hair. She’s passing a cigarette to another working girl. 

“That’s my little sister, Cherry.” Angela murmurs, looking at the other woman forlornly, “I look out for her every once and a while. Still, I can go wherever I want.”

“Huh.” Tim mumbled in contemplation. Angela peered at him in consideration, a hint of curiosity mingled with concern in her gaze.

“What’s a’ kid like you doing out in these parts anyways?” She asked,

Tim narrowed his eyes slightly, a snarl crossed his face, “like me?’ What do you mean, ‘like me’?”

Angela’s smile widened, as if deeply amused by his response.

“You ain't’ from around ‘ere,” Angela teased, “You got spirit, but your accent is funny.”

As she spoke, Tim noticed her fingers twitched. He recognized it as a sign of a smoker—one going through withdrawal. You see a lot of those types around Crime Alley, but, it’s slightly strange how addictions seem to follow you…even in the afterlife.

“I take pictures.” Tim retorted, glaring, “that’s what I do.”

“Obviously,” Angela drawled, “but I haven’t seen you ‘round before and your accent ain’t one I’ve heard before. Where you from, kid?”

Tim huffed, glancing off the side of the roof, “Bristol.”

Angela blinked, her expression caught between surprise and something else—something thoughtful.

“Bristol? Damn,” she let out a low whistle, “Didn’t expect that, your accent still ain’t right. Nothin’ like those rich assholes.”

She wasn’t wrong, Tim was a unique case—spending just as much time in Crime Alley as he did Bristol led to an interesting combination. His words had a slight draw with a little twang but his words were still perky and never missed a vowel. 

“It’s a mix,” Tim admitted, “Both Parks Row and Bristol.”

“An odd cocktail.” Angela remarked, she watched him for a moment, “Where your parents at, kid?”

“They’re in Egypt.” Tim muttered, fiddling with the lens of his camera—twisting it and untwisting it absentmindedly. Angela sighed,

“And how long they’ been gone?”

Tim halted his ministrations, glared at her and with a prickly tone he shot back, “What are you, a cop?”

Angela burst into a sudden, hearty laugh that caught him off gaurd. With a playful glare, she asked, “Who am I gonna tell?”

She lifted her hand up, twirling a piece of her bloodied hair in between nimble fingers. Tim griamced, looking away.

“They’ve been gone since July.” Tim said finally, Angela’s eyes widened. 

“That ain’t normal, kid.” Angela blurted, as if she couldn’t stop herself. Tim felt a tingle of hurt rush through him but could not deny the accusation.

“Yeah, I know.” Tim whispered, the sound almost disappearing in the wind.

Angela stared at him, her eyes held recognition, “You seem pretty lonely, kid.” 

Tim snorts, “No kidding, look at where I’m spending my nights.”

“Alone for two months,” almost three, “that’s a pretty big case of child neglect.”

“I don’t need your pity.” Tim snapped, unable to help himself.

Angela huffed, pausing before continuing, “I wasn’t always like this, yknow.”

Tim glanced at her, he sure hoped not. The blood on the side of her head was a glistening crimson, so fresh Tim could almost smell it. It drenched her skin, so dark against her pale complexion. The dead hadn’t always been dead.

“I used to have a life—not a good one, but a life.” Angela sighed, sounding wistful, “I was a prostitute. I did what I had to do to survive, to take care of my sister without any one else in the pictures.”

Tim felt slightly sick to his stomach, already knowing where this story was about to go. He stared at the blood, dread bubbling underneath the surface of his body.

“I had a client, not that much older than me,” Angela told, “he seemed nice enough, I didn’t even see it coming. I had to leave behind my sister.”

Tim hated everything, he blurted, “I take pictures so I can be remembered.”

Angela gave him a look, telling him to continue.

“Everyone makes a mark, they leave something behind in life, a legacy of sorts,” Tim said, watching as Angela lifted herself from off the wall and walked to the edge of the roof to stare at her sister, “I don’t have anything of my own, my parents bought everything I have and can take it away whenever they want.”

“Is that something you need to worry about?” Angela questioned softly, 

Tim ignored her question, “Pictures will always be remembered, they’re a mark on history—they tell a story. You can’t forget it…not if you have the memory in your hand.”

Angela smiled, “I guess you can’t.”

Tim heard sirens in the distance, the girls on the sidewalk cursed. 

“The damn cops again.” One girl groaned, “I heard they were going to make a move tonight. They’re ruining our business.”

Another girl cried out, “Fuck! Let’s get outta here. I’m high outta my mind, I can’t get locked up.” 

“You should go.” Angela muttered, Tim watched as the girls ran off. Tim nodded, she offered him one last smile as he started to the rusted fire escape.

“Good night, kid. Take care.”

“Night, Angela.”

Death is a familiar thing, Tim thinks, it has to be if you have seen it your whole life. He stared at the television from his spot on the counter,

“You shouldn’t sit on that.” Mrs.Cole scolded but it’s half-hearted at best. Tim waved her off with his spoon,

“—drug related gang violences continues to escalate. In the past month alone, three GCPD officers have been killed in the line of duty—”

Tim took a bite of his soggy cereal, with his mouth half-full, he commented, “It’s getting worse.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Mrs.Cole admonished before glancing at the television and pursing her lips, “and it’s always been bad.”

“—at least 24 civilians have lost their lives in brutal shootings linked to territorial disputes and drug smuggling operations—”

Tim didn’t have much to say to that, Mrs.Cole didn’t quite understand. She wasn’t from Gotham like Tim, wasn’t born and raised in this city that’s riddled with darkness and death. She grew up in Metropolis, the complete antithesis of Tim’s own home.  

She didn’t quite understand that since the Red Hood had been in town that drug related deaths had gone down by over 13%, less than 2% of OD’s were children (compared to the previous 21%) and disputes over such nonsense (like territory) had been previously settled as Hood reined over Crime Alley with an iron fist. He’d been named Crime Alley’s own hero, though Tim doubted that’s what the main aim was.

“—sources inside the GCPD suggest that the surge in violence is linked to a power struggle within Gothams underground—“

“Where are the heroes?” Mrs.Cole muttered, staring at the TV in frustrated empathy. Tim snorted, putting his empty bowl on the counter.

“Batman and Robin aren’t allowed in Crime Alley.” Tim humored her, she lacked much knowledge on what he assumed was common.

Mrs.Cole took his bowl and put it into the sink, looking up at him in confusion, “And who reinforces that?”

“Another vigilante…of a sort,” Tim tried, Mrs.Cole blinked in surprise.

“I didn’t know Gotham had another vigilante.” Mrs. Cole finally said after a moment's pause, “Well, I suppose Nightwing is—but he work’s in Bludhaven, no?”

“It’s not Nightwing.” Tim agreed, turning back to the news.

“—Red Hood, the Falcones, Black Mask, the remnants of the Maroni family—”

“Red Hood, he’s the third.” Tim said, snapping his finger to get Mrs.Coles' attention. She stared in half-horror,

“The Crime Lord?”

“He’s new to the scene,” Tim murmured, “Or newer, I suppose.”

Mrs.Coles’ lips pressed into a thin line, her hands tightening around the faded apron she always wore, “And you know this how?”

“People talk,” Tim shrugged, staring down at the way his feet hung off the side of the counter, his red converse scuffed and riddled with mud, “He’s making waves. Crime Alley’s been different since he’s showed up.”

“Different?” She scoffed, sounding disbelieving, “With the bodies he leaves behind?”

Tim hesitated, tapping his finger against the cool counter. She wasn’t wrong. Red Hood was a killer–he left criminals bleeding out in the gutters, painting Gotham’s streets with their blood. But at the same time…

“He’s not like the others,” Tim admitted, voice quieter now, “The Falcones, the Maronis, Black Mask, the other gangs–they don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. They’ll traffic kids, flood the streets with drugs, hurt anyone who looks at them wrong. But Red Hood? Rumor has it he looks out for the working girls. He keeps drugs out of kids’ hands.”

The rumor wasn’t much of a rumor. Angela was quite fond of the new Vigilante, adored the way he treated her little sister—Cherry. Mrs.Cole made a noise in the back of her throat, skeptical, “And that makes him a good man?”

Tim exhaled sharply, “I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. The Red Hood was almost as much of a ghost as actual ghost’s. Tim tried…hacked various accounts, asked hundreds of different ghosts with various screeching responses and got nothing. He didn’t doubt that the men Red Hood killed were bad. He’d done research, read the obituaries, listened to the whispers of the dead. They were rapists, murderers, traffickers—the worst of the worst. And yet, Tim had seen what death did. He saw the lost, the angry, the ghosts who didn’t understand they were dead, trapped in the final moments of their lives. Death wasn’t clean, it wasn’t just. It left an echo, a scar on the city and everyone who lived in it. 

He saw them every day. The men Red Hood put in the ground. Their hollowed out faces, the lingering stench of gunpowder and blood. Some of them deserved it—some of them were still laughing, still cruel even in death. Others…others were just afraid.

Tim gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white.

“Maybe no one deserves to die.” Tim muttered,

“And yet,” Mrs. Cole said. She looked at him, really looked at him, her expression softening just a fraction, “In this city, it’s hard to survive without getting your hands dirty.”

“Yeah, yeah it is.”

Crime Alley had always been loud.

Even this late at night, the streets hummed with life—low voices murmuring in the shadows, the occasional shout from a back-alley deal gone wrong, laughter spilling from a rundown bar. The scent of stale beer, gasoline and something metallic lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid stench of garbage.

He ignored the leers of men standing in darkened doorways, their gazes scraping over him like something tangible, something he had long since learned to shake off.

Tim moved through Crime Alley, he knew how to walk these streets and had been walking them for eight years now. He knew how to look like he belonged. Shoulders loose, hands in pockets, never looking too long in any one direction. Walk with confidence, never arrogance. Show awareness, but not fear.

He was seventeen years old, and he knew the rhythm of Crime Alley better than most. Knew which blocks to avoid, which faces could be trusted, and which ones to watch. 

Almost as soon as he stepped onto the cracked pavement of the main strip, a familiar chill spread through the air beside him. A whisper of something otherworldly. He didn’t flinch when Angela appeared, her translucent form flickering into view just outside his peripheral vision.

She looked the same as always—as young as she had been when she first died, blonde curls tangled and matted with dried blood. The wound at the side of her head never healed, the crimson still smeared across her cheek but Tim had long since stopped being bothered by it. It was just how she was. Stuck. Frozen in death the way she’d been found.

“‘Bout time, kid.” Her voice laced with fondness, “You look like shit.”

Tim glanced at her and smiled wryly, “Thanks for the confidence boost, Angie.”

“What brings you out here tonight, honey? Don’t you have an exam to study for?” Angela asks, she brushes a hand through his hair. It does little, but Tim can feel a slight breeze brush it away from his eyes. 

Tim sighed, rolling his shoulders, “You know what.”

Angela’s warm expression faltered, a slight sorrow replacing it. She gave him a sidelong glance, “I can’t tell you to keep your nose out of this, can I?’

“Angie.” Tim pleaded, Angela hummed and dropped from her floating stance–instead making it appear as if she was walking beside him.

“The bodies are piling up.” Angela murmured, “I know, sweetheart. It’s hard not to notice.”

Tim exhaled sharply, his breath curling in the cool night air. He kept his strides measured, slipping past a group of women huddled on a street corner. Their makeup was smudged, their coats too thin for the late-night chill but their eyes were sharp as they spotted him.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” A familiar voice drawled. Tim’s lips twitched into a smile, glancing up as Lisa stepped forward. 

She was tall and leggy, probably pushing forty with sharp cheekbones and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her red lipstick had started to wear at the edges, smudged from too many hours outside.

“Hey, baby,” She cooed, giving him a once-over, “You’re out late.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim grimaced, “You know me.”

Lisa pulled him into a loose hug, the familiar scent of cheap perfume and stale smoke enveloping him.

“You been eating?” She asked as she pulled away, giving his ribs a playful poke. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Yes, mom.” He said with a weary smile, 

She hummed, her eyes crinkling with mischief, “Could’ve fooled me. How are you, baby?”

“Same old.” Tim waved her off, Lisa narrowed her eyes at him with disbelief.

“Your parents?” She asked, Angie snorted from behind him although invisible to the others. Tim resisted the urge to flip her off and instead took a deep breath, his expression darkening.

“They’re gone.” He replied, quietly.

Jessie, a petite woman with long, dark braids framing her face, arched an eyebrow,  “Again?

“Still.” Tim grunted. The implication was clear, they hadn’t been back since he had last visited Crime Alley. 

Lisa huffed, slight agitation crossing her face, “I swear, they’re always disappearing when you need them. If I ever meet them—” 

“You still hitting the books?” Tasha, a younger girl–barely twenty, if that—asked, cutting off Lisa’s muttered complaints. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her thin jacket. 

Tim’s eyes flickered with a hint of irritation, “Yeah, I’ve got a Calculus exam on Friday. Contextual applications of differentiation.”

Jessie whistled lowly, “Shit, baby, I don’t even know what that means.”

“Yeah, that makes two of us.” Tim agreed, “but I’ll figure it out. How’ve you three been?”

Tasha nudged him with her elbow, “World’s gone to shit, Tim. The Falcones are making business hard and with all the heat on the streets, cops are breathing down our necks.”

“More than usual?” Tim frowned, 

“They don’t give a damn about us,” Lisa crossed her arms, “but with all this violence, they gotta make it look like they do. Makes things messy.”

“They’re out in full force, but they ain’t watching out for us–they only got one thing on their mind and that’s revenge for those dead cops.” Jessie snarled, “They’re out for Hood and Mask. Don’t give two fucks about the Falcones who are the ones actually blowing off peoples heads.”

Tim wasn’t all that surprised. The cops didn’t patrol Crime Alley much anyways and when they did it was never to protect people. They showed up when the mess got too big to ignore, when it got personal and they had to at least look like they were doing something. They were a presence but not a safety net.

“You need anything,” He said, meeting each one of their gazes, “you can always ask.”

Lisa huffed a laugh, cupping his cheek with her manicured hands, “You’re sweet, baby. But we’ll be alright.”

Tim kissed her cheek before stepping back, “Just be careful, okay?”

Tasha smirked, blowing out a stream of smoke, “You too.”

Angela followed beside him as he walked away, her expression tight, “She’s right, you know.”

Tim hummed in curiosity.

“Things are getting worse. More ghosts have been showing up, all their pupils are blown. A lot of them are kids.” 

Tim’s stomach twisted. Blown pupils usually meant drugs but he didn’t react beyond a slight clench of his jaw, “Cherry?”

Angela sighed, running a hand through her hair, “She’s alright. Still out there on 34th street. Red Hood’s been trying to figure out where all this new shit is coming from, but even he can’t get a lead.”

Before they could delve further into the deep, dark news, the night shifted abruptly–hands reached out from the shadows. 

Rough, grabbing hands.

A hard shove against his back sent Tim stumbling forward. He barely had time to react before he was yanked into the nearest side alley, slammed against a cold, damp brick wall.

Angela screamed but he was the only one who could hear her, “Tim! I swear to god, get off of him! I didn’t hear him, sweetheart. I would have told you if I did!”

Her panic was real, she tried to twist and scratch the man off of Tim but to no avail as her hands slipped through his body. Tim’s vision blurred as the man—a hulking figure who Tim recognized as one of the creeps that had been watching him earlier—pressed in close. His breath was hot and reeking of alcohol, “Pretty thing. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to walk alone?”

Tim snarled and twisted, but the man was bigger and had more mass. His grip tightened around Tim’s wrists and neck, pulling him further into the darkness. Angela’s form wavered in fury as she reached out, her ghostly hands passing harmlessly through the assailant’s head, “Let him go, you piece of shit!”

The man’s chuckle was cut short when a sudden—BANG—shattered the tension. The sound of a gunshot echoed in the confined space. In an instant, the man’s head exploded and Tim barely registered the shock before hot blood splattered across his face, thick and warm, as his assailant's lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

For a moment, everything went silent except for the ringing in his ears. Then, as if emerging from the darkness itself, a figure loomed over him.

The Red Hood.

Chapter Text

Tim wasn’t much of a storyteller, his mother was not one for fairytales and neither was his father. He was graced with a great intellect but he lacked the creative thinking and imagination that most had. Though, he was willing to tell you one of the few stories his mother told him.

Born in the midst of a Cold War was a woman named Джанет бессмертна — Janet Bessmertnaya. She was born behind the iron gates of the city’s most exclusive neighborhood, beyond the reach of food shortages and the whispered fears of KGB informants, to Janet, the war felt like a distant rumor. 

The boulevard was lined with towering mansions, each one more extravagant than the last, hidden behind tall walls crowned with sharp iron spikes. The snow-covered roads—left untouched by the grit of the rest of the city—remained meticulously clear due to the workers who labored in silence.  Streetlamps casted a soft golden glow over the estate facades–some built in the grandeur of old Imperial Russia, others flaunting the sharp, modern lines of Soviet ambition. 

Inside these homes, the war did not touch the dining tables overflowing with caviar and imported goods. Crystal chandeliers bathed grand ballrooms in warm light, where men in tailored suits and women draped in fur sipped champagne from flutes. 

Janet was born into a world of grace and long-held traditions. Her childhood—unlike many who suffered greatly during the Cold War—was filled with comfort and security. Despite this, there was one thing she had in common even with the poorest of children her age. The stories that her elders told, stories that many Slavic children grew up hearing. 

In the ancient Slavic mythology, the world was divided into three distinct realms. The first realm is known as Jawia—the world of the living. And then there was Prawia—the domain of the gods.

But for Tim, who was cursed with the ability to see through the veil of the living and into the shadows of death he found himself fascinated with Nawia, or the realm of the dead.

Unlike ideas of heaven and hell, it was not a place of reward or punishment. Instead, it was where souls naturally went after they had lived their lives and died.

When someone died, their soul left the body and stayed in Jawia for forty days. During this time, it was believed your soul would take the form of a bird, visiting places it once knew and remembering life—both the good and the bad.

After forty days, the soul was drawn to the Smorodina River, a fiery river that separated the living from the dead. To reach Nawia, the soul had to cross the Kalinov Bridge. A shape-shifting dragon called the żmij guarded the bridge, testing the soul before it could pass. Marzanna, the goddess of death, watched over the crossing.

If the soul had lived a good life and passed the tests, it could rest peacefully in Nawia. But if it had done great harm or died in a tragic way, it might become a lost spirit, wandering restlessly or turning into something dark.

It made a lot of sense. Gotham was not a place where you live a life full of good deeds, Tim thought distantly as blood clung to his skin. It dripped down his cheek, clung to his lashes and soaked into the collar of his hood.

The smell of it was overwhelming, thick, metallic and mixed with the acrid burn of gunpowder. The gunshot still echoed in his skull, his ears ringing and making the world feel distant, muffled. His lungs burned, his breath coming in too fast, too shallow. His hands shook where they hung. 

The body lay crumpled at his feet, the man’s head a mess of blood and brain matter which splattered across the grimy brick walls. The image was barely registered, his brain too shocked to process anything beyond, ‘he’s dead’ and ‘that could have been me’ .

The sight of it should have made him feel something–relief, horror, even satisfaction. But all he could focus on was the ghost of pressure around his wrists and throat. The phantom weight of hands had dragged him into the dark.

Tim’s vision refocused just in time to see Red Hood step forward, the glow of his helmet's lenses catching in the dim alley light. He moved without hesitation, a presence as heavy as the gun still clutched in his hand. The barrel was still smoking, Tim noticed belatedly.

Tim swallowed hard, trying to will his body into motion, but the adrenaline crash left him sluggish. His limbs felt like lead and his knees nearly buckled when he tried to take a step back and before he could hit the ground, a gloved hand caught his arm.

The grip was firm. Strong but not rough. It was too much. 

Angela flickered beside him, snarling, “Stop touching.”

Hands outstretched but like always they passed straight through the man. There was a slight gust of wind, odd and out of place in the alley and Hood paused as if startled. His grip lingered just a second longer–steady, grounding–before he let go.

“You hurt?” His voice was rough, and even with the voice modulator it was obviously edged with something unreadable. 

Tim swallowed, forcing himself to stand taller without swaying. His throat burned where the fingers had dug in, his wrists ached but—

“I’m fine.” Tim said, sounding a lot more steady than he felt.

Hood didn’t look convinced. His head tilted slightly, lenses unreadable, and Tim had the distinct feeling he was being assessed. Then, just when Tim thought the man might actually let it drop,

“Bullshit.” Hood’s voice echoed in the silence, it was condemning.  Tim scowled, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Blood smeared across his skin, warm and sticky. He barely felt it.

“Oh, darling. What did he do to you?” Angela murmured softly, looking at him in both horror and worry. He must have made quite the sight, blood clinging to his face and bruises forming around his throat. 

Hood exhaled sharply, running a hand down his helmet as if it was his hair, “Did you even see them coming? What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?”

Tim clenched his jaw. 

Both at the condescending attitude and because it was true.

He had no idea that man had been following him. He hadn’t even felt eyes on him, hadn't picked up on the signs. His stomach twisted, shame coiling tight in his ribs. He hadn’t. He should have, he was careful, he watched his back. He knew Gotham was full of people like this, people who lurked, people who took without asking. 

And yet–he hadn’t noticed a thing.

He hadn’t seen it coming. 

If Hood hadn’t been there–Tim ignored that thought, “It doesn’t matter, it’s over now.”

“That’s not the point.” Hood scoffed, 

Tim shot him a glare, “Then what is?”

For a moment, Hood just looked at him. Then finally his voice came quieter, but heavier, “You could have died, kid.”

Tim’s breath hitched. There was something about the way Hood said it, like it meant something. Death was so normal to Tim, only a reach away. He had always been so used to it, the few stories he was told growing up, the death on the streets, the statistics on the news, the ghosts he grew up with. Hood talked about death like it wasn’t supposed to happen to someone like Tim, someone who had been watching it from afar his whole life.

“Tim, darling.” Angela whispered, nearing him. She was cold, the temperature that radiated off her was deathly.

Something curled tight in Tim’s chest. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want Hood’s attention. Didn’t want his concern, his worry, his anything. Because that would mean Hood noticed him and that he cared whether or not Tim died, Tim didn’t want that care. 

Tim forced a smirk, hollow as it felt, “Well, I didn’t die.”

“There are worse things than death.” Hood muttered. The man then sighed, long and steady. Without warning, he pulled something from his jacket pocket, throwing it at Tim. It was a small towel. 

“What–” 

“Wipe the blood off your face, kid.” Hood grunted, Tim narrowed his eyes but did as he was told, scrubbing off the caked blood till his skin was red and raw, “You eaten?”

Angela’s head snapped over to the bulky man, “What?”

“What?” Tim echoed as Angela went unheard,

“You heard me.” Hood crossed his arms, “You look like a stiff wind could knock you over, and since you obviously can’t be left alone, we’re getting you food.”

Tim scowled, “I don’t need you to–”

“Not up for debate, kid.” Hood turned slightly, motioning toward the street, “C’mon.”

Tim stayed rooted in place. His mind was spinning, Hood noticing him was already bad enough. But sitting across from him in some crappy diner? Being watched? Being worried about?

No. No fucking way.

Not only would walking out this alley with blood on his hoodie and bruises on his skin cause suspicion, but cops were roaming Crime Alley like rats. Tim had been called a lot of things in his life, but reckless had never been one of them. Tim had plans and he can’t let Hood get in the middle of them with his false care. 

He’s not actually a street kid and Hood doesn’t actually care. He can take decent care of himself.

Tim stalled, “Why do you care?”

“Look, what's your name, kid?”

Tim froze, his pulse jumped. His real name was out of the question, too recognizable, too risky.

“...Alvin.” Tim said, forcing the word out smoothly, despite how it caught in his throat.

Hood’s head snapped over to him, “Alvin? Really?”

“What, what’s wrong with my name?” Tim glared, like he was actually offended. Hood held up his hands in mock surrender. 

“Nothing,” For a moment, Tim thought he might push—might question it some more, “Alright, Alvin. Here’s the thing, kids like you shouldn’t have to deal with things like this. Perverted assholes or just general assholes. You’re too young to have a bodycount, you’re too young to be a bodycount.”

Tim flinched, his stomach twisting. He glanced around the alley for an escape but there was no way he would be able to run past the man in front of him. 

Hood took his silence as reluctant agreement, “There’s a 24-hour diner three blocks from here. Let’s go, Alvin.”

Angela shifted, flickering anxiously. She was just as nervous as he was but he needed to atleast get out of this alley before running. His hands were still shaking and his head spun, not to mention his throat hurt.

“Fine.” Tim exhaled sharply, Hood nodded and walked out the Alley and allowing Tim to follow. As soon as Tim stepped foot out of the confined area and into the open street he felt a strong sense of relief. 

“I don’t like this.” Angela muttered,

“Me neither,” Tim agreed under his breath, “that’s why I’m not sticking around.”

Hood’s head turned to face him, “What was that–?” 

Tim did the only thing he knew best, he ran. 

It was raining. 

Tim ignored this fact, sitting in his suit.

Turmoil in Gotham wasn’t necessarily unusual, but things were worse as of recently. The Falcones, Black Mask and the Red Hood were at each other’s throats—each one clawing for control over Gotham’s drug trade and none too willing to back down.

Since Hood’s arrival in Gotham, the once stabilized crime syndicates had been rocked. While he might be new, he’d done more for Crime Alley than Batman ever had…even if his methods were questionable.

Black Masks reign was unstable with Hood around, he was left with 236 less men than he had originally. It was impressive, Roman Sionisis was not a man to be easily pushed to the side.

But even so, Tim still didn’t know how to feel about Hood.

What he did know is that this war wasn’t just affecting crime lords. People were getting caught in the crossfire, people and children.

Tim had noticed an odd uptick in ghosts as of recently, kids ranging from seven all the way to seventeen. These ones were hard to tell, they looked normal, slightly more sane and alive. If not for the blown pupils and very slight translucent skin, Tim would have had no clue they were dead. 

The cops had theories, or at least that’s what the GCPD files Tim hacked into said. They had been looking into a trafficking ring, one of Black Masks.

Tim had a different opinion.

He believed it was experimentation. 

The details weren’t in the police reports, but Tim had different ways of getting information. The morgue had received two bodies recently—kids who had apparently escaped whatever hell hole they had been in.

But they didn’t stay alive long. One had overdosed. The other had been found with his organs failing, his blood mixed with chemicals the coroner couldn’t identify,

Tim clenched his knuckles till they were white and he felt the way his nails pierced into his skin.

And here’s the thing, Tim didn’t believe it was Black Mask or The Falcones.

The drugs weren’t normal. That much was obvious. But that left Tim with more questions—what was the goal? The drugs had to have a purpose, so what was it? How was it different from the others circling around the city?

Tim had been doing research, with everyone being loud there was one person being quiet—ironically, it was also the only one who probably knew something. 

Oswald Cobblepot was a broker—he thrived on knowing everything about everyone. Information was his greatest asset. 

But Oswald was also an opportunist.

So, of course, he wasn’t about to tell anyone that despite all the chaos— the gang war tearing Gotham apart, the blood spilled over turf and power —none of the major players had actually been the ones supplying the mysterious drug at the center of it all.

Even if the Falcones were involved, the same Falcones he was allied with. Why would he do that when he was making bank? 

Tim almost had to respect it. Almost.

Because Oswald was short sighted. He had not expected a teenager with too much information to get involved. 

That led Tim to where he was now, the Diamond District. 

Tim adjusted the cuffs of his black suit, the rain slicking his hair against his forehead as he stepped out of the taxi. He handed the sketchy looking driver money, plus a generous tip. The Iceberg Lounge loomed ahead, its neon glow reflecting off the wet pavement, casting a cold, blue shimmer across the street. The doorman barely spared a look at his expensive suit before ushering him in.

Inside, the Lounge was as extravagant as ever–lavish chandeliers, velvet booths and the clinking of expensive glasses filled with even more expensive wine. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and cigars, Tim scrunched up his nose in faux distaste.

He aired easy confidence, or at least he tried too. Gotham’s elite reeked of it, so he let it settle into his posture and stride. He sneered when he caught someone staring at him for too long, scoffed at the bartender like their existence was an inconvenience. It worked, easily. 

By the time he made it near the VIP section, the bouncers barely questioned him. His name wasn't on the list, but money spoke louder than any invitation, and the hundred dollar bills he slid across got him through the doors without a second glance.

Oswald Cobblepot sat in the back, his beady eyes scanning the crowd and a fat cigar hanging from his lips. He was nursing a glass of whiskey, his free hand idly drumming against the table. Two men stood at his sides, thick-necked brutes meant to look intimidating. They didn’t have shit on Hood.

Tim approached without hesitation.

Oswald barely looked up, “You’re either lost, boy, or you’ve got a death wish.”

“I’d say neither.” Tim arched a brow, then slid into the seat across from him like he had every right to be there.

That got his attention. Oswald’s gaze flicked over him, assessing. Tim knew what he saw—a young man, well-dressed and dripping with an arrogance that screamed old money. A trust-fund brat who’d probably never worked a day in his life.

Perfect.

Oswald exhaled a cloud of smoke, “That so? Then why don’t you tell me what business you think you got here.”

“I hear you’re the man to talk to when it comes to information.” Tim smirked after he let the silence stretch just long enough,

“Kid, everyone wants information.” Oswald chucked, shaking his head.

Tim tilted his head, allowing just the barest hint of condescension to slip into his expression, “And yet, very few people know anything these days.”

“That a fact?” Oswald’s eyes narrowed. He set down his cigar. 

“And an opportunity.”

Oswald was listening now. Tim could tell by the way he shifted forward, ever so slightly.

Hook, line, and sinker.

But before Oswald could push for more, Tim flicked his gaze to the two men beside him and scoffed.

“Of course, I doubt you’d want to talk business here.” He waved a dismissive hand, “I’d rather not waste my breath with hired help.”

That did it. Oswald was a proud man, a greedy man. And most importantly, a paranoid man.

With a grunt, he gestured for his men to step aside, “Give us a moment.”

The two brutes hesitated, but at another sharp glance from their boss, they obeyed and moved just out of earshot.”

Oswald leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, “Alright kid, you’ve got my attention. What do you—”

Tim dropped the act. The arrogance disappeared in an instant, his posture relaxing, not into ease but into something colder. His eyes sharpened and his smirk turned into something knowing. He had no doubt he looked like a reflection of his mother.

“What—” Oswald noticed immediately, his smarmy confidence wavered into confusion, doubt flickering in his gaze.

“You really shouldn’t have taken that drink from Sal, Mr.Cobblepot.” Tim said chidingly, as if he was speaking to a child.

Oswald froze and Tim saw it, the way his fingers twitched and the brief widening of his eyes before he caught himself. A second too late.

“W-what the hell are you talking about?” Oswald barked, but the sweat already forming on his brow betrayed him.

“You know, I almost didn’t believe it.” Tim hummed, tapping a finger on the table, “You and Carmine have been allies for so long, who would have thought you’d betray him for a quick buck. But then, a very, very trusting source told me all about the deal you made with Mr. Sal Maroni.”

His very trusting source was a ghost named Antonio who had a vendetta against Penguin, he yammered and screeched out every little secret he managed to find about the man. Antonio was a crazy bastard, even before he died but he came in use for this.

Oswald visibly paled, his fingers clenched around his glass but Tim wasn’t done just yet.

“Oh, and let's not forget about how your poor betrayal would affect Mr.Falcone.” Tim’s expression didn’t change, but there was something sharp in his tone, “It would be a shame if this information just happened to…escape, wouldn’t it? Who knows what the repercussions would be.”

“What do you want?” Oswald asked weakly, shakily taking a sip of whiskey. 

Tim smiled, “There’s been word on the street about a new drug.”

Oswald tensed, again. Interesting, Tim thought, but pointless.

“And, funnily enough, it seems to have a particular connection with kids dropping like flies. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”

Oswald gulped nervously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But the way his eyes darted–toward the exits, towards the brute-neck guards he had waved off and were now shamelessly flirting with two women across the way, anywhere but Tim–told him a different story.

Tim’s pleasant expression didn’t change, “You’re a broker, Mr.Cobblepot. You know everything about everyone. And I know you wouldn’t let something this lucrative slip past your radar. So don’t waste my time.”

“I don’t deal in that filth,” Oswald insisted, 

Tim was unconvinced. He allowed his fingers to drum against the table–tap, tap, tap.

“Maybe not directly,” He allowed, “But someone who works for you does, and you are the one making money off it.”

Oswald grit his teeth, “That’s not–”

“Oh, and let's not forget.” Tim cut him off smoothly, “how your deal with Mr.Maroni cost Mr.Falcone twenty-three of his men. What was it, exactly, that you sold out to the Maroni’s again? Oh yes, now I remember, it was–”

“A name!” Oswald spoke quickly, cutting Tim off. Tim paused, quirking a brow.

“A name?” 

“That’s all I got.” Oswald nodded nervously,

“I suppose that would work.” Tim leaned forward slightly, “The name, then.”

Oswald hesitated, his fat leg bounced under the table, his mind clearly racing. Finally, after a long, tense silence, he exhaled sharply and muttered, “They call him JD.”

Tim’s expression didn’t change, but something in his gut tightened. 

“Who is he?”

“Nobody knows. He–he doesn’t have a face, doesn't have a trail.” He whispered, “They say he works out of state, maybe even out of the country. But the people I sent lookin’, well they don’t always come back.”

Tim studied him. Oswald was a liar, a coward, and a rat–but he was terrified and that meant he probably wasn’t lying. 

“JD.” Tim felt the name roll on his tongue, then just as smoothly as he’d arrived, he stood.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr.Cobblepot.” Tim nodded, “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Oswald whimpered pathetically, looking even more pale. Tim smirked faintly, then turned and strode out the VIP section, past the oblivious bouncers and into the rain-slicked Gotham streets.

JD. Whoever they were, Tim was going to find them.

Whoever said meeting your heroes was an honor was full of it. Either that, or they’d never heard of Gotham’s so-called heroes, because meeting them wasn’t awe-inspiring—it was downright traumatizing. 

Tim had been avoiding Crime Alley ever since his last run-in with Hood. It wasn’t fear exactly—he’d faced worse things than a trigger-happy vigilante with a soft spot for kids. But the encounter had left a mark, and he was not eager to repeat it. 

Still, as much as he hated to admit it, he missed the rundown part of town. 

The rain had washed the streets clean–or as clean as Crime alley ever got. Puddles pooled, he tried to avoid stepping in them, he was slightly worried they were toxic. The smell of damp asphalt mixed with the ever-present stink of Gotham’s underbelly—cigarettes, booze and desperation.

The bell above the door jingled as Tim stepped into Vera’s Pizzeria, the warm scent of fresh dough and tomato sauce wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. The place wasn’t fancy—yellowed walls, wobbly tables and a crack running through the old tile floor—but it was a staple of Crime Alley, a constant in a city that never stopped shifting.

Angela floated behind him, arms crossed and a small smile on her face, “You do realize this place is Maroni-owned, right? After what you just pulled with Cobblepot, you’ve got some balls to be walking in here.”

Tim ignored her, giving a quick nod to Marco, the man behind the counter. The old man didn’t even look up, too focused on tossing a ball of dough into the air. There was a ghost behind him, a woman that Tim had learned was Marco’s wife, she was bleeding sluggishly and staring blankly into the distance.

“You back to rob me blind, ragazzo?” He called in that thick, no-nonsense tone that made him sound meaner than he was.

Tim smirked, “Depends. You raising your prices again?”

Marco let out a loud tsk and muttered something in italian that probably wasn’t polite. 

Tim walked over to the window, where a bar table and a stool sat. He slid onto the seat with a small smile, “Hey, kiddo.”

Lizzie barely glanced up from the deck of playing cards she was shuffling, her smirk playful, “Well, well, if it ain’t the neighborhood stray.”

Tim scoffed, shaking his head.

Angela floated beside him, watching the exchange with amusement, “She’s got you pegged.”

Lizzie was twelve and had an attitude to match her age. Dark curls framed her face, and that thick gotham accent of hers made everything she said sound sharper. Her mom wasn’t around much and her dad–well, Tim had dealt with him. The last time he’d seen a bruise on her, he’d dug up some information and made sure her deadbeat father understood what would happen if he laid a hand on her again.  

Tim hadn’t seen a single mark on her since.

Lizzie waved the deck of cards in front of his face, “Wanna play?”

Tim snorted, “Hell no. Last time I did, you hustled me out of thirty bucks.”

“Benny lost sixty.” Lizzie grinned cheekily,

Across the shop, Benny, a gruff man in his forties, flipped her off without looking up from his half-eaten slice of pizza. Marleen, his wife, cackled beside him. 

Tim shook his head, “Yeah, well, I’m not getting scammed again.”

“Pity.” Lizzie pouted, “So, what brings you back? I ain’t seen you in a week, thought you were avoiding the place.”

Tim shrugged, but before he could say anything, Marco called, “You eating, Timoteo, or just taking up space?”

“You've been staying out of trouble?” Tim asked, 

“Define ‘trouble’?” Lizzie asked cheekily back,

He snorted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a few bills, “Buy yourself a slice. On one condition.”

She raised a brow,

“If you do get into trouble, stick close to Lisa.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes but took the money, “Gotcha, Timbo.”

Tim sighed as she ran off to the counter, Angela looked at him with warmth, “You’re doing good by her.”

Tim pursed his lips in silent response, turning to look out the window. Angela just smiled at his disbelieving look. He was tired and his mind was still running overtime after many attempts to hack into some files earlier, and he still hadn’t finished his english homework. A loud slam startled him out of his stupor.

Marco had put a fresh slice of pizza in front of him, “Eat.”

“You ordering me around now?” Tim smirked,

Marco shot him an exasperated look, “You’re too skinny, you need to eat more.”

Tim rolled his eyes but gave a lazy salute as Marco walked back off. It was easy, the banter. In an odd way, this place, this part of Gotham, was more familiar than his parents. The people here looked out for their own, and somewhere along the way Tim became theirs. It was almost enough to make him feel like a normal kid. 

But of course, Gotham didn’t do normal. 

The bell over the door jungled again.

Angela tensed, “Shit.”

Tim didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. The way the air in the room shifted—the way the regulars suddenly found reasons to leave and the way Marco barely blinked—was enough to tell him. 

Lizzie looked slightly pale over by the counter, pizza drooping halfway to her mouth but she didn’t look half as frightened as the ones who had scattered. Tim swerved on his barstool, Hood stepped further inside, movements casual but too controlled. 

Hood’s voice rang out in the silence, “Alvin.”

“That’s me.” Tim leaned back against the table, Lizzie looked startled and mouthed the name ‘Alvin’ in astonishment but stayed quiet.

“I think you owe me a sit-down.” Hood’s modulated voice ran shivers down Tim’s spine, Tim glanced at Marco who was already staring back.

“Liz,” Tim said slowly, Lizzie blinked at him, “why don’t you go visit Lisa for me? Tell her I’ll stop by and see her soon.”

“No–” Lizzie protested, a worried look in her eyes. 

“Lizzie.” Tim cut her off sharply, she looked reluctant–it would have been sweet how much she cared if it was in any other situation.

“Alright. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Lizzie asked, shakily and looking for reassurance.

“Course’ you will.” Tim shrugged lightly, as if the Red Hood wasn’t right in front of him and decked out in more weapons than should be possible, “You know where to find me.”

Lizzie nodded, running out the shop and slipping past Hood who made no move to stop her but was obviously watching the conversation. With her gone it was just Tim, Hood and Marco left alone.

Hood lifted his hand to his helmet, and a snap echoed in the thick silence. The helmet seemed to hiss as Hood took it off, Tim held his breath and felt relief when the man wore a domino underneath. He had messy, dark hair, and a distinct streak of white which cut through the black. His jawline was sharp with thin scars tracing his skin. 

He settled into the barstool across from Tim, leaning back. Tim didn’t look up from the slice of pizza Marco had set down in front of him.

“Kid,” Hood said, Tim was slightly surprised to hear a Gotham accent, “I was wondering where you’d been. I looked around, talked with a few people but no one knew where you went.”

Tim brought his head back up to stare at the man, never at the masked eyes but instead past his head, “I didn’t really want to be found.”

Hood crossed his arms as Angela cursed him out, only left to be unheard. 

“I know I have a reputation that precedes me.” Tim let out a snort without thinking, his mouth always getting the best of him as he interrupted.

“Does it precede you? From what I’ve heard, it’s a pretty damn accurate representation.” 

Hood pauses, “Well, if you know so much then you must know that I don’t hurt kids.”

“I’m barely a kid.” Tim huffed, waving him off, “How was I supposed to know that I counted?”

“Well, you do.” Hood said sharply, leaning forward, “Even if you’re involved in some shady shit, Alvin. I won’t hurt you, rather, I could help–if you’d let me.”

“Shady shit?” Tim repeated slowly, confusion prominent in his tone.

Hood stared at him, “I’m a crime lord, kid.”

“No shit.” Tim deadpanned, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I have eyes everywhere,” Hood continued, “I was looking for you, and the funny thing is that I technically found you.”

Tim froze, and suddenly he felt an itch within him to run and just as he was about to do so, Hood grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t hard but strong enough to where he couldn’t escape, “Ah, ah. What did I just say?”

Tim swallowed thickly, he hadn’t really been thinking that Hood would be looking for him outside of Crime Alley. Hood allowed his silence, “I won’t hurt you, don’t run away again.”

Tim nodded, slowly settling back down onto the stool but Hood’s hand didn’t leave his wrist. He must have felt the way Tim’s pulse sped with adrenaline and a mixture of fear, even through the kevlar. 

“I have eyes on all the big guys in Gotham,” Hood said patiently, “imagine my surprise when I get a call from one of my men, saying they found you in a snazzy looking suit heading straight into Iceberg Lounge.”

“Shady shit.” Tim repeated in a murmur, realizing what he had meant. Hood nodded in agreement.

“So,” Hood grinned, finally taking his hand off Tim’s wrist, “are you ready to tell me what the hell you’re up to, Alvin?”

Chapter Text

The silence seemed to echo loudly.

Tim’s mouth felt dry, his pulse still hammering from the way Hood had caught his wrist earlier. The guy wasn’t stupid, Tim had known that before, but now he was acutely aware of how sharp Hood’s instincts were. 

Lying was dangerous.

Telling the truth was worse.

So he settles for the middle ground—something believable, something that would explain why he had walked into Iceberg Lounge without giving anything important away but something that was still the truth.

“I had to keep up appearances,” Tim said, his mouth felt like cotton. Angela stared at him but kept quiet, knowing what he was about to reveal, “Family stuff.”

Hood didn’t react right away. He just stared, his gaze dark behind his domino, fingers tapping idly against the table. 

“Family stuff.” He repeated flatly, Tim swallowed and stared off into the distance. 

“If he knows this, Tim…” Angela warned, and Tim understood.

“People like my parents…they notice things. If I don’t make public appearances and dress in a certain way, questions get asked. It ruins my family's reputation.” Tim exhaled sharply, not even having to fake the exasperation that laced his tone, “It’s a pain in the ass, but necessary.”

“Like your parents.” Hood hummed, Tim felt himself being watched, “That suit you were wearing at the Lounge, it looked pretty expensive.”

Tim hoped it did, it cost more than a thousand dollars. 

“I had thought—when I first saw you—you were just another street kid.” Hood admitted, “You wear worn down clothes, your shoes look older than you do, and you have an alley accent. But that’s not true is it?”

Tim bit his lip, “No.”

“You come from money.” Hood sounded unimpressed, his fingers curled into a loose fist against the table, “Not just money, where are you from, kid?”

“I’m having deja vu.” Angela muttered, pinching her temple.

“Bristol.” Tim finally whispered, and then, with an ease that made Tim’s stomach twist, Hood’s tone shifted from idle curiosity to something sharper.

“And what the hell is a Bristol kid doing running around Gotham with an alley accent?” Tim barely stopped himself from stiffening. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Damn it.

Hood leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. He wasn't pressing, not exactly, but his body language had changed. If he had already been interested, Tim didn’t know what to call this.

“You’re not just some rich kid slumming it for fun,” Hood continued, “You move differently. Talk differently. And I know for a fact those rich parents don’t send their kids into the Narrows for after-school activities.”

Tim forced himself to stay relaxed, even as his brain scrambled to get ahead of the conversation. This was why Hood was dangerous—he was unpredictable.

“It’s just how it is,” Tim said with a shrug, injecting as much indifference into his voice as possible, “Nowhere in Gotham is exactly neat. I go where I want to go.”

Hood didn’t look convinced. But instead of hammering the topic further, he did something worse. He changed tactics.

“Your folks know where you are?”

Tim blinked, momentarily caught off guard, “What?”

Hood gestured around the shop lazily, “You’re out here running around in the middle of the night, doing god knows what. Think they’d be happy about that?”

Tim snorted before he could stop himself, “If they noticed, maybe.”

“Fucking assholes.” Angela’s anger was redirected from Hood to the Drakes, “if I could get my hands on them.”

Hood stilled. It wasn’t much–just a small shift in his posture–but Tim noticed.

There was no pity in his expression (not that Tim could see his face behind the domino, anyway), but something else flickered through his body language. Something knowing.

“Right,” Hood muttered, leaning back in his seat, “that’s what I thought.”

Tim didn’t like the way he said it, like he understood. Like he recognized something in Tim.

“What the hell does that mean?” Tim snarled before he could stop himself, Hood blinked in what looked like momentary surprise before it smoothed out once more.

He didn’t answer right away, he just watched Tim with his lips pressed into a flat line. Tim clenched his fists under the table, he should have let the comment slide and kept his mouth shut. Now Hood knew it had hit something raw.

“That” Hood said slowly, “means I’ve met kids like you before.”

Tim sort of felt like throwing up, but he kept his expression neutral as he forced his tone to something neutral, “Kids like me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Hood ordered, Tim ground his teeth together.

“You say your parents would notice if you didn’t show up to the right places,” Hood went on like he was solving a puzzle, “But not if you were sneaking out at night. Not if you were running around Gotham, putting yourself into situations that could get you killed.”

“And when I went around asking about you,” Hood commented idly, “people seemed to know exactly who I was talking about. You’ve got people all around Crime Alley wrapped around your finger. You don’t act like a stuck-up Bristol brat, you’re the odd one out.”

Hood leaned forward again, “So what is it, huh? Boarding school runaway? Rich kid with a double life?”

“I grew up in Gotham.” Tim said, forcing his voice into something flat when it threatened to shake, “You think because I have money, I’ve never stepped foot outside Bristol?”

“Au contraire,” Hood waved him off, “I think you spend too little time in Bristol.”

“What are you trying to say?” Tim narrowed his eyes,

“I’m saying that you’re strange.” Hood stated blandly, “Who the fuck wants to spend time in Crime Alley? Let alone someone like you, a one percenter.”

Tim could say a lot of things, he could lie, tell him to screw off, he bet Hood would allow it but…he glanced at Angela who had stayed silent throughout the conversation. She was looking at him with a mixture of emotions, affection and warmth even with the sadness that lingered in her eyes, it was an expression that he didn’t think his mother ever dawned. 

“People are nicer here.” Tim finally said, it was quiet and almost wistful. Filled with too much truth. 

Hood startled, straightening obviously noticing the difference in tone, “What?”

Angela puts a ghostly hand against his cheek. Tim titled his head into the touch without thinking, ignoring the cold that seeped into his skin.

“Lisa kisses my cheek and asks about my homework,” he continued, “Tasha always puts aside a client to listen to me rant. Jessie offers me money without question—even though I don’t need it. Benny taught me how to fix up a car. Marlene showed me how to cook in her tiny apartment kitchen. And Macro makes sure I don’t forget to eat.”

Hood let out a sharp breath, “Shit, kid.”

Angela pulled away her hand, her touch fading away like mist.

“You’re probably the only one who’d ever say that about Crime Alley,” She said with a watery chuckle. Tim smiled slightly at the sound, but his gaze remained on Hood.

“It’s dangerous.” Hood stated with a bitter tone, a known fact but something that still seemed to anger him.

“It’s been less so since you came around,” Tim remarked, Hood huffed and his lips twisted into something of a bitter smile,

“I thought so too,” Hood agreed, “but it’s been worse recently.”

Tim froze, so did Angela. Tim’s fingers twitched in an aborted motion, and suddenly Hood didn’t seem all that bad. It was Tim’s turn to watch, he stared at the man sitting across from him.

“You know…” Tim murmured, “The Bat’s don’t hang out in these parts much.”

“I know.” Hood muttered darkly, Tim glanced down to the bat sigil on Hood’s chest. 

“What makes you so different?” Tim questioned, looking back up to stare at him.

Who are you, really? Tim thought. If Bruce Wayne was Batman, Damian Wayne was Robin, Dick Grayson was Nightwing, Duke Thomas was Signal, Stephanie Brown was Spoiler, and Cassandra Wayne was Black Bat, then who are you?

“Look,” Hood started, “I care about Crime Alley, the others don’t. They think it can’t get better but I do. Batman can parade about my methods all he wants but what I do works.”

Tim glanced down at his phone and stared at the time, “I need to go home.”

Hood huffed, nodding. Tim stood slowly, watching to see if Hood would stop him before he said, “Come on.”

Hood gave him a long look but stood up, following Tim out the pizzeria. The air was cool, a slight breeze causing his hair to sway out his eyes. He looked down the street to see the neon lights flickered overhead—half-burnt signs advertising liquor stores, their glow reflecting in the puddle lining the cracked pavement. Angela hummed an absent tune beside him, staring off as if she was on lookout. She probably was.

“You’re not half bad for Crime Alley, Hood.” Tim shared as he watched a group of people lurk in the shadows–some seeking shelter, others seeking trouble, “A few years ago, I would have died before I sent Lizzie out of here without me by her side.”

Somewhere around the block, a car door slammed, followed by a sharp bark of a dog. 

“But you’re right.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Something odd is going on,” Tim revealed, “It’s messy and everytime I find something, it leads me astray but the other day I finally got a name.”

“Alvin.” Hood warned, “What the hell are you sticking your nose into.”

“You’re going to give this poor man grey hairs.” Angela murmured in quiet amusement.

“JD.” Tim’s voice seemed to echo in the streets, “The name is JD. Do with that what you will.”

And before Hood could question him further, he ran.

Like usual.

Jason blinked, staring at where Alvin once stood. His fingers clenched and his body twitched with the effort not to chase, to find out what ‘JD’ meant because he knew that if he did he would lose the tiny bit of trust that he had just gained. 

Alvin was a kid—a ballsy, rich kid with absentee parents. When he saved Alvin from a fate worse than death, he had looked into eyes too similar to his own. Fuck, he was turning into Bruce. Jason grimaced at the thought. 

“He does that a lot.” Jason startled but didn’t show it, turning swiftly and placing his hand on the gun strapped to his waist. He settled when he realized it was Old Man Marco.

“What?” Jason asked dumbly, still slightly unsettled by how the kid before him managed to disappear. 

“Running.” Marco said, “Lui è un corridore. Skittish, that boy.”

“How long has he been coming ‘round these parts?” Jason asked, Marco eyed him with thinly veiled suspicion. Jason had been coming across that reaction a lot recently when he asked about the twirp—it seems Alvin has made quite a few loyal friends.

“Years.” Marco finally answered, “I met him when he was piccolo, around thirteen. I’ve watched that boy grow up.”

Jason hummed, turning back to the alley which the kid escaped through, “What do you know about him?”

“Molto poco,” Marco admitted, “he does not talk about himself. He stares, drifts off as if he is looking at something that is not there. He is bright, very smart and very kind. Easy to get along with, he has many people around here that care for him.”

“Are you one of those people?” Jason couldn’t help but ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yes.” Marco agreed, pursing his lips, “Are you?”

Jason shifted his weight, almost regretting taking off his helmet because even with his domino on he still felt naked and seen under Marco’s gaze. He crossed his arms as he considered the question. The air was cool, carrying the scent of the wet concrete and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.

He should’ve said no, could’ve shrugged it off and walked away but that wasn’t necessarily the truth, was it? Because as embarrassing as it was to admit it, Jason may have gotten attached. He barely knew the kid—Alvin or so he called himself—but that didn’t change the fact he had gotten under Jason’s skin. 

“Yeah.” Jason remarked slowly, annoyed with himself, “Guess I am.”

Marco hummed, lighting a cigarette with slow, practiced ease. He took a drag, the tip glowing faintly underneath the dim light before exhaling towards the sky.

“Good.” Marco murmured, “That boy…he could use more people like you.”

Jason let out a dry laugh, “People like me? You don’t even know who I am, old man.”

“Birbante,” Marco murmured as he gave Jason an unimpressed look, “I know enough.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You will help that child,” Marco said assuredly, “because it is in your nature. A protector.”

“He has people looking out for him.” Jason pointed out,

“None with your capabilities,” Marco flicked the ash off his cigarette and a displeased, sorrowful expression crossed his face, “that boy is always looking for trouble. I worry, he sticks his nose in places where it does not belong.” 

Jason frowned, thinking back to what Alvin had said before disappearing. The name JD didn’t sound familiar, nor did it ring any alarm bells but Avlin made it seem like it was a big deal. It wasn’t often that he worked with technology, his own aversion making his job more difficult but he supposed he could call in a favor with Barbie.

“You are dangerous,” Marco stated, his gaze narrowed onto the weapons strapped to Jason’s thigh, “but you use that danger to protect. I don’t need to know your name to know that you will look out for him.”

Marco nodded, as if he was proud of what he had said. He dropped the cigarette and stomped on it with the toes of his shoe, “That child has been through enough. Do not make me regret this.”

Marco let the silence linger before he turned back around, making his way back inside the pizzeria. The door slammed with a bang and Jason was left out alone. He pulled out his grapple, shooting it across the street.

Jason landed on the rooftop with a soft thud, rolling his shoulders as he straightened. The city stretched out before him, Gotham’s endless sprawl of rooftops portrayed a familiar and restless picture. One that Jason has come to love rather than despise.

He exhaled, adjusting the comm in his ear before tapping it on as he leaned against the roof. 

“Hey, Babs,” He drawled, smirking as he watched the streets below, “Got a favor to ask you.”

Static crackled for a second before Barbara’s voice filtered through, equal parts unamused and dry, “That’s Oracle to you.”

“Sure thing, Barbie.”

A heavy sigh, “The last time you asked me for a favor, you used my systems to loop California Girls in Damian’s comms for an hour.”

“And you still haven’t admitted that was the funniest thing to happen all year,” Jason grinned at the memory, “He flipped out. I haven't seen him that angry in months.”

He could hear Barbara’s smile through the comms even as she said, “It wasn’t worth it.”

“Oh, c’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Jason.” 

“Alright, alright.” He relented, holding up his hands even though she couldn’t see him, “But you have to admit, the gremlins reaction was priceless.”

“He replaced all my coffee with decaf for two weeks.” Barabra groaned, 

“No way.”

“Oh, yes way.” Barbara cried, “I didn’t even realize until I had fallen asleep three times during B’s patrol and wondered why my coffee wasn’t working.”

Jason barked out a laugh, “The brat plays the long game, gotta respect it.”

“You won’t be expecting anything ever again if you pull that again,” She shot back, “And if this favor is another prank, I swear to God, Todd–”

“Relax, Barbie. This one’s actually serious, on my grave I swear it.” 

Her tone shifted instantly, amusement giving to sharp attentiveness, “Go on.”

“I need you to dig up anything on the name ‘JD’” Jason said, “Any connections to drug rings, kids, anything shady.”

A pause, then, “JD? Is that all you have?”

“Yeah,” Jason mused, “I got it from this kid—Alvin.”

“Alvin?” Barbara sounded skeptical, “As in Alvin and the Chipmunks?”

“Yep.” Jason popped the ‘p’, “It’s obviously not his real name but I wasn’t going to dig. Anyways, he’s pretty sure the name has something to do with whatever is going on in Crime Alley. The kid wasn’t very specific and I didn’t get time to ask for more before he ran off.”

“You didn’t chase him?”

“Nah, I got a good idea where to find him now.” Jason dismissed, 

“Now?” Barbara still sounded suspicious, “How many times have you met this kid, Hood?”

“Only twice.” Jason defended, “And the first time was because I had to save his ass.”

“Oh god.” Barbara sounded defeated, “You sound like Bruce.”

Jason let the silence continue, it was deafening, “That hurt more than being killed by the joker.”

“Okay!” Barbara said loudly, “I’ll look into it, but I can’t promise that I’ll get much.”

“Thanks, Babs.” Jason sighed, pinching his temples. 

“Of course,” Barbara softened her tone, “I’ll get back to you later. Oracle out.”

The comms went silent, leaving Jason, once again, alone. He glanced down at Vera’s Pizzeria, then at the empty streets stretching beyond it. Something about all of this wasn’t sitting right and he had a bad feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever Barbara found out. He had even worse feelings about Alvin’s meddling. 

He just hoped he didn’t have to get the rest of the Bat’s involved.

He hated when he had to do that shit.

Tim was exhausted. It was almost winter break, and school had been hitting everyone with semester finals. Not to mention, the weather only seemed to add to the damper mood that was hitting everyone–gray skies, biting winds and the occasional rainstorms. It was great. Tim barely had time to focus on his own homework, spending too many nights out in Crime Alley. 

He shoved the last of his books into his locker and slammed it shut, “Dude, you look awful.”

He startled, barely refraining from yelping as Bernard leaned against the locker beside him. He held out a can of Zesti, a large grin on his face as if he was proud of himself. Ives stood next to him, arms crossed and a little more serious looking than Bernard. 

Tim glared, taking the drink with a mumbled thanks, “You scared the hell out of me.”

“You’ve been kind of jumpy lately, man.” Ives said with a raised eyebrow, “Everything alright?”

Tim rubbed his eyes, trying to push down the knot of anxiety that had formed and cracking open his drink, “Yeah, school’s just killing me. These finals are kicking my ass but whatever, it’s almost over. Just one more week.”

“Yeah, one more week of death by exam papers. But after that, it’s freedom!” Bernard threw his arms wide as if to emphasize his point, his grin practically glowing, “No more teachers, no more homework. We are only a year away from being seniors. Just think about it.”

“Senior year then we move on to bigger and better things, like…college.” Ives grimaced slightly, “I don’t know, man, college sounds terrifying. Four more years of this shit?” 

“Say what you want,” Tim complained as he took a swallow of his drink, “I’m just ready to get out of my house.”

“Your dad’s not half bad, is he?” Bernard asked, slapping Tim on the back as he led them down the hallway. 

“Nah,” Tim shrugged, “you have to be around to be labeled ‘bad’.”

“Shit.” Ives huffed, “You need a major case of therapy dude but at least you’ve got a killer inheritance.”

“You say that now.” Tim rolled his eyes, “but once I tell them what I want to major in, I’ll be disowned.”

“You’re going into criminology aren’t you?” Bernard questioned, sitting down on one of the benches in the hall. Tim leaned against the wall to avoid the Freshman running to get to class. 

“Something like that,” He shrugged,

Ives gave him a glance, “You still haven’t told your parents about wanting to be a detective or whatever?”

“No way.” Tim shook his head, “They’d kill me. I’ll wait until I get a scholarship before I say anything.”

“Didn’t Dick Grayson become a cop?” Bernard asked, “He didn’t get disowned.”

“Not all of us have parents like Bruce Wayne.” Tim sighed, it sounded longing even to his own ears. Ives and Bernard gave him pitying looks, 

“What college do you plan to go to?” Ives asked, propping his feet in Bernard's lap.

“Gotham U, probably.” Tim pondered, “Maybe, Bludhaven.”

“You’re staying instate?” 

“I don’t think I could leave Gotham if I wanted to.”

Bernard hummed, “I was thinking of Metropolis University.”

“Metropolis?” Tim echoed, 

“You’d fit in there.” Ives said, eyeing Bernard with fake disdain.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Metropolis?” Tim repeated again in horror.

“That means you're more of a sunshine equivalent than Superman.” Ives fake gagged, “It’s disgusting.”

“Who the hell would willingly go to Metropolis?” Tim gasped,

“There is nothing wrong with Metropolis, Tim.” Bernard glared, “They’ve got sun—”

“Horrible.” Tim held out his hands, “Don’t continue, my ears will bleed.”

Ives nodded in agreement, “Everytime I watch the Metropolis Monarchs I feel a little bit of me die inside.”

“You’re only saying that because they’ve won against the Gotham Knights two seasons in a row.”

“That’s because the Condiment King attacked!” Ives yelled, “Both times!”

“It’s just ketchup and mustard,” Tim agreed even though he hated baseball, “they could have continued playing.”

Bernard blinked at Ives, “I want you to realize how ridiculous this sounds.”

Tim rolled his eyes, “Fine, go to Metropolis University. When you use the bus and someone smiles at you, don’t call us freaking out because you're worried you’re about to be robbed. You’re not, they’re just nice people.”

“We’ve got a few more hours of finals prep before we can call it a day—” Tim felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and for a minute he considered ignoring it but curiosity got the better of him. He fished his phone out and checked the screen, feeling his heart sink.

Dad: Me and your mom are coming back to Gotham in a few days, we’ll be spending winter break with you. Good luck on the finals. Keep those grades up. Miss you, champ!

“–im!”

Tim looked up from his phone, Ives and Bernard were staring at him with worried expressions, “You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Tim put his phone into his pocket, “Just my dad.”

Ives gave him a look, “Whatever you say, man. Just know you can talk to us, okay?”

“I know.” Tim nodded, still stuck on his dads message, “what were you saying?”

“We have a few more hours of study prep, I wanted to know if you wanted to go to the library?”

“Sure.” Tim agreed, “I’ve got to study for my A.P. Physics exam, anyways.”

Ives kicked his feet off of Bernard's lap, moving to stand up. Tim took the last sip of his Zesti before throwing the can into the trash,

“How many A.P. classes are you taking this year?” Bernard asked, hiking his bag onto his shoulder. The three of them continued to walk to the library, 

Tim stared down one of the ghosts that lurked in the 400 hallway, a teenage girl who was murdered during an attack staged by the joker. She never stopped laughing. Bernard and Ives dragged him past without a glance in her direction, completely unaware.

“Four.” Tim said as blinked himself out of his stupor, “History, Calculus, Physics and Literature.”

“Dude, you hate english.” Ives commented, swerving them into a different hall.

“I know.” Tim deadpanned, “It was all or nothing and I’m no quitter.”

“Yes, you are.” Bernard commented,

“Yes, I am.” Tim nodded, “but by the time I talked to the counselor it was too late to drop the class.”

“You’re such a try hard–”

Tim clenched his hand around his phone in the pocket of his jacket. It wasn’t often that his parents came home, usually three weeks out of the year. It was a surprise, and not a welcome one. They often skipped Christmas, they found no purpose in celebrating holidays and that was usually fine with him. Things got complicated whenever his parents visited, it meant Gala’s and outings in which he was supposed to dress up in clothing worth more than some people's rent. 

His parents weren’t the worst. They had never laid a hand on him, and he knew they loved him but they were never there. Tim didn’t think they wanted to be there either. He knew they had their own dreams for him, to become a CEO, take over the family business but they never spoke about it. Tim had thought they had made a nonverbal agreement to just stay out of each other's way until his graduation, but maybe there were some mixed signals. 

“I can’t imagine the amount of homework you have.” Ives muttered,

“Don’t.” Tim pouted, “It’s horrible. I have 17 late assignments in Lit.”

“Dude.” Bernard whispered,

“I know.” Tim nodded in mock seriousness, “I try not to think about it.”

Angela hated them, had hated them since she met him. She believed that they were just another pair of shitty parents, just more wealthy than the rest. Maybe she was right, Tim wouldn’t be able to tell you, but Lisa hated them too. Even Hood seemed to dislike them—so from a statistical standpoint maybe they weren’t the best.  

Tim was sure about one thing, he was not becoming a CEO. He wasn’t built for business and he feared the day he told them that.

“I have to study for anatomy.” Bernard whined, “Whoever said ‘become a doctor–it’s great’ obviously wasn’t talking about the classes.”

“Just think about the money, Bernard.” Ives nodded solemnly, opening the doors to the library.

“That’s all I ever think about.” Bernard huffed, “One would think all I care about is money with how much I think about it.”

“It’s good motivation.” Tim grinned, “I would know.”

“I hate rich people.” Bernard muttered, glaring at Tim with mock-spite.

“Eat the rich!” Ives raised his fist into the air,

“You say that, but I pay for us everytime we get lunch.” Tim muttered.

“You’re an okay rich guy, you could definitely be worse.” Ives shrugged,

“Feeling the love, guys.” Tim said as he threw down his backpack, pulling out his computer.

“We always love you, babe.” Bernard grinned, his smile like molten sunshine. 

“Sit down, assholes.” Tim grunted, “I have work to do.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

Chapter Text

Tim had been doing this dance for years.

He sat at the foot of the stairs, heart thrumming under his skin as he watched and waited for his parents car to pull into the front of the house. When he was younger, he used to feel excitement and hope while he waited for his parents' arrival. Now, all he felt was a vague sense of doom.

The driveway remained empty for a long stretch of time, Tim didn’t mind, even as the silence pressed in on him. Mrs.Cole had left early that morning, displeased but ultimately unable to do anything else. He tried to distract himself by watching the shadows that stretched across the living room floor, but it was futile. His mind always came back to the same place—the same gnawing worry that clung to him like a shadow.

The soft, familiar hum of an engine broke the stillness and Tim’s pulse quickened in response. He forced himself to stand, shaking out his hands and taking a deep breath as he tried to calm the restless knot in his stomach. 

He had no clue how their trip had gone. He had seen what it looked like when it had not gone their way. The arguments, the cold silences, the brittle smiles that never reach their eyes. His father, Jack, would try to be the one to make it work, trying to piece together a fragile semblance of normalcy. Janet, though…She was a different story. Her mood swings were unpredictable and sometimes it felt as if he was walking on eggshells, never knowing which version of her he was going to get. 

Tim stepped forward cautiously, opening the door as the car finally came into view. A part of him wanted to bolt, seeing its headlights cut through the darkness—leave the house behind, forget it all—but then the car door opened and his parents stepped out.

“Hey, champ!” Jack called out, his voice strong but tinged with exhaustion. Tim managed a smile, but it was more of a reflex than anything else. 

Janet didn’t acknowledge him at all, her focus already on the door to the house as she briskly walked past him and inside. Tim’s gaze lingered on her, sensing something off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

“Hey, dad.” Tim responded, sounding just as tired.

“Everything good?” Jack asked, dropping his briefcase by the door. 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Tim said automatically, it was the answer he always gave.

The moment the door shut behind them, Jack clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder, squeezing slightly too hard, “How’s school been?”

Tim shrugged, already predicting the course of this conversation, “It was alright.”

Jack chuckled, “You always say that. What’s ‘alright’ mean? Finals should’ve been last week, right?”

“Yes, Tim.” Janet said, her voice smooth and calculated, “How did your finals go?”

Tim watched as she slipped out of her heels with a practiced motion.

“All 90’s.” He answered, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets, “Except for Literature. I got an 86.”

“86%? That’s still great! My little genius.” Jack said with a low whistle, face alight with pride, “Did better than I ever did in school, that’s for sure.”

Tim felt a small flicker of warmth at that, but Janet remained quiet, her expression unreadable as she studied him. Finally, she sighed, almost as if disappointed but she stepped closer and nodded, “You did well.”

Her hand came up, brushing Tim’s bangs from his eyes and for a fleeting second he was reminded of Angela. Her cool, motherly touch, how she soothed him in a way that had felt much different compared to this. Janet’s touch was cool, too, but distant. Detached. Like she was observing him rather than comforting him.

“You need a haircut.” She murmured, fingers lingering against his cheek. 

Tim blinked, looking up at her. For a brief moment, she just stared. Her gaze was sharp but not necessarily unkind, rather, it looked unfeeling. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for nor what she was seeing when she looked at him like that. But before he could say anything, she leaned in and pressed a cold kiss to his temple.

It wasn’t affectionate. Not really. It was just…there. A gesture that felt almost performative. 

Tim took a quick step back, watching as Janet straightened, smoothing down the front of her blouse. 

Jack, oblivious to the strange tension, walked into the living room. Tim followed, Janet not far behind him.

“Oh, speaking of big events—guess what?” He said, grinning, “The Waynes are throwing a gala for the holidays.”

Tim’s stomach twisted.

Janet let out a soft chuckle as she moved towards the couch. Tim hated the way it warmed every limb in his body.

“Yes, that’s why we came back early.” She said, crossing her legs and Tim suddenly felt cold again at her words, “We got an email invitation. I thought it would be rude if we didn’t at least make an appearance.” 

Of course , Tim thought bitterly but kept his face remaining neutral, of course . A childish sense of hope he hadn’t even known was there—squashed. It felt bitter. 

“We will need to get you a new suit, Timothy,” Janet hummed, staring at him as he stood in the entrance, “we can’t have you looking like a street rat.”

Jack stretched, rolling his shoulders, “Ah, it’ll be nice to see the Waynes. Haven’t spoken to Bruce in years. You know, we used to bump into each other at those charity events all the time. Good man—a bit eccentric, though.”

“Eccentric is a bit of an understatement, dear,” Janet said with an amused smile but it turned pondering, “I have a bit of a difficult time remembering all of his children though, it seems every time I visit he has a new one. Do remind me, Tim?”

Jack walked out the living room, into the kitchen.

“Um,” Tim mumbled, “There’s Richard Grayson, but he goes by Dick. He’s a police officer for the BPD. Then there is Cassandra Wayne, she’s currently a ballerina. Damian Wayne is still in school, but he’s the named heir to Mr.Wayne’s company.” 

“Hmm.” Janet tilted her head, “I seem to remember another child, a few years older than you. He was a street child, but very smart, я ошибаюсь?”

Tim paused, heart stopping and starting, “Ah, нет…but, maybe don’t mention Jason.”

“How come?” Janet questioned, a small frown on her lips.

Jack walked back into the living room, small whiskey glass in hand, “He is the one who died, Jan.”

“Oh,” Janet recalled, “a terrible incident. I remember now.”

“Да.” Tim agreed, “Mr.Wayne is still very touchy about the subject.”

“Of course,” Janet murmured, “poor boy. He was one of my favorites.”

Jack yawned, “Alright, well, I’m beat. Long flight, long day. I think I’ll turn in early. Sleep well, champ.”

Tim nodded but Janet lingered, still watching him.

“I’ll send word to the tailor in the morning, you’ve grown since the last time we did a fitting.” She blinked at him slowly, her fake nails shining a pretty shade of red underneath the chandelier, “Have you been keeping yourself busy, Мой малыш?”

“Yes, mama.” Tim responded stiffly underneath her empty stare, Janet hummed and admired him like one would an expensive doll.

“Good, you have always been bored too easily.” Janet sighed, standing up from her seat on the couch, “My inquisitive child, always so smart.”

Tim’s heart raced, his body felt stiff and cold. Underneath his mothers stare he felt like prey reacting to that of a predator.

“I do hope you’ve been well while we’ve been gone,” She said into the silence, “Get some rest, Мой малыш.”

And with that, she turned, bare feet silent against the floor as she disappeared down the hall. Tim exhaled, body unfreezing from its state of petrification. She had always been so good at that—by that—he means scaring the absolute shit out of him.

Remember when Tim said he was anything but reckless? He lied.

Because if he were really as careful as he claimed, he wouldn’t be sneaking out of his house in the dead of night while his parents were in town, all to break into Gotham General Hospital. 

But here he was.

Tim had his own sources. They were usually reliable, but sometimes, they came up short. That’s where his own research came in.

Hacking into Gotham General’s online medical records hadn’t been as difficult as it should’ve been. Their security was pitiful—seriously, somebody needed to fix that. He barely had to try. But even with access, there were gaps.

He had combed through files, cross-referencing the names and faces of the ghosts haunting Crime Alley with medical photos and autopsies. It took time, but he made connections. Most of them were obvious—drug overdose victims.

But then he hit a wall.

Basic medical information? Easy. Medications, blood types, medical history? All there.

But the actual reports? The details? Redacted. Every single one of them. That was suspicious. 

It wasn’t just a few cases. It was all of them. Every victim he had traced back to the Alley, every kid who had died due to drug overdose as of recently. Someone had gone through the effort of wiping the records clean, leaving nothing but blacked-out lines and missing reports. 

Which meant that someone was covering something up. Tim wasn’t going to find his answers online. 

Tim had planned every detail before setting foot in Gotham General. He’d poured over the hospital blueprints until he knew the layout by heart—especially B2 of the third floor Medical Wing. 

He stepped inside the hospital, the smell of antiseptic and illness hitting his nose. Gotham General was the kind of place where no one paid attention unless you gave them reason to. 

The lobby was busy but not chaotic. A few nurses chatted behind the reception desk, barely glancing at the people coming and going. Visitors sat slumped in cheap chairs, some cried, some scrolled through their phones, others stared at nothing. A doctor in a white coat hurried past him, checking a clipboard and Tim stepped slightly to the side to avoid bumping into him. 

There was a screeching man, a ghost, drenched in blood standing next to the E.R. He was pulling strands out of his hair, a manic look in his expression. Tim swallowed thickly and ignored it. 

He made his way toward the elevators at an unhurried pace. No one stopped him. No one even glanced his way. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime and Tim stepped inside, pressing the button for the third floor. The ride up was quiet. A man in scrubs stood next to him, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and when the doors opened again, Tim slipped out without a word.

The third floor was quieter than the lobby. There was another ghost lingering in the hall, she was wearing a hospital gown and hummed an absent tune as she glided by. The lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in a headache inducing, too-bright glow. Tim glanced up, looking at the signs. The archive was in room 320B, a room hidden slightly in between inpatient rooms. 

“Hey, kid,” A nurse called, stepping toward him. Tim’s stomach dropped but he forced himself to look up at her with wide, startled eyes, “What are you doing up here?”

Tim hesitated long enough to look sad, then out a false chuckle. 

“Sorry…” Tim shifted his backpack on his shoulders, glancing away like he was upset, “My mom, she’s sick. The doctor just gave her something and she fell asleep but I couldn’t just watch…”

The nurse’s face softened instantly, her face shining with sympathy, “I get it, but don’t wander too far, alright? It’s easy to get lost up here.”

Tim nodded quickly, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Before she could say anything else, her pager buzzed at her hip and she sighed, “I have to go. Just be careful.”

“Yeah.” Tim repeated, like a broken record, “Thanks.”

She hurried off, and Tim exhaled, forcing himself to stay relaxed. He waited a few beats before continuing down the hallway, turning at the next corridor. The sign for Medical Archives—B2 in bold beside a door. The hallway was empty. Tim knelt down in front of his bag, pulling out a lockpick. The lock itself was old, mechanical and easy. Within seconds, it gave a soft click, and the door swung open. 

Tim stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a quiet snick, sealing him in the cool, sterile air of the archives room. The space was clean, no dust, no signs of neglect. Someone was in and out of here often, but despite that, the organization was a mess. Files were stacked haphazardly on desks, drawers were left slightly ajar, and loose papers peeked out from folders as if someone had rifled through them in a hurry–a doctor, most likely. 

He moved toward the nearest filing cabinet, fingers skimming over the labeled tabs. Patient records were stored in a way that only half-made sense—some by date, some by case number, some with only partial names written in messy handwriting. It wasn’t the kind of meticulous organization one would expect from an official archive. 

He kept a look out for any names he recognized. He already had a list of names in his head, kids who had died recently and of drug overdoses. Their medical records were heavily redacted in the system. 

His fingers paused over a folder labeled Case #237 — Aaron Hargrove. 

He knew that name.

Aaron Hargrove was a 15 year old boy found overdosing in an alleyway one month ago. He was taken to the hospital but died a day later. The official report said it was an OD, like so many others before him. Another victim of Gothams drug problem. Tim had flagged his case when searching through hospital records—his file online had been redacted as well.

He pulled the file from the drawer and flipped it open. The first few pages were standard—intake forms, medical history, a list of previous injuries and conditions. There wasn’t much, Aaron was a street kid and most of them avoided hospitals like the plague. But then he reached the report on his cause of death,

Confirmed fatal overdose. Toxicology report attached. 

Tim scanned further, eyes narrowing. The toxicology breakdown listed the expected components—diamorphine, piperidine, and other compounds found in highly addictive drugs. But there was an additional note, buried in the lab results: 

Unknown biological material found within the substance. Further analysis requested. 

Odd. Tim turned the page, the next section contained the results from that analysis. The lab had identified the unknown material—it had been blood. There were traces of human blood inside the drugs that Aaron Hargrove had taken. This is what had been redacted, Tim thought with vague disgust. 

The hospital lab had run DNA tests to determine where the blood had come from. But instead of a match, the results came back inconclusive:

No recorded individuals with a 40% or a higher DNA correlation found in the system. 

Someone was lacing drugs with human blood, and whoever they were, they didn’t exist in any known database. This wasn’t just a bad batch, this was deliberate. Most people have had their blood taken and put into the hospital database, but this person hadn’t. Tim carefully tucked the file into his backpack. He needed to get out of here and analyze it properly.

Tim had barely taken a step out of the archive room before he slammed straight into someone.  The impact sent him stumbling back a step, heart lurching into his throat. He looked up–white coat, ID badge, wide startled eyes. A doctor. Shit.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The doctor’s eyes flickered to the door behind Tim, then back to him, confusion morphing into suspicion, “What the hell were you doing in there?”

Tim did the only thing he could do. He ran.

The doctor shouted after him, voice sharp with alarm, “Hey! Security!” 

TIm yanked his hood up as he bolted down the hallways, keeping his face down as he weaved past carts and startled nurses. Behind him, he could hear the doctor’s footsteps and the distant sound of someone’s radio crackling to life. 

Security. Great.

Tim skidded around a corner and spotted an exit sign ahead. The door to the stairwell. Perfect. 

He shoved through it and took two stairs at a time, breath coming in fast. Going down wasn’t an option, security would already be moving to cut him off at the exits. He needed high ground.

So, up it was.

He pushed harder, legs burning as he climbed flight after flight until he reached the top. The roof access door stood ahead, a heavy metal slab with a push bar. Locked, probably. 

Tim didn’t stop. He threw his weight against the door, wrenching at the handle–it gave. Tim barely had time to process before he burst onto the roof and slammed straight into the ground. The door shut, its weight pushing itself back into place. 

Tim groaned, shifting so he laid on his back—backpack digging into his spine. 

“What the hell was that, Hood?” A voice asked, 

“Don’t know—” Tim recognized that one, Hood groaned, “Oh fuck. What are you doing here, Alvin?”

Tim blinked, Red Hood stood in his line of sight, arms crossed and not wearing a helmet but a domino as he looked Tim up and down. 

Behind him, Nightwing turned from where he’d been crouched near the edge of the roof, scanning the hospital entrance below. At Hood’s words, he twisted around, raising an eyebrow underneath the domino, “Alvin?”

Tim froze. Nightwings gaze flickered between the two of them. Tim, on the floor, and Hood, standing over him, clearly waiting for an explanation. Tim stared back, mouth opening and closing as his brain attempted to reboot.

Tim’s mouth had always worked faster than his brain, “I was breaking into the medical archives.” 

The second the words left his mouth, he winced. Idiot. Absolute idiot. Of all the things to admit in front of two vigilantes, that was possibly the worst. Nightwing blinked at him, head tilting slightly, “You were what?”

Hood, meanwhile, let out a sharp breath that was like a laugh, “Are you serious? You’re serious. Oh my god.”

Tim grimaced, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck, “I was looking into the kids that have been dying in Crime Alley.”

“Jesus, kid.” Hood sighed, pinching his nose, “You asked me to help. Why could you just let me?”

“Because you weren’t doing anything!” Tim snapped before he could stop himself. His frustration boiled over before reason could shove it down. Hood always seemed to know how to make his blood both freeze and boil.

“Why the hell do you think we’re here, Alvin?!” Hood barked, hands flying up.

Tim hesitated as he stared between Hood and Nightwing, his brain caught up, replaying everything, and oh.

Oh.

“You’re investigating this too.”

“Ding. Ding. Ding. Give the kid a prize, Dickwing.” Hood huffed as Tim stumbled to a standing position. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t see you guys with the evidence, do I?” Tim grouched, glaring at the heavily armed man.

“Alvin.” Nightwing rolled the name on his tongue, “we do know that's a fake name, right?”

“Yes.” Tim and Hood said at the same time, Nightwing held up his hands in self-defence. 

“You found something?” Hood asked, leaning forward. Tim skittered out of his way, narrowing his eyes. Hood stared at him, “What did I say last time we met, kid.”

Tim blinked, his mouth parting in shock, “That you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Even?”

“Even if I was doing shady shit.” Tim finished, slightly mullish. Nightwing made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Right…and how exactly is ‘Alvin’ involved in this case, Hood?” Nightwing asked, leaned against the edge of the roof. Tim swallowed and Hood glanced back at the other vigilante briefly before turning back to Tim,

“He’s been slightly helpful,” Hood reluctantly admitted, “he gave us a name.”

“Have you found anything on that?” Tim questioned, only to be cut off.

“Wait,” Nightwing lifted his brows as the gears ran through his head, “Oracle’s been running checks on the name ‘JD’. Alvin is the one who found it?”

Tim felt heat rise to his face. 

Nightwing turned to fully face him, looking genuinely impressed, “Hey, look at you. You’re pretty smart, kiddo.”

Tim stared, mouth dropping. Oh my god, Nightwing just complimented me . 

Embarrassment slammed into him like a truck, but he managed to fight off the urge to curl into himself, “I mean. It’s just research, it’s not a big deal.”

“Nah,” Nightwing grinned, “It’s pretty cool. You’ve got skill.”

“Don’t encourage him.” Hood grunted, irritated. Nightwing gave Hood a look then glanced at Tim again. Something in his expression shifted, something amused and knowing.

“Ohhh,” Nightwing said slowly, “You like this kid.”

Tim frowned, “What?”

Hood groaned, “Oh, shut up.”

“You’re like B!” Nightwing said to Hood gleefully, “His little copycat.”

Tim furrowed his brows and Hood stiffened, barking out an, “Excuse me?”

“They say like father–”

“Shut up.” Hood cut Nightwing off, turning back to Tim, “What did you find, kid?”

Tim shrugged off his bag, pulling out the file. He glanced at it and reluctantly held it out, “Don’t lose this, it’s a big lead.”

“I won’t.” Hood swore, he took the file and flipped through it absently. 

“You know, my parents are home.” Tim said lightly, Hood turned sharply to look at him, as if finally recognizing the underlying tension in Tim’s shoulders. 

“Your parents are home?” Hood asked, suspiciously. Nightwing looked confused at the emotion laced in Hood’s tone. Tim shrugged lightly, 

“Yeah.”

“You’re telling me your parents are in town, and you still decided to go breaking into hospitals at night? And they didn’t notice.” 

“They never notice.” Tim muttered, running a hand through his hair. Nightwing stood up straight, 

“What do you mean by that?” Nightwing questioned and when Tim didn’t answer he turned to Hood, “What does he mean by that?”

“You’re going to make me go gray.” Hood said, solemnly. Tim didn’t bother telling him he was already going gray with that streak in his hair.

“Ah,” Tim hesitated, “I also feel like I should admit I was caught by security.”

Hood’s fingers twitched like he was physically restraining himself from strangling him. 

“Are you kidding me?”

Nightwing, at least, took it in stride, “Alright, we can handle that. Let’s get you out of here before Gotham General slaps a permanent ban on your face.”

A few minutes later, Tim found himself with his arms around Nightwings stomach as he rode the back of his—as in Nightwing’s, as in Dick Grayson's—motorcycle, speeding away from the hospital. He could barely breathe.

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered, “I’m riding Nightwing’s bike.”

“Having fun back there?” Nightwing called over his shoulder, clearly amused.

Tim squeaked. 

Hood dropped the tray onto the table with a sharp thud, making Tim flinch.

“Eat,” Hood ordered, sliding a Batburger meal in front of him before taking a seat across the booth. Tim eyed it warily, 

“I swear, Alvin.” Hood warned, “if I just saved your ass, again , and you still don’t trust me enough to take the damn burger, I will force-feed you.”

Tim sighed and unwrapped the burger, taking a slow, deliberate bite while making aggressive eye contact. Hood didn’t look impressed. Nightwing snatched the file out of Hood's hand, flipping through it. 

“So, Alvin,” Nightwing said, frown deepening with every page, “what am I looking at right now?”

Tim swallowed, “That’s the medical file of Aaron Hargrove.”

“I remember him.” Hood commented, fiddling with the wrapper of a straw, “He was a kid who worked down by the docks.”

“He was fifteen.” Tim agreed, “Died of an overdose. I had been keeping a watch out for any kids who lived around Crime Alley and died of an OD. Aaron died a few weeks ago after a day in the hospital. They couldn’t do anything.”

“That’s how many kids in your territory?” Nightwing asked, sensing a pattern.

“Over a dozen.” Tim answered for Hood, who had his fist clenched around the table. Tim watched the man in the corner of his eye—just in case.

“I hacked into the hospital's online records, but everything on recent overdose victims was redacted.” Tim gestured vaguely with his burger, “So, I snuck in to get a physical copy.”

Nightwing hummed, staring at Tim before turning to hood, “You let him do that?”

Tim scowled, “I am sitting right here.”

“Let him? You think I let him do anything?” Hood snorted, “He’s like a racoon with a conspiracy board.”

Nightwing gave Tim a long look, a small smile breaking out onto the Vigilantes face, “You didn’t just pull a ‘B’, Hood. You found a ‘B’.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Hood grumbled, stealing Tim’s drink.

“As I was saying,” Tim huffed, “Aaron Hargrove, resident Crime Alley street kid, OD’d a few weeks ago. I wondered why doctors were going to such lengths to keep the records redacted, and I found my answers in that file.” 

Nightwing flipped to the toxicology report, eyes skimming the page, “That’s impossible. These tox screens are saying that–”

“Blood was the main compound of the drug.” Tim finished, “I know.”

“Gross.” Hood scrunched up his nose,

“Did they do a DNA search?” 

“Yep.” Tim popped the ‘p’, “They ran the sample through every known database but there was no match above forty percent.”

“Meaning?” Nightwing questioned,

“Jeez, do I have to spell out everything for you guys? I thought this vigilante thing meant you had to be good at detective work.” 

“Humor me.” Nightwing pushed,

“Fine, whatever.” Tim rolled his eyes, taking the last bite of his burger, “meaning whoevers blood this is? They aren’t in the system and they don’t have any direct family members in the system either. Which is practically impossible, I don’t know how the hell they did it.”

“Hm.” Nightwing tilted his head, “and this ‘JD’ figure?”

“Good question, you ran away before I got to ask anything else.” Hood remarked, 

Tim’s finger twitched, and he desperately wished Angela was here for emotional support. He glanced past the booth, eyes tracing the restaurant. His eyes locked onto Mary Grayson, who was sitting at a table across the way. She smiled over at them and when she finally noticed him staring all she did was wave.

“I found someone who had been looking into the same drug,” Tim spoke slowly, “they told me that the name ‘JD’ was the only thing they were able to trace back to the operation. JD is the ringleader, at least, I’m pretty certain. I don’t know if they operate in Gotham or if JD is just an alias…I don’t even know their gender.”

“Impressive source.” Hood muttered, narrowing his eyes and leaning back against the booth, “Mind telling us who it was?” 

Tim kept silent, Nightwing sighed, “You don’t have to tell us who they were. Just tell us if they were trustworthy.”

“About as trustworthy as you can get in Gotham.” Tim tapped his nail against the table, “I had some information on them, it would have been bad if it got out and they knew that. It was in their best interest to tell me the truth.”

“Oh awesome.” Nightwing smiled brightly, “I always love a healthy dose of blackmail. You did great with this kid, Hood.”

“Nah,” Hood shrugged, “It came like that.”

“Even more impressive.” Nightwing pondered, “We should keep you.”

“What?” Tim asked blankly, 

“Nightwing.” Hood warned,

“What?!” Nightwing defended, “He would be a great addition. B loves orphans.”

Tim was beginning to suspect this ‘B’ person might be Mr.Wayne, which was an odd thing to think about. Tim interrupted before anything could get too far, “And I am not an orphan, please do not hand me over to Batman.”

“Well, when you say it like that—”

“He takes in children with shitty parents too,” Hood interrupted, “you aren’t safe yet, Alvin.”

“I’m feeling slightly threatened.” Tim commented mildly, 

“Eat your fries, kid.” Hood pointed to them, “or I will.”

“Stealing isn’t good.” Tim stuffed a fry in his mouth, 

“Breaking and entering isn’t either.” Hood added, “And you just did both.”

“You’re literally a murderer.”

“Serial murderer.” Nightwing corrected, 

Tim squinted at them, “Oh, my bad. That makes it so much better.”

“It’s all about the branding.” Nightwing nodded sagely, 

“Right, of course,” Tim said dryly, popping another fry into his mouth, “How foolish of me to question the integrity of Gotham’s most beloved serial killer.”

Hood snorted, “Finally, some respect.”

“Respect is a strong word,” Tim muttered under his breath,

“You keep mouthing off but you’re still eating the food I bought you,” Hood pointed out, “Almost like you appreciate it.”

“You literally threatened to shove it down my throat.” Tim paused mid-chew, “And then you threatened to steal it. And I never said I wasn’t grateful, I just said you were a murderer.”

“Serial murderer.” Nightwing chimed in again, still flipping through the file.

“Whatever,” Tim waved him off, reaching for his drink back, “not the point.”

“No,” Hood agreed, leaning forward on his elbows, “The point is you’re a menace, and if you keep running around like Gotham’s personal cryptid then you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“A cryptid?” Tim repeated, incredulously, “Is that what you’re calling me now?”

“Kid,” Hood deadpanned, “You hang around shady places at ungodly hours of the night, gather information no one should have and always manage to slip before anyone can catch you. It’s a pretty accurate nickname.”

“Could be worse.” Tim admitted, 

“Could be,” Nightwing agreed, “We could call you ‘Alley Gremlin’.”

Hood snickered, “Alvin the Alley Gremlin.”

“Oh my god.” Tim buried his face in his hands, “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Nightwing said cheerfully,

“Ugh,” Tim sighed, dragging a hand down his face before glancing at his phone, his eyes widened slightly, “Oh, shit.”

Hood narrowed his eyes, “What?”

“It’s almost five in the morning,” Tim groaned, shoving his phone away, “I need to go.”

“You got somewhere better to be right now?” Nightwing blinked,

“Yes, my house.” Tim slid out the booth, “Where my very-much-alive parents are. They might not care if I leave but they might care if I’m not back by the time they wake up. I’m not willing to test it out.”

“Ah, the classic sneaking around move.” Nightwing grinned, wrapping an arm around Hood’s shoulder.

“An orphan trait.” Hood nodded,

“Goodbye,” Tim said flatly, tugging his hood over his head, “never speak to me again.”

“See you later, Alvin.” Hood called after him,

Tim didn’t dignify that with a response and as he was leaving he glanced over at Mary Grayson, who followed Tim with her eyes. He overheard Nightwing before he stepped outside, “—ind him, Little Wing?”

He stepped out into the cool air and had a dawning realization. Dick Grayson only called one person ‘Little Wing’ and that person was dead. Atleast, he was dead. 

So, the Red Hood was Jason Todd back from the dead.

Tim wished he could say that was the strangest thing he had ever come across in Gotham.

But if he’s being honest, actual blood in drugs might have to take the cake.

Chapter Text

Tim’s fingers skimmed the cool marble of the handrail as descended down the stairs, his shoes clicking against each step at a quick pace. He glanced up, his freshly cut hair no longer fell into his eyes leaving him with an unfiltered view of the house below—pristine and silent save for the sharp edge of his father’s voice cutting through the air.

His dad was in the kitchen, pacing near the island, his phone pressed to his ear. He was loud and the type of angry that could be heard throughout the entire manor.

“ —I don’t care what it takes, just handle it. We’re not losing this account over some —” Jack stopped, gritting his teeth and listening. His hand flexed around the phone before he snapped, “ Then make it worth their damn while .”

Tim winced, but didn’t linger. He had long learned the difference between a fight he should pay attention to and one that was just business. Instead, his attention caught on the woman standing near the full-length mirror by the entryway, adjusting the sleeves of her gown.

His mother was dressed in a burgundy gown, deep and rich, the silk of it catching in the light as she turned slightly, inspecting herself. Her makeup was impeccable, her jewelry subtle but expensive. She was beautiful—undeniably so—possessing a cold and fatal allure as if death had tailored everything, even her eyelashes, to perfection, bestowing an elegance that was mesmerizing but horrifying.

She met his gaze in the mirror, icy blue eyes meeting his own. She turned to face him fully. Her gaze flickered over him. Tim sported a sharply tailored three-piece suit, a burgundy tie, matching cuffs and shoes so polished they could be a mirror themselves. 

A pause, then with slight approval, “It fits nicely.”

Tim straightened slightly, adjusting his cuff.

“Yeah.” He said, voice even, “Thanks.”

Janet hummed, tilting her head slightly as she studied him. 

“It’s a good color on you,” She said, her tone assessing, “Not ostentatious but refined.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m shopping for formalwear.” Tim said dryly, resisting the urge to shift under her gaze.

Her lips curved—not quite a smile. He doesn’t think he has ever seen Janet wear a smile not to intimidate, but this was as close as he would ever get to a real one.

“You could stand to put a bit more effort into your presentation,” She said, adjusting the lapel of his jacket, “Your posture has improved, at least.”

Tim arched his brow, “I didn’t know it was a problem in the first place.”

“Slouching is the habit of someone who wants to disappear,” Janet chided smoothly, brushing a piece of lint from his shoulder, “You don’t want to disappear, do you?”

“Depends on the crowd.” Tim said as he met her gaze evenly.

That earned him a small, knowing look before she stepped back, satisfied with whatever silent assessment she had been making. 

“Well,” She said lightly, “try to keep your accent in check tonight. You lapse when you get tired.”

Tim stiffened, Janets eyes glimmered with something cold and knowing. He swallowed thickly, rolling his shoulder and shifting his voice—which he had thought he already fixed—into something polished and clipped, “Wouldn’t want to shame the family.”

“Of course not,” Janet said, “We have images to maintain, Мой малыш.”

Tim clenched his fist, her cutting eyes lingered slightly on the white knuckled grip. Her eyes flickering up to look into his, “You are fine.”

“Fine, mama.” Tim nodded sharply, 

“Good.” She said clipped, her eyes glancing behind him, “Where is your father?”

And right on time there was a loud shout, the words unintelligible then a bang. Tim winced, barely refraining from flinching slightly. Janet’s face contorted for a moment, a sliver of rage slipping through her usually perfectly refined mask before she quickly placed it back on. It caused Tim to freeze in his tracks, sweat forming at the back of his neck. 

“Ah.” She made a noise and then said pleasantly, “It seems your father has decided to throw a temper tantrum once more.”

Tim shifted on his feet, schooling his expression into something neutral, “Seems like it.”

Janet exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, the only sign of irritation left was in the subtle tightening at the corners of her mouth.

“He does have a talent for theatrics,” She mused, adjusting one of her earrings as if the distant crash hadn’t rattled the walls, “Unfortunately, a lack of discipline makes a man predictable.”

Tim's lips twitched, his jaw tight. He wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or herself. Another muffled curse from the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of glass shattering. Janet turned her head toward the noise with her eyes glittering and for a second, Tim could almost feel the sharp edge of her thoughts—like a scalpel poised just above skin. 

“Fetch him,” She said, tone light but leaving no room for refusal. She reached for her clutch, already dismissing the situation entirely, “I’ll not have us arriving late over something so…petty.”

Tim hesitated but at her dark look, he nodded, “Yes, mama.”

He turned around, walking toward the kitchen. His steps were careful, and measured. Inside, Jack stood by the counter, his back straight and his hands braced against the cool marble. A shattered glass lay at his feet, whiskey soaking into the grout. The phone in his grip was silent now, the call long ended but the tension still hung thick in the air.

At the sound of his footsteps, Jack turned with sharp eyes and a clenched jaw, “What?”

“We need to go.” Tim said,

“Damn waste of time.” Jack muttered, tugging at his messed up cuffs like Tim had done earlier, “Parading around with those people. Playing a game that's alre–Damn. Tim, fix this.”

He shoved his arm out toward Tim, who stepped forward, reaching for the cufflink. The second his fingers brushed the fabric, Jack’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist in a vice. 

Tim felt his body freeze in a moment's panic. The pressure was painful, the bone practically creaking under his dads hand. It was easy to forget that his dad was just as unpredictable as his mother. He always played the role of a doting father. He played the role so well that even Tim could forget how volatile his anger was. 

“You listening to me?” Jack asked, voice low and edged with something dangerous. Tim met his gaze.

“Yeah.” He said, “I’m listening.”

“You don’t embarrass my family.” Jack’s fingers flexed, a slow and deliberate squeeze, “You don’t slouch, you don’t run your mouth, and you sure as hell don’t give anyone a reason to look twice at you. Understood?”

Tim forced himself to ignore the ache in his wrist, “Understood.”

Jack didn’t let go right away as he studied Tim’s face, searching for any kind of weakness or hesitation. When he found nothing, he grunted and released him, “Good sport, champ. Let’s go before your mother gets antsy.”

Tim flexed his fingers subtly, shaking off the lingering stiffness as his dad grabbed his jacket and stalked past him. He took a slow breath, then followed. Outside, Janet was already waiting. The car was pulled up to the curb, the chauffeur holding the door open.

Her gaze flicked to his wrist.

For a second, something sharp crossed her expression–something close to anger but just as quickly, it was gone. She said nothing.

Tim climbed into the car first, settling into the seat as the door shut behind them.

The Wayne Manor was practically a landmark, a beacon of old money. Its grand halls glittering under the weight of gold and crystal chandeliers. The gala was less of a Christmas celebration and more of a decadent display—Great Gatbsy in every sense, except no one was chasing a dream here. They already had everything.

The trip had been short, barely long enough for Jack to settle his temper or for Janet to perfect whatever mask she had decided to wear tonight. They stepped out of the sleek black car and into a world of whispered deals and false affections.

Tim slipped into his role with ease, back straight and smiled just the right amount of charming without seeming eager. The bruise on his wrist hidden beneath the sleeve of his suit was a weighted reminder to him of who he was tonight, the heir to the Drake fortune . The boy with a future empire at his fingertips. Whether it was wanted or not.

Tim wove through the crowd, a glass of champagne in one hand as he found himself swept into a small circle of women in their late thirties. They were each impeccably dressed, in a variety of silks and diamonds glinting underneath the light. They were too busy sizing him up to notice his distracted gaze flickering across the room every few minutes.

“Timothy Drake, darling. I didn’t expect to see you here,” said a woman with a polished demeanor, “You’re a bit young to be mingling with the likes of us, aren’t you?”

As if he hadn’t been practically dragged to join in on their conversation.

“Age has its perks, doesn’t it, Mrs.Chamberlain? I get to be underestimated and then watch people’s faces when they realize how much I know.” 

“Oh? And what is it you know, darling?” She raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. 

That you’re laundering your husband's money, but before Tim could respond, another woman–Miss.Astor—a middle-aged brunette with a glass of champagne too full for anyone’s good, chimed in, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, “Oh, Timothy, I heard your father is on the verge of taking over that little tech company, isn’t he? They’ve come so far. I cannot wait to see what the future brings for them.”

“Almost,” Tim said, his smile never faltering, “But I like to think I’m part of that future too. It’s all about knowing where to place the right investments. The right people.”

A third woman—Mrs.Abbott—a tall and willowy blonde who was his mothers age, laughed lightly, “Well, you’re definitely the right investment for your father, Timothy. If your charming face has anything to say about it.”

Mrs. Abbott leaned in slightly, her perfume strong and overpowering. 

“I’ve been told I’m an excellent investment, Mrs.Abbott.” Tim gave her a polite smile, his teeth gritting together as the wafting smell of jasmine, “But I’m sure you could offer plenty of advice to help me improve.”

Mrs.Abbott blinked, unsure if he was flirting or simply being very well-mannered. It was clear she didn’t mind either way.

As the conversation continued around him, Tim took small sips of champagne and scanned the room over the rim of his glass. His eyes flicked toward Bruce Wayne, commanding attention near the corner of the room as he talked with—Tim blinked, was that the Mayor? 

He shook himself out of his stupor, searching for Dick Grayson, who was laughing with someone at the bar, Damian Wayne by his side and looking every bit like the heir of a multi-billion dollar company. 

And just as Tim’s gaze moved, he caught a flash of Cassandra Wayne—her presence almost ethereal, as if she belonged more to the shadows than the room itself. Before he could focus too long, his thoughts were interrupted. 

“Well,” said Mrs.Chamberlain, a smirk tugging at her lips as she took another sip of her wine, “speaking of investments, my husband has been looking for something new to place his money in.” 

The three women give each other looks, Miss.Astor leaned in, “You see, Timothy, us girls—we’re always looking for a bit of fun, yeah?”

“Of course,” Tim smiled, hiding his bewilderment. They seriously weren’t going to proposition him right here, were they?

“Well, there have been rumors…I’m sure a young boy such as yourself would be willing to help us out.” Mrs.Abbott grinned, tossing him a wink. Tim resisted the urge to grimace. 

“Anything I can do to help.” Tim agreed, 

Mrs.Abbott tittered, “Ah, so helpful, isn’t he so helpful?” 

“Does the name JD ring any bells?” Miss.Astor questioned, a hand gliding up his arm, “We’ve heard they’re looking for investors in their….”

“Pharmaceuticals.” Mrs.Chamberlain finished with a sleazy, pretty smile. Tim felt his insides freeze, his glass nearly slipping from his fingers. JD. A name that seemed to be haunting him worse than the ghosts around the city. His mind froze for a moment, images of ghosts haunting cries as they suffered a euphoric high they could not escape.

It took every ounce of control to mask his reaction, to keep his face neutral. 

“I’ve heard of it,” Tim said smoothly, keeping his tone light as if he wasn’t mentally scrambling to keep up, “but it’s not quite my area of expertise. If anything, you probably have a better idea of their operations than I do.”

Mrs.Abbotts lips quirked into a sly smile, “Oh, I’m sure you know a little more than you’re letting on. You’re young! You must have some sort of in with him, given your family's medical connections, yes?”

“I apologize, ladies,” Tim pouted, shaking his head in mock-disappointment, “I don’t think I quite have the ‘in’ you’re looking for but I’ll be sure to look into it.” 

The women exchanged glances and gave him large smiles, but Tim didn’t give them a chance to talk further. He excused himself with a well-practiced smile, and quickly made his way through the crowd. The name JD had now firmly planted itself in the world of the wealthy elite. This person was gaining popularity much too quickly for Tim’s liking.

As he stepped toward the balcony, needing some space to clear his head, he almost collided with someone who intercepted his getaway. His breath caught as a hand steadied him, gripping his shoulder with surprising strength.

“Woah.” Dick Grayson said, his tone light but as he stepped back and fully took in Tim’s appearance his eyes widened slightly, “Sorry about that—what’s your name? I don’t recognize you.”

Mary Grayson hovered behind her son as usual, as she had for years. She smiled kindly at him, a motherly look in her eye that never seemed to leave even as blood pooled down her face and her bones twisted in odd places.

“Timothy Drake.” Damian Wayne interrupted, his eyes narrowing as he looked Tim over.

“Call me Tim.” Tim said before he could stop himself, attempting to keep his cool despite the sudden panic that crept up his spine. 

“He’s our neighbor, honestly, Richard.” Damian rolled his eyes, 

Dick’s eyes widened for a brief second, the realization of who he was outside of ‘Alvin’ hitting him hard, “Oh.”

Tim cursed inwardly. So much for the alias. He gave a tight smile and shrugged, trying to regain some composure, “Yeah, that’s me.”

Dick seemed stuck in his state of shock and Damian watched him in mild concern. Tim swallowed and forced himself to stay relaxed before he began backing up slowly.

“Excuse me, I should go.” Tim kept his smile in place, though it felt like holding up a crumbling wall.

“Wait!” Dick reached out instinctively, but stopped himself short when Tim stiffened, his shoulders tensing like a coiled wire. Tim’s eyes flickered to the outstretched hand, narrowing slightly before shifting back to Dick’s face.

“I just—” Dick hesitated before offering an easy smile, letting his hand drop, “I didn’t know we had a neighbor. How old are you?”

Tim exhaled slowly, scanning the room for an exit before resigning himself to the conversation, “Seventeen.”

Damian didn’t even bother hiding his skepticism, his sharp eyes assessing Tim as if he were an equation that didn’t quite add up. Tim barely stopped himself from scowling. The Wayne genetics were frankly unfair–Damian was already tall enough to look him in the eye and the sheer bulkiness of this kid made Tim feel much smaller.

“Seventeen?” Dick echoed, clearly trying to piece together the bits of his identity before it shifted behind the well-hidden masks all vigilantes seemed to have, “Well, nice to meet you, Tim. Do you go to a lot of these galas?”

“Not really,” Tim gave a lazy shrug, “they aren’t exactly my scene.”

Damian scoffed, “Strange. Aren’t you the heir to your fathers company? One would think that you would be accustomed to such events.”

“It’s not just my fathers company,” Tim corrected with careful indifference, “My mother and father run it together. And being the heir doesn’t make these things any less tedious.”

Damian studied him, intrigued, “I see…and what business is it exactly that your parents run?”

“They’re in medical advancements,” Tim smiled, trying and failing to sound like he cared, “They work primarily in research and development of medical care, solutions and technology.”

“Impressive. Do you have any role in the company?” Dick asked, Tim’s fingers clenched and spasmed. He desperately wanted to leave, he needed to think about the case he was working on and being trapped by a couple of vigilantes needling him when they thought he didn’t know was only serving to piss him off.

“Not officially. My parents handle the actual work, I’m expected to just observe.” 

“And yet, you dislike it.” Damian commented with sharp eyes,

“I didn’t say that.” Tim was going to strangle this kid, but then he realized he would be going up against a trained fighter with a penchant for katana’s.

“You did not have to,” Damian’s lip curled slightly, “you speak of it as if it’s an obligation rather than an opportunity.”

Tim fought the instinct to bristle at the accuracy of that statement. Instead, he offered Damian a smile much too similar to his mothers, “Not all of us are born ready to take over the world.”

Damian’s expression remained unreadable but Tim could tell the younger boy wasn’t done with his line of questioning. 

Dick, either sensing the shift in the conversation or noticing the slow stiffening of Tim’s shoulders, smiled and made an easy going gesture, “Well, whether you like the company stuff or not, at least you’re surviving the gala.”

“Survival is the right word,” Tim muttered under his breath, giving them both a look before putting on his brightest smile, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Damian demanded, looking around as if to find exactly what Tim was speaking of.

“It’s my name being called,” Tim said gallantly, “I have got to go, it was lovely meeting you both, Mr.Grayson, Mr.Wayne.”

Tim ignored the fact that he was walking away from the crowd, rather than towards it—making it obvious he had made up an excuse. He needed a breather, so he stepped out onto the closest balcony and breathed in the chilly air, ignoring how the cold burned his lungs.

His stomach churned. It wasn’t often a drug popular in Crime Alley climbed its way to Bristol, let alone the name of the producer, as the drug itself had only just recently gained the name— ‘Eidolon’ —for itself. Usually, it would not be that big of a deal. But Eidolon was already harmful enough, reaching a crowd such as this—people wouldn’t be just interested in buying, they would be interested in investing. These people had the money, the power, and the influence to take something small and turn it into something much bigger. 

This wasn’t just some street-level operation anymore. It was growing, spreading, thriving and if Gotahm’s upper class was looking into JD, it meant the drug wasn’t going to just stay contained in the places people like to pretend it didn’t exist. This was the kind of opportunity Tim was sure JD was looking for, more money, more production, more supply.

And more deaths.

Tim’s fingers twitched against the railing, barely suppressing the urge to tighten his grip against the concrete. Or was it? Would JD even want this? If the whole goal was experimentation, would they be willing to increase the market on a drug such as eidolon? Tim didn’t know. He barely knew what the purpose of the drug was, let alone why it was spreading so fast when it had only reached street children. 

And how? How do these rich, Bristol assholes–as Hood would call them–know anything about JD anyways. Tim used some of his best blackmail to get the name and suddenly everyone knows. What bullshit. Something was going on but Tim was left at a standstill, trapped between not knowing and not being able to find out.

It was the most helpless he had felt since watching John and Mary Grayson falling. Since he realized he had a gift that nobody else did, a gift that did not feel much like a gift. 

The Batcave was quiet, save for the steady hum of the computers and the occasional clatter of gear being set down. Jason sat with his boots propped up on the table, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Damian was meticulously cleaning his katana, pretending not to listen to the conversation while Dick and Bruce stood near the massive central monitor exchanging conversation.

“Fancy party, I take it?” Jason drawled, glancing over at Dick and Bruce who were still dressed in their stuffy suits.

“Oh, the fanciest.” Dick smirked, “Glittering lights, overpriced champagne and people pretending to like each other for the sake of business. You would have loved it.” 

“Pass.” 

Bruce sighed, “Did anything relevant happen or are you just reporting the hours you spent over at the bar?”

Dick leaned against the table and stretched, “Well, there was one interesting thing.”

“Oh, do tell?” Jason mocked,

“Alvin was there.”

Jason was caught between both surprise and unsurprise, his lips twitched without his violation and he shook his head before uttering, “No shit.”

“You knew?” Dick asked, clearly shocked.

“That Avlin was a rich brat?” Jason questioned, shrugging, “Sorta, I had to pry it outta’ of the kid. If he hadn’t told me, I would’ve had no clue.”

Dick huffed, then dropped the real revelation, “His real name is Tim Drake.”

Bruce shifted slightly, obviously listening but making no comment. Jason paused, the name sounding familiar but it still felt like betraying the kids' trust. Either way, he sat up slightly, lowering his boots to the floor, “Drake? Huh. Name rings a bell.”

Damian, who had been silent, scoffed. 

“Of course it does.” He set down his cloth and sheathed his katana in one smooth motion, “Timothy Drake is the heir to Drake Industries. Their name is plastered across a dozen billboards in Gotham. Not to mention—”

Damian gave Bruce a look, “They are fathers neighbors.”

“Holy shit.” Jason mumbled, slightly impressed.

“Strange thing was, he had a bruise on his wrist.” Dick turned to Jason and spoke up before Bruce could, “Looked like someone had grabbed him pretty hard.”

Jason stilled, jaw clenching slightly, “That's new.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce questioned,

Jason nodded once, “Last time I saw him—Alvin, Tim, whatever—he was clean. No bruises. Dick was there with us.”

“It’s true.” Dick nodded,

“It looked fresh.” Damian commented,

Jason’s expression darkened, something unreadable flickering across his face before he masked it with an exhaled, “Huh.” 

He looked away, absently tapping against his armored arm. Jason’s lips twisted into a frown as he thought. Alv–no, Tim , hadn’t necessarily tried to hide much about his parents, Jason was able to gleam pretty heavily that they were negligent but hadn’t really thought about physical abuse. Why would he, when Tim himself admits that they are never around? 

“What are you thinking, Jason?” Bruce asked, Jason flicked his eyes over to him before settling on the monitors behind him,

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his parents.” Jason finally admitted, 

“Should we do something about it?” Dick pushed, 

Bruce hummed, “We shouldn’t interfere in civilian affairs unless there’s cause.”

“A hand-shaped bruise on a kid's wrist is cause enough, B.” Jason scoffed before pondering, “But, Al– Tim wouldn’t want us interfering anyways.”

“Are you sure?” Bruce leaned forward, 

“Oh yeah,” Jason huffed, “Kids too smart for his own good. He’d notice the second we started poking around and if he thinks we’re prying then he won’t tell us shit. Think of him like a scared cat. He’ll come to you when he’s ready, but if you push too hard, I doubt you’d ever see him again.”

Dick frowned before grinning slightly, “Which means that when he does come around, it’ll probably be you he comes to first, Jason.”

“Oh, god.” Jason groaned, “Not this again.”

“What?” Damian asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Little Wing has practically adopted the kid.” Dick shrugged, 

Jason grimaced, “He’s two years younger than me, Dickhead. I can’t adopt anyone that close in age.”

“It’s all about the mindset.” Dick scolded, “You’re already halfway there. Tell him, B.”

“I don’t think I should be encouraging adoption to a legally dead, nineteen year-old.” Bruce commented idly,

“Be supportive!” Dick snapped,

“It’s not supportive if I don’t even want to adopt the damn kid, Dick.” Jason grunted, 

Damian sighed wistfully under his breath, “I used to be a Prince.”

“And anyways, he’s already giving me gray hairs by knowing him. I can’t imagine being his guardian.” Jason added,

Bruce glanced at him oddly, “How many times have you interacted with Tim?”

“Only a few.” Jason made a face, “And basically each time it ended up with me saving his ass or him running away from me.”

“Personally, I think we should keep him.” Dick declared,

“Dickwing, we’ve already had this conversation.” Jason leaned back in his chair, “You cannot just declare rights to a teenager…or any other child.”

“He would fit in perfectly.” Dick whined, “He’s like a mini Bruce.”

Jason made a disgusted face, “So you’ve said.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bruce asked, obviously curious.

“A detective.” Dick shrugged and blinked at Bruce’s blank look, “What?”

“That is not the only thing I am, chum.”

“It’s a pretty big part of your, well,” Dick waved vaguely in Bruce’s direction.

“Right.” Bruce pinched his nose, “Well, have any of you done research on the case? Because if what you say is true and Tim is anything like me, then he is already five steps ahead of you.”

“Hey!” Dick cried out, stunned by the slight.

“First off,” Jason pointed to Bruce, “don’t get cocky. Second off, I talked to Babs earlier. She managed to track down a warehouse that was linked previously to this ‘JD’ fellow. I was planning on staking it out tomorrow.”

“Good.” Bruce sighed, “Dick can go with you.”

“Ugh.” Jason made a noise in the back of this throat,

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick huffed, crossing his arms in a disheartened way.

“It means your miserable on stakeouts, Richard.” Damian responded blankly, “It’s like working with an overexcited squirrel.”

“Too much energy.” Jason agreed, 

“Whatever.” Dick pouted before spinning around in his chair, “What are the chances that Tim already knows about the warehouse?”

Jason tilted his head as he thought it over, “I dunno’, it’s pretty likely.”

Tim was an odd one, but not so much that Jason minded, if anything he was slightly fond if not in an exasperated way. But he had begun to understand the warning that Marco had given him about Tim sticking his nose in places where it did not belong. He had already gotten the kid out of enough sticky situations, but Jason doubted that Tim would stop getting himself into those situations in the first place.

“Tim’s pretty decent with computers,” Jason recalled, “if he’s even halfway as good as Barbie then he might and I wouldn’t hold it against him if he checked it out. It’s obvoius he’s dedicated to finding out more about this ‘JD’ guy.”

“It’s dangerous.” Bruce stared at Jason, “Tim could get hurt if he continues to dig into this case. It obviously goes deeper than we had previously thought”

“You can try to stop him if you want.” Jason agreed lightly, “But I don’t think anyone, even Batman, could scare him off.”

Bruce tilted his head as he contemplated it. Damian clicked his tongue, “It would be worth a try.”

“I doubt it would work,” Dick argued, “he cares to much. I’m sure that Tim has already committed several felonies in attempts to solve whatever the hell is going down.”

“That’s all the more reason to stop him.” Bruce contradicted, 

“Or we could just do what I had said and let him come to us.” Jason complained, 

Bruce sighed, “And what is the likelihood of him doing that?’

Jason ground his teeth together. He, like Dick, doubted that Batman would be able to stop Tim from investigating this far into the case. Tim had some sort of affection for vigilantes, or something like it, but even that affection could only go so far. But Jason wouldn’t deny it would be nice not having to worry about Tim getting himself killed.

“Fine, talk to Tim.” Jason conceded, “But don’t be surprised when he doesn’t react the way you want him too.”

Bruce nodded and turned back to his computers, but Dick still faced Jason and Damian. He had an odd grin on his face that could only spell trouble.

“What?” Jason squinted at him in unease,

“Nothing.” Dick said lightly and Damian scoffed,

“Do not lie, Richard.”

“Fine.” Dick agreed easily, “I’m just thinking about how Bruce will react when he finally meets Tim.”

Jason paused as he got up, “Oh.”

“Oh?” Damian echoed and scrutinized his two older brothers, “What does that mean?”

“It means, baby bat,” Dick said with a grin, “That you might be getting another older brother.”

“I told you not to call me that.” Damian snarled before realizing the implications of what was just said and pausing, “and I will not. Father has some restraint.”

Jason ruffled his little brother's hair and gave him a pitying look, “Sure, kiddo.”

He ignored the irritated squawk left in his wake, instead walking over to his bike before Bruce could try to convince him to stay the night, or worse, the weekend.

Chapter Text

The alley Tim was in was a narrow, forgotten passageway squeezed between decaying brick walls and rusting fire-escapes. Faded graffiti clung to the surfaces, telling dying and bloody stories. The ground was littered with shattered glass that splintered under the weight of his shoes. 

“What’s your name?” Tim asked, as he crouched lowly on the concrete. Angela hummed lightly in a soothing tone behind him. Before him was a small boy with ragged, stained clothes and a pallid face that bore the marks of death and hard living—track marks scarred his spindly arm, his eyes blown red and blood trickling from his sockets—stared back at him.

“James.” The boy whispered, his voice fragile and cracked.

Tim offered a shaky smile, “Nice to meet you, James. How old are you?”

“I dunno’.” James furrowed his brows, his expression one of innocent confusion.

Tim glanced back at Angela. Her sorrowful eyes regarded James with gentle pity before she murmured, “It’s not uncommon. He died young—his memory isn’t strong.”

“I’m Tim.” Tim said as he turned his full attention back to the boy.

“Nice ta’ meet ya’, Tim. Why are you here?” James asked slowly, his voice wavering with apprehension.

Tim’s gaze softened, “James, I need you to tell me what you last remember. Anything at all.”

“Oh no!” James cried out suddenly, “I can’t do that. No, I can’t. What if they catch me?”

James' eyes widened, and his small body shook as if gripped by a desperate fear. Tim crouched closer, “Listen. No one’s gonna hurt you ever again, you're safe now.”

“They chase.” James grinned, the blood from his eyes dripping into his teeth, “They chase and chase. Like rabbits. Silly and scary rabbits, but tricks are for kids.”

“James.” Tim snapped and James looked back up at him with slightly deranged eyes, “Tell me what you remember. No one is going to touch you, I swear.”

“Hmm.” James hummed a little tune before he held out his hands, motioning Tim to come forward and as if telling a secret, whispered into Tim’s ear, “There was a monster on the wall.”

“A monster?” Tim asked, heart skipping a beat, “Can you describe it?”

“It had big teeth,” James commented idly, “but it was crying and dripping. It had lips the color of an apple, but it was weird.”

“Weird how?” Tim pushed, 

“They stretched to his cheeks.” James pulled back his lips in a smiling way, as if attempting to push his gums back with his hands, “Like this. He was green too. Very green. Like candy but not the good kind. He looked…hm. I remember the monster, he likes jokes very much.”

“Jokes?” Tim echoed, what the hell? Then it clicked.

Months ago, the Joker had taken a warehouse when he had escaped Arkham. The old warehouse had been by the docks—overrun by Joker cronies until Batman and Robin had managed to round them all up and put them back in Arkham and Blackgate. The warehouse had not been touched sense but a menagere of relics had been left after the Joker's short freedom, such as paintings of his own face. 

JD must have been using it for they’re own purposes.

“You did good, James.” Tim smiled lightly, James' eyes widened.

“Good?” 

“Very good, thank you.”

“Good.” James nodded and turned back down the alley. Tim turned back to Angela with a slightly creeped out look on his face.

“Odd kid.” Tim said slowly, Angela gave him a look before ushering him out of the alley and chiding him lightly.

“He was one of the first victims. He has been dead a few weeks now, the strain of death can be overwhelming.”

“I wish I could help.” Tim sighed, Angela glanced at him sadly.

“There is nothing you can do, sweetheart.” She brushed a cold reassuring hand against his shoulder, the touch as weightless as mist, “Some souls don’t move on so easily.”

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose, shoving his hands into his pockets as they stepped out onto the street. The dim glow of streetlights barely fought off the deep shadows stretching across Crime Alley, but it didn’t matter. 

“They’re children.” Tim muttered, he glanced back toward the alley, “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Angela gave him a soft smile although sadness edged her gaze, “He’ll be as okay as he can be.” 

It wasn’t the answer Tim wanted, it wasn’t actually an answer at all.

He bit the inside of his cheek, shaking off the lingering chill of Jame’s words, of his red-rimmed, bloodied eyes. He needed to focus. The warehouse.

“So, a monster on the wall,” Tim mused, trying to ground himself with the task at hand, “That’s Joker’s old place, right?”

Angela nodded, “Yes.”

“Then that’s where I’m going next.” Tim said as he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension.

“Tim…” Angela frowned,

“I’ll be careful.” He shot her a small smirk but she wasn’t amused.

“I mean it,” She said, voice dropping into something firmer, “This isn’t just about finding answers anymore, Tim. If JD has taken over a place like that, then whoevers running things has serious connections.”

“No.” Tim shook his head, “The Jokers’ been in Arkham for months, long before the drug came out. Whoever was in that warehouse wasn’t in there with his permission. And the Joker hardly ever works with anyone else. The only thing I need to worry about is Joker toxin contamination.”

“Are you sure about this?” Angela worried, her hands clenching and unclenching.

“About as sure as I can be.” Tim then shrugged, “Look, I have to do something, Angela. I can’t wait around for the Bat’s anymore.”

“Dear lord,” Angela muttered, “Fine, just be careful. I’m going to check on Cherry. Don’t do something stupid.”

“Of course not, Angie.” Tim waved her off, “When have you ever known me to be stupid.” 

Angela opened her mouth and Tim cut her off, “Don’t answer that question.”

Her laugh was light and full of life, despite her blood no longer pumping and her heart no longer beating. That’s the funny thing about death, it never seemed to take away Angela’s life.

The Gotham water below him churned, thick and dark, reflecting the dull glow of streetlights in murk, oil-slick ribbons. The smell was a mix of rot, salt and something chemical–acidic and sharp enough to burn the back of his throat. It was the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes, your skin, like Gotham itself didn’t want you to forget where you’d been.

He swung his legs over the ledge, his han pressed against the concrete as his eyes scanned below. The dockworkers moved in a steady rhythm, hauling crates off rusted cargo ships. They had the look of people who worked too hard for too little, their breath visible in the cold night air, their voices lost under the grinding metal and occasional barked order.

The water lapped hungrily against the docks, and Tim felt a prickle at the back of his neck. 

Beware the Rusalka.

His mother’s voice echoed in his head, silk-smooth but sharp edged. When he was younger, Janet used to tell him stories of the Rusalka—the restless dead, souls of women and girls who had died too soon, often drowned, often betrayed. In his mothers stories, the women could be mournful, lingering along riverbanks and lakes, combing their hair with water-logged fingers, singing sad, eerie songs. But in others, they were vengeful.

They lurked beneath the surface, pale hands slipping through reeds and debris, waiting. They called out with voices that sounded like lost lovers, pleading children, soft winds through trees. And when someone came too close—when the unsuspecting stepped into their waters—they dragged them under. 

Tim curled his fingers against his palm, turning his head away from the waters. He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight forward before dropping soundlessly from the ledge. His landing was quiet, knees bending to absorb the impact as he straightened and attempted to merge with the shadows. He kept low, creeping along the Docks edge where the glow of flickering street lamps barely reached.

He wanted to avoid two things: Joker Venom and Dockworkers.

The former was easy enough—Joker hadn’t touched this place in months and even the most brain-rotted of his goons weren’t dumb enough to come back after he abandoned it. All he had to do was be careful of leftover contamination, easy enough. But the latter? That was trickier. The dockworkers weren’t part of JD’s operation, at least he didn’t think so, but they were overworked, underpaid, and just desperate enough to rat out a trespasser for quick cash. Even if they didn’t care about him, they’d care about keeping their heads down. Tim didn’t blame them for it, but he wasn’t about to get caught, either.

He moved between stacks of rusted shipping containers, their metal walls streaked with years of rain and grime.

“---kid got sick again, Doc says it’s the water, but what the hell am I supposed to do about that.”

“Boss still hasn’t paid you for last week?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“You heard they found a body under Pier 12? Cop’s didn’t even stick around long—just threw up some tape and left. Those damn Falcones.”

“Don’t talk like that, it’ll get ya’ shot. And anyways, that’s Gotham for you. Ain’t nothin’ new.”

He pressed himself against the side of the warehouse. Its paint was peeling, the wood swollen from water damage, and through the crack between the loading bay doors, he could see dim light splitting into the dark. Tim edged around to a side entrance, the door barely hanging on its hinges. He slipped inside, letting the darkness swallow him whole.

The air inside was damp, thick with the smell of mold and rotting wood. Something sharp and chemical lingered beneath it, faint but unmistakable. It smelt like the makings of an off brand meth lab. He stepped carefully over shattered glass, his footsteps muffled by the soggy floorboards. 

The place had been trashed, empty crates were overturned, papers scattered like someone had left in a hurry, like they hadn't expected to return. On the far wall, beneath a gaping hole in the ceiling where rain had poured in, a spray-painted portrait of the Joker grinned back at him.

Or it had, once.

This was the monster that James was talking about, then, Tim thought. The paint had run in long, smeared steaks, water dragging the vibrant reds and greens down like melted wax. His too-wide smile blurred and his black ringed eyes dripped like painted tears. 

He huffed and turned away from the smeared Joker mural. Tim shivered and forced himself to refocus. The mural wasn’t what he was here for. The warehouse was a wreck, he turned towards the papers littered on the ground, damp and wet. He crouched, carefully sifting through them.

Most of them were ruined from rain, smudged ink and water damage making the text unreadable. But the ones he could make out? They made his stomach churn.

Test logs. Dosage reports. Mentions of subjects, too vague to be useful but damning nonetheless. The handwriting was neat and clinical. He flipped through more pages, hoping for something solid—something that would give him a name or location. But before he could process anything further, his foot came down on something brittle.

A soft crack echoed in the empty space.

Tim froze. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his foot.

A broken vial lay beneath his shoe, shattered against the concrete. He crouched, his pulse picking up. A dried, crimson residue clung to the glass. It smelled faintly of iron and Tim’s stomach clenched as he remembered the medical report—the report stating the drug had blood in it. His breath caught as he read the label. Printed on the glass, a bright blue contrast to the red–sticking out nicely and horrifyingly.

DI.

Drake Industries.

Tim’s blood ran cold. 

For a second, he just stared, his brain scrambling for an explanation that didn’t make him sick. But there wasn’t one. His parents. His mother, or was it his father? Tim had been blind-sighted, no one wants to imagine their parents experimenting on children but there was evidence—cold and solid—right in front of him.

His mouth felt dry and his chest felt tight.

Tim was used to knowing things. He had a genius level intellect, he was used to uncovering secrets, peeling back layers until the truth was laid bare. He had spent weeks trying to figure out where this drug was coming from, who was responsible. And now, standing in this wreckage, he had one. He just wished it wasn't this one.

Tim felt his feet move before he could stop himself. He stumbled out of the warehouse, his breath coming fast and uneven. His brain was still catching up, still reeling, still trying to piece together the mess of thoughts spiraling out of control.

Drake Industries. Dying children. My parents.

He barely registered the damp night air hitting his face. Barely noticed the uneven pavement beneath his feet. His hands were trembling, his stomach turning over itself. It had been right in front of him. The whole time. Right there. And he had missed it. 

His foot hit a loose piece of debris, sending it skidding loudly across the ground. 

“Hey!”

Tim’s head snapped up just as a dockworker turned toward him, squinting into the dark.

Shit.

“Who’s there?!” The man called.

Tim didn’t wait. He bolted.

The alley was slick from the rain and his shoes skidded against the pavement as he pushed himself forward. His feet pounded against the concrete as he darted into the maze of shipping containers, breath sharp in his lungs. The smell of salt and oil burned his nose. 

“Hey! Get back here!” 

Tim didn’t look back. The sound of boots slamming against the pavement behind him spurred him on, forcing himself to push past the ache in his legs. The docks were cluttered—metal crates stacked high, wooden pallets scattered across the ground, thick ropes and rusted chains forming hazards in the dim light. It was a terrible place to run, but Tim didn’t have a choice.

He twisted sharply around a container, nearly colliding with a stack of old tires. His hand shot out to catch himself, the rubber rough beneath his fingers as he used the momentum to keep moving.

There was more shouting behind him, closer now. 

Tim gritted his teeth. He needed to lose them and fast. 

His eyes darted upward. A metal staircase, leading to a higher platform. It was rusted and barely hanging onto the side of an old warehouse but it was his best shot. He veered toward it, converse skidding slightly on the slick ground as he jumped onto the first step. The metal groaned beneath his weight. Tim didn’t stop.

“He’s going up!” One of the workers barked,

“Damn!” Another one grunted, “Someone take the fire-escape!”

Tim shoved himself up the last few steps, heart hammering, and ran along the catwalk. The docks stretched out below him and the dark water glinted dangerously under the flickering lights. Rusalka didn’t sound half as dangerous anymore.

A loud bang echoed behind him—something metal missing his heel and striking metal. Tim cursed. They were throwing things now? Fantastic .

He kept running, the end of the catwalk loomed ahead and there was no exit. His mind raced.

Think. Think!

Below him, a stack of crates. Further out—an old cargo net strung up between two storage units. Very unstable—also his only solution.

Tim didn’t slow. He reached the end of the platform and jumped. 

For a moment, there was only the rust of air, the weightlessness of free fall. Then— snap .

The net gave slightly beneath his weight, the ropes creaking in protest but it held. Tim barely had time to process the landing before moving again, scrambling to untangle himself. He hit the ground in a roll, ignoring the sting in his knees and sprinted toward the alley between the two warehouses.

Almost there. Just a little more—

A shadow moved overhead.

Before Tim could react, something yanked him upward. 

His stomach flipped, a startled breath caught in his throat as he was lifted off the ground, soaring into the air at a terrifying speed. Wind rushed past his ears and a sharp zip of a grapple line registered somewhere in his panicked mind before he was suddenly falling—

No . Not falling. Landing.

He hit the rooftop with less force than expected, stumbling but he was caught before he could fully collapse. A firm head steadied him, gripping his arm just long enough for him to regain his strength.

“Jesus, Tim!” A modulated voice rang out, familiar, “Did you just jump forty feet onto the fucking ground?!”

Tim’s heart was in his throat, his body still wired from adrenaline but as soon as he looked up his mind stuttered to a stop. 

Batman.

And right behind him, Hood and Nightwing.

Tim sucked in a breath, his thoughts still spiraling too fast for him to fully register the situation. He barely even registered the way Batman straightened, the imposing figure blocking out the city skyline.

“That was dangerous.” Batman said, his voice gruff but even. 

Tim was not listening.

Because the revelation was still sinking in, still clawing at the inside of his head, still making his fingers tremble. 

“Oh my god.” He breathed, hands dragging through his hair.

Nightwing took a step forward, “Hey, kid, you okay—?”

“I should have known.” Tim whispered, voice trembling, “It was right there. I should’ve—should’ve seen it.”

“Tim?” Hood questioned, “Hey, c’mon kid.”

“It was in front of my face the whole entire time!” Tim cut him off, voice climbing higher with every word, “Weeks! I’ve been searching for weeks and I didn’t—I could’ve stopped it—”

He dug his fingers into his scalp, his breath hitching as his vision blurred. Everything felt as if it was tilting, warping around him in a spiral of suffocating realization. He could have saved over a dozen children if he had just realized —

A hand, firm and unyielding, gripped his shoulder.

“Tim.”

The voice was deep and steady. Tim barely had time to flinch before Batman crouched in front of him, solid and unmoving. A shadow against the skyline, yes, but not looming and not demanding–there. Just there.

“Look at me,” Batman instructed, voice still gravelly, still carrying that impossible weight of authority but softer now. Is this how he comforted victims? Tim could see how it worked. Not that he was a victim.

Tim blinked hard, his breath stuttering. He focused on the dark lenses of the cowl, on the shape of the man in front of him.

“You need to breathe.”

Tim let out something between a shaky exhale and a laugh, “Oh, breathe? That’s great, Batman, why didn’t I think of that?”

Batman didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just pressed slightly on Tim’s shoulder, grounding, “You’re spiraling.”

Tim clenched his jaw, eyes darting away. He wanted to run, run, run . But the pressure on his shoulder didn’t move, it wasn’t forceful, Tim reminded himself, just steady.

“Listen to my voice,” Batman said, his tone even, “Breathe in.”

Tim swallowed. The rooftop felt small and his chest tight but he tried.

In.

“Hold.”

The seconds stretched and Tim’s lungs ached with the effort.

“Now out.”

He exhaled shakily. His fingers were still trembling.

“Again.”

And he did. 

Each breath felt painful, like forcing himself to breathe through water but slowly, surely, the world around him began to settle. His heartbeat no longer beating in his ears, the rooftop around him came into focus.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly before pulling away. He almost mourned the loss. Almost—he wasn’t that desperate. 

“There you go,” Batman murmured, “you’re okay.”

“Sure.” Tim let out a rough, exhausted laugh, “Okay.”

Hood huffed, Tim glanced his way and noticed he had taken off his helmet in the midst of Tim’s panic attack. Jason Todd, a ghost back from the dead. His fingers twitched, the urge to reach out both childish and prominent. 

“Hey, kid.” Hood stepped closer, pushing past Batman who grumbled. Tim sighed, the wind blowing the smell of gunpowder, cigarettes and safety into his face.

“Hi.” Tim whispered, his voice cracking. 

Hood's lips twitched slightly, “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

“Who, me?” Tim shrugged, “Nah. Never been better, actually.”

Hood held out his hand slowly, as if Tim was a startled cat, and when Tim did not react, he reached out and ruffled Tim’s hair. He tugged slightly at the curls, pulling Tim close and let Tim lean his forehead onto his armored shoulder.

“So,” Hood’s voice vibrated, “now that you're not about to kneel over, you want to tell us what’s got you so roughed up?”

Tim tapped his hand against the bat symbol, red and bright, “I know who it is, now.”

“Know?” Hood echoed,

Tim leaned closer, trying to hear a heartbeat and whispering, “My parents.”

Hood stiffened, “What?”

“My parents.” Tim said hollowly, “It’s my parents.”

There was a stretch of silence, as if Hood was digesting this information slowly.

“Oh god.” Tim began, “I think I’m going to faint.”

“Wait—” Hood started, but Tim couldn’t really help it. His vision blurred, black creeping in at the edges as the rooftop tilted beneath him. The last thing he felt was strong arms catching him before everything went dark.

Jason’s arms were crossed as he leaned against the cot, his jaw tight as Alfred finished his examination of the unconscious kid lying in front of him. The old butler moved with practiced ease, checking vitals with a steady hand before finally straightening with a small nod.

“He’s fine,” Alfred announced, voice calm but firm, “physically, at least. His collapse was due to a mixture of an adrenaline crash and shock. Hardly surprising, given what he’s been through tonight.”

Jason hummed, “Thanks, Alfie.”

“Of course, Master Jason.” Alfred acknowledged briefly before making his way out of the medbay. Jason stayed by Tim’s side, barely moving his gaze from where it was locked on Tim.

Bruce let out a slow exhale, arms crossed as he studied the unconscious. His face was unreadable in the cowl but Jason knew him well enough to catch the slight tension around his mouth.

“This is…not how I expected our first meeting to go.” Bruce finally admitted into the silence, 

Dick let out a short, uneasy laugh, running a hand through his hair, “Yeah, no kidding.”

Jason shot him a look, unimpressed, “I don’t care about how you expected things to go. I care about what the hell is going on, I care about protecting Tim—the same Tim who said his parents were the ‘JD’ we’ve been searching for.”

The words sat heavy in the air. Dick blew out a breath, shaking his head, “You think it’s both of them? Or just one?”

“Does it matter?” Jason scoffed, “Either way, they’re in deep. Sixteen kids are dead and it’s because of them.”

“If it’s just one, maybe the other doesn’t know. If it’s both—” Dick started,

“Then they’re running this whole thing together,” Jason finished flatley, “And they’re pumping blood into drugs. Why the hell would they be doing that?”

Dick winced, “That is….a good question.”

Bruce hummed in thought, “The best way to find out what the Drakes are up to is to go to the source.”

“A good old-fashioned shake down?” Jason quirked a brow,

There was a soft shift of fabric.

“Don’t,” A voice rasped.

Jason startled, his focus snapping back to the cot. Tim was awake. Or—had been awake. His eyes were barely open, but his voice was firm.

Jason immediately leaned in, his brows furrowed in concern, “You awake?”

Tim cracked one eye open fully, he met Jason’s gaze the best he could with his domino on. Jason deemed it far too knowing for someone who had just fainted, “Yeah.”

Jason let out a sigh, narrowing his eyes, “You’ve been awake, haven’t you?”

“He has.” Bruce answered. Tim remained silent, just offering a tired, almost sheepish look. 

Jason huffed, sighting closer, debating where to push Tim back down onto the cot, “You shouldn’t be up yet, dumbass. You hit the ground like a sack of bricks.”

“Didn’t mean to.” Tim muttered, 

“Yeah, well,” Jason eyed him warily, “try not to make a habit out of it.”

Tim hummed noncommittally, shifting slightly as if trying to sit up. Jason immediately reached out, helping him up into a more comfortable position.

“You said ‘don’t’,” Bruce said, his voice still even but just a fraction softer, “You don’t want us looking into your parents.”

Tim exhaled slowly, his fingers curled into the blanket, “I do want you to look into them. But going straight to them is a mistake. If they catch wind that someone’s onto them, they’ll cover their tracks. We need evidence first—read evidence. Not something circumstantial.”

Bruce’s brows furrowed, the concern in the twist of his mouth deepening, “And you think you know where to find it?”

“My dads office. It’s always locked but I think I could get in.” Tim nodded,

“That’s a bad idea.” Jason denied immediately, a feeling of dread crawling up his spine at the plan.

Dick nodded in agreement, crossing his arms, “Yeah, I’m not sure I like that plan.”

Bruce’s expression remained the same, but there was a tightness in his jaw that made it clear he agreed with his sons, “Tim, that’s dangerous. If your parents are involved in this, then they’re willing to experiment on children If they catch you—”

“They won’t catch me,” Tim interrupted, “I know how to get in, I know how to cover my tracks. It’s my best shot at finding something solid—something that can get them locked away. They have no clue that I’m onto them anyways.”

“That you know of.” Dick muttered under his breath, Tim sent him a sideways glance.

After a long pause, Bruce finally gave a slow, reluctant nod, “Alright. But you get in and straight out.”

Tim relaxed and nodded in return, “Thank you.”

Jason was still pissed, “You just passed out.”

“And I woke up.” Tim huffed, rolling his eyes in that way that always reminded Jason of his age, “I can handle myself.”

Dick snorted, “Right, because that’s so reassuring coming from the kid who managed to jump forty feet off a catwalk to avoid dockworkers .”

Tim groaned, flopping back against the cot dramatically before freezing. His eyes darted around, Jason watched as he seemed to finally take in his surroundings. He stiffened, then sat up straighter, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. 

“Wait.” Tim’s head turned toward the massive computer setup, his eyes going wide, “Wait—”

Tim turned to Dick, pointing toward the Batcomputer, “Is this—? Is this the Batcave?”

Dick’s lips twitch, no doubt amusement shining behind his domino, “Maybe.”

Tim let out an excited breath, looking around with unfiltered awe. Jason felt amusement bubble under his skin, “No way. No way. This is so cool .”

“Is he for real, right now?” Jason asked no one in particular,

Tim ignored him, already halfway off the cot and wandering out medbay toward the Batcomputer, “This tech is insane. How much power does this thing even run on? How do you keep it from overheating? Is that a custom-built processor? ”

Bruce, seemingly amused despite himself, stepped up beside Tim, “It is. The entire system is custom built. It’s a quad-core processor, paired with a proprietary cooling system. Signal and I engineered it to handle high-load computations without thermal throttling.”

Tim leaned closer, “So it’s running a custom OS that’s for optimizing sensor input?”

“Jesus.” Dick muttered, “What the hell are they talking about?”

Jason started, “I don’t even know how to use a flip phone, Dick. Don’t ask me.”

“Exactly,” Bruce seemed to be amused if not interested, it wasn’t obvious except for the small twitch in his lips, “we use a multi-node cluster for real-time analytics with data mirrors across secure servers. Every access point is secure with biometric authentication and encrypted communication protocols.”

“Look at him–he’s really into this.” Dick whispered in awe, Jason just grumbled but even he couldn’t hide his faint smile.

“The network architecture is fully redundant, automatic failovers ensure no single point of failure.” 

Tim nodded rapidly, “That’s impressive. And the date back up is real time?”

“Yes, good, Tim.” Bruce praised, Jason watched as Tim lit up with pride—preening ever so slightly. 

“Oh my god.” Dick murmured, “He’s already done it. How long did it take you to win Tim over, again?’

Jason watched in horrified fascination, “Too long.”

“We’re running continuous, encrypted backups to offsite servers.” Bruce confirmed,

Tim grinned widely, “This is incredible. I’ve never seen tech like this before.”

Bruce finally allowed a smile to appear on his lips and Jason was not surprised to see it was fond, “I’m glad, Tim.”

“Looks like Bruce is stealing your kid, Little Wing.” Dick grinned, leaning toward Jason.

“He’s not my kid.” Jason rolled his eyes.

Dick raised a brow.

Jaosn huffed, crossing his arms, “And anyway, the kid needs more role models. His current ones are a pair of serial killers that drug children and a crime lord.”

Dick winced, “Okay. Fair point.”

Chapter Text

Here is the thing, Tim has had a lot of time in his life to come to the conclusion that his parents aren’t the best people in the world. Months spent alone, isolated from the world and watching as they stepped out the door as he came to both despise and love them with every part of his being. Tim loved them for every ‘champ’ and ‘Мой малыш’, hated them for the bruises on his wrists and nails imbedded in his shoulders, loved them for the lessons they gave, hated them for the way they left, loved them for coming back.

It’s a bitter cycle, a realization so damning. He had come to terms with it years ago, that they would never truly love ‘Tim Drake’ and only ever notice ‘Timothy Drake’. But of course, they were his parents, and he could have only held so much hate. They weighed on the heart like the coins on a dead man’s eyes—an offering, a weight, and a promise that never quite meant what it should. No matter how many times he tried to close the coffin on his love for them, it never quite stayed buried. 

He wondered sometimes, if it would have been easier if they had simply never come back. If they had vanished in the mist of some distant jungle expedition and left only the echoes of their voices behind. If he could have mourned them as something lost instead of something half-kept, half-given, a ‘love’ measured in absence and half-hearted returns.

But they always came back, dragging with them the weight of expectation, of carefully crafted smiles and clipped reassurances. They returned like ghosts who refused to stay buried, lingering just long enough to remind him that he was theirs, but never long enough to make him feel like he belonged.

Tim watched silently from the medbay cot as Batman held Nightwings shoulder with carefully crafted love. 

His grip was firm but not forceful, a silent reassurance that needed no words. It was grounding, steady—nothing like the way Jack Drake’s hands had ever settled on Tim’s own shoulders. Jack's touch had always either been too absent or too much, too rough in his frustration or too fake in his kindness. But this—this was something else entirely. 

Nightwing didn’t flinch. He didn’t brace for impact. He just exhaled, leaning into the touch like it was second nature, like he trusted it to be there.

Tim turned his gaze to the cave ceiling, an ugly weight curling in his chest.

This was the difference, wasn’t it? The one thing that set Bruce apart from his parents. Jack and Janet returned, but Bruce never really left. He stayed. Even under the weight of grief, under the burden of loss, he remained. And the people around him—his family—trusted that.

He wondered what that felt like. Tim’s feelings around his parents only grew, instead, a festering pain that only ached the longer he stayed. 

His parents were never the villain in his story. You’d have to stay around to be a villain—you’d have to care enough to hate to be a villain.

But they were the villains for over a dozen children. They were the monsters that lurked in the dark for those children.

A warm weight settled on the cot beside him, dragging Tim out of his thoughts. The Medbay was quiet besides the steady hum of machines and the distant talking of Batman and Nightwing outside the room.

Tim didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Y’know,” Hood’s voice was softer than usual, not as rough and less calculated, “you think loud for someone so quiet.”

“Quiet?” Tim echoed, a small smile quirking on his lips as he stared at the ceiling. He watched the bat’s fly across the cave, “I don’t think that’s ever been a word to describe me.”

Hood huffed, ‘No, you’re too much of a mouthy little shit to be described as ‘quiet’. But somehow, your thoughts are louder than you are.”

“Didn’t know my thoughts had a volume setting.” Tim said, with a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but something similar.

Hood wasn't wearing his helmet, just a domino mask that barely hid the sharp angles of his face. He leaned his head back as if considering, “Oh, they do. Yours are stuck on max volume, kid.”

Tim let his gaze drag to the side, taking Hood in. He looked less intimidating than usual, maybe it was how he no longer held his body as if he was going to war. His black hair was messy, the white stripe sticking out–a sharp contrast. There was a cut healing just above his brown, but otherwise, he looked tired. 

“I’m sorry.” Tim finally whispered out into the air, an admission of guilt.

Hood stared at Tim with unblinking white lenses, “Why?”

“This is all my fault.” Tim choked out, bringing a hand to cover his eyes in shame, “I can’t believe I was so blind.”

“Tim…” Hood said slowly,

“You know, I had always found it hard to believe when the spouses or children of murderers swore up and down they had no clue what was going on.” Tim smiled weakly, “But I think I’m starting to understand it now.”

Hood took Tim’s hand away from his eyes, “You are not at fault for this.”

“Of course you would say that.” Tim mumbled,

“No.” Hood snapped, he grabbed Tim’s chin and forced him to look at him in the eyes, “You are not at fault. It’s not your fault that your parents chose to do what they did. It has never been your fault.”

“I know what they are like.” Tim shook his head, “The signs were obvious. They were always capable of something like this, I just didn’t want to believe it.”

Hood sighed, “Scoot over.”

“What?” Tim blinked, 

“Scoot. Over.” Hood motioned for Tim to move, which he did. Tim watched in silence as Hood removed some of the weapons strapped to his legs and put them on the medical cart. 

Hood settled next to him, the soft creak of the cot beneath their combined weight the onl sound between them. Hood didn’t say anything at first, leaning back against the pillows. 

Tim, still a little tense, shifted under the blanket and tried to avoid the odd sense of warmth the closeness brought.

“I thought you were gonna lecture me.” He muttered, not quite looking at him.

Hood hummed lowly, “You’ve heard enough lectures from me, kid. Sometimes, it’s just about listening instead.”

Tim glanced over at him, brows furrowing, “Listening to what?”

“You’re not the first kid to have parents screw things up. Hell, you’re not ever the first kid I’ve met who had parents who were monsters. And you won’t be the last.”

Tim swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the words sink deep into him. It wasn’t about what his parents had done to him, it was about what they had done to others, to a dozen kids who didn’t have the luxury of running away or hiding behind a mask.

Tim slowly leaned into Hood’s side, the hard edges of his armor digging into his ribs. It was awkward at first, too unfamiliar, but Hood didn’t pull away. He didn’t make a joke or act like it was inconvenient. Tim shifted, a little hesitant and eventually settled against him, his head leaning slightly into Hood’s chest.

The armor was uncomfortable, it hid the warmth that Tim had been seeking but it held the pulse of Hood’s heartbeat, the soft rise and fall of his chest. Hood’s arm moved, laying across Tim’s shoulders.

“I had thought they just weren’t good parents, good people but not good parents.” Tim admitted quietly, “They were kind to everyone else, they made donations to charity, and volunteered at shelters. I thought it was just me.”

Hood sighed, the long drag of breath audible from where Tim had his head laid, “Kid, it’s not on you. They made their choices. You get to make yours now.”

“I didn’t notice. With the way they treat me, you would think I’d notice.”

“Abuse and neglect doesn’t always lead to serial murder, kiddo.” Hood murmured, “You couldn’t have known. It couldn’t have been right in front of you if you had to search for the answer.”

“Oh.” Tim whispered, 

“Yeah. Oh .” Hood mocked playfully, hand leading to card fingers through Tim’s hair, “You are not responsible for them. You can only be responsible for yourself. You don’t have to carry their decisions—the pain they caused others—on your shoulders.”

Tim leaned into the hand, eyes fluttering shut. 

“You don’t even have to do this.” Hood said after a moment,

“Do what?”

“Go back to that house.” Hood clarified, “You say the word, kid, and you won’t have to go back. It’s not on you to put them away, it’s not your duty.”

“I want to.” Tim refused, going to sit up but Hood pulled him back down against his chest, “I want to do this.”

Hood’s fingers clenched and unclenched in his hair, “Okay.”

“I’ll be fine.” Tim said after a moment of silence,

“You don’t know that.” Hood ground out, 

“My parents wouldn’t kill me.” Tim shook his head,

“When I first met you,” Hood replied, “I told you that there are things worse than death.”

Tim stayed silent because he could not swear any further. He could not promise they wouldn’t hurt him because they already had but he could promise, “I won’t get caught.”

Hood’s hand paused and Tim felt the rumble of laughter underneath his cheek, “No, I guess you won’t. You’re pretty good at staying hidden.”

The sounds of footsteps echoed in the cave, followed by the soft swish of the medbay door sliding open. Tim didn’t look up right away, but the change in the atmosphere was immediate. Hood tensed as if preparing for–

“Oh my god.” Nightwing squealed, “B, go grab the camera. I need to capture this moment.”

“Wing.” Hood grounded, his teeth scraping against one another.

“What?” Nightwing shouted, “This is monumental. You never cuddle, not with me and not with Robin!”

“First off, attempting to even touch Robin is tempting death.” Hood scowled,

“That is not true.” Nightwing retorted.

“Not for you.” Hood remarked, “And second off, cuddling you is like hugging an octopus. You cling and don’t let go.”

“Fine, well.” Nightwing huffed, “I’m a better cuddler than Hood, Tim. Just so you know.”

 Hood hummed, “Now you just sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous!” Nightwing pouted, 

“You’re an embarrassment.” Hood nodded, mock seriously.

“I have never done an embarrassing thing in my life.”

“I don’t know, that time you fell off the roof when you mislanded a handspring and had to be saved by Black Bat was pretty embarrassing.”

“You miscalculate a landing one time , and nobody ever forgets.” 

Tim perked up, “The Discowing suit was pretty embarrassing. Not to mention…the mullet.”

Nightwing paused before turning to Tim in betrayal, “The Discowing suit was beautiful. And the mullet was of the time.”

“If the time was the 70's, sure.” Tim retorted, 

Hood barked out a laugh but froze under Tim’s scrutinizing stare, “What are you laughing at? I haven’t forgotten about ‘Pill-Head Hood’.”

The quiet was loud and then Nightwing bursted out into a fit of laughter.

“I would prefer it if you did.” Hood said, finally, “Forget about it, that is.”

“Never.” Tim replied solemnly and yelped when Hood pulled on a lock of his hair in retaliation. 

Just then, Batman’s voice cut through the banter, “Nightwing. Hood.”

Tim felt the room shift as Nightwing threw his hands up in mock surrender, “Right, sorry, B.”

“Tim.” Batman stepped forward, “When you arrive at Drake manor, you will act like everything is normal. Even the slightest tell could give you away. When you get an opening, you’ll take it.”

Tim nodded slightly, feeling as Hood shifted underneath him and the arm around his shoulders grew tense.

“Good. When you get into the office, search for anything amiss or odd.”

“I know.” Tim shrugged, “Not technically my first time breaking into somewhere I'm not supposed to be.”

Batman’s lips twitched, “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be. When you find what you need, you get out of there. Take this.”

Batman handed him a small device, a shade off his skin color, “This is a comm, put it in your ear before you step inside the manor. We’ll be listening.”

Tim took it, his fingers brushing over the small piece of the equipment. Batman regarded him for a moment, before he turned to his two sons, “I need you two to leave, I have to talk to him.”

“Sure, I needed to talk to Oracle anyways.” Nightwing nodded, turning to leave as Batman looked to Hood, who hadn’t moved an inch. 

“Alone, Hood.” Batman sighed, “Please.”

Hood shot Batman a glare so heavy that Tim felt it himself, even with the domino, before he gave Tim a look, “You good, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Tim nodded, though the weight in his chest didn’t leave.

Hood hesitated but stood, following Nightwing out the room. The door slid shut with a click, leaving Tim alone with Batman. The atmosphere shifted immediately, the room feeling heavier, more serious. Batman’s gaze fixed on Tim, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Then, he pulled off his cowl.

Tim’s breath left his lungs.

Suddenly, the man in front of him didn’t seem half that imposing. Bruce Wayne was not Batman, Bruce Wayne was the man who had snuck him a piece of candy when he was six and bored at a Wayne Gala, Bruce Wayne was much more human. 

“You were awake when Alfred was here,” Bruce said, low and calm but there was an edge to it. Tim nodded stiffly, his throat dry.

Bruce continued, his eyes sharp, “You heard Alfred say Jason’s name but you didn’t react.”

There was no accusation in his words. Not exactly, but there was quiet curiosity as though he was waiting for Tim to answer on his own. Tim swallowed, his fingers tightening in the bed sheets. He knew where this was going. He had known when Bruce had pulled off his cowl. He couldn’t lie—not about this. 

“Yeah, I did.” Tim said quietly, finally meeting Bruce's eyes, “I knew who you were.”

Bruce didn’t say anything at first, just studied him, then, “How?”

Now that was something he could not admit too. He could not say, ‘Oh, well, you see…The dead parents of Dick Grayson actually gave it away.’ That would be a ticket straight to Arkham, so he did what he was best at, he lied.

“It was my birthday,” Tim told, recalling the memories as he chewed on his nail, “my parents had been able to get tickets to the Amazing Graysons.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change but his posture shifted just a bit, “That night I got to meet Dick, at least, the first time. He promised that he would do a trick just for me, that it could be a birthday present. He told me it was special. The quadruple somersault. It was incredible, it’s said to be the most difficult and dangerous move in trapeze to exist. Only three people in the world could do it. Then, Mary and John Grayson fell and only one person could.”

There was a long pause, and for a moment, Bruce seemed lost in thought, as though he was piercing something together. Tim pressed on, not giving him the chance to interrupt.

“One day, I saw Robin on the news. And he did the same trick—the exact same somersault.” Tim couldn’t stop himself from smirking a little, “Funny thing was, Bruce Wayne had just adopted Dick Grayson. The famous orphan, the acrobat, and the only person living capable of performing the trick.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as the truth settled in.

“So you made the connection.” He murmured, almost to himself.

“Yeah, I did.” Tim nodded, “And once I knew Dick Grayson was Robin, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. If Dick was Robin, then you were Batman.”

For a moment, there was silence again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was almost…impressed. Tim watched as Bruce ran a hand over his face, something flickering in his eyes. It was almost like respect.

“I didn’t think anyone would catch on so quickly.” Bruce said, his voice softer now, “Most people wouldn’t have made the leap.”

Tim shrugged, slightly bashful as his gaze shifted away, “It’s what I’m good at.”

Bruce’s expression softened, and there was warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He allowed himself a brief, almost imperceptible smile—a fraction of a smile that spoke columns in the silence between them. 

“You were right.” Bruce acknowledged after a beat, “Dick had a point.”

Tim furrowed his brow, unsure of what Bruce meant, “About what?”

Bruce’s smile grew slightly, “You’d fit in perfectly.”

Tim stood in front of the grand, sleek door to the Drake Manor, fingers trembling slightly as he pulled the small comm device from his pocket. With a soft click, he slid it into his ear, the faint static buzz settling in as he heard Bruce’s voice.

“Remember what we talked about,” Bruce said low and steady, “Act like nothing’s wrong and stay alert.”

Tim nodded, though he knew Bruce couldn’t see him. His hand tightened around the door handle, his body stiff as he took in a deep breath. This was it. No turning back now. He pushed open the door.

The Drake Manor greeted him with a clean, polished and almost sterile atmosphere. The floors were smooth, polished marble, stretching through the grand entryway, reflecting the light from the tall windows. He glanced up, the intricate white and gold ceiling glared back at him. A symbol of Janet's heritage woven into the home, an attempt to replicate the Winter Palace in Russia.

Tim took a slow step forward, his heart pounding as he walked into the living room. The space was just as pristine as the rest of the house, with an oversized couch sitting in the center of the room, positioned perfectly for someone to sit and watch the elegant art pieces hanging on the walls or the large TV currently playing the Gotham City Wildcats. 

Jack was lounging on the couch, his face posture relaxed, a smile on his face that looked genuine, Tim almost wished he could believe it. Janet was seated next to him, staring as she scrolled her phone. 

“Tim, Мой малыш.” Janet motioned to the couch, “Come, sit.”

Tim hesitated for a second before stepping fully into the room, his gaze flicking to his parents. Jack looked away from the game, his eyes lighting up when he saw Tim.

“Hey, champ,” Jack said warmly, lifting his hand in a lazy greeting, “How’ve you been? I called Bernard’s mom, she said you spent the night over at his playing video games”

“I’m good.” Tim shrugged, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. Mrs.Dowd had always treated him like one of her own, he appreciated that she was willing to lie for him, “It was fun but nothing special.”

Janet hummed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she tilted her head, “I’m glad to hear you had fun, dear. You deserve it.” 

Her voice was smooth but something in the way she spoke. The deliberate pacing felt a little off. There was a chill that followed her words, like a silent warning hanging in the air.

Tim nodded quickly, trying to ignore the discomfort creeping up his spine.

“Thanks,” He mumbled, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He glanced at his dad again, trying to gauge his mood. Jack’s smile was still there, still warm and easy.

“Well, champ, do you feel like watching the rest of the game with us?” Jack asked, “I already placed bets.”

“No thanks, I think I’m just gonna go upstairs. I was thinking about doing some school work.”

“Did they assign work over break?” Jack frowned,

Tim rolled his eyes, “Every year, it’s like they can’t give us a break.”

“Hm.” Jack grunted, “Well, you do that. Come back down to watch the rest of the game when you're finished. I’d love to pick your thoughts.”

“Course’,” Tim agreed amicably, “Mama?”

“Go on, мой малыш.” Janet waved him off, “My smart boy.”

He nodded, excusing himself and making his way toward the hallway. Janet’s humming continued, a soft, almost soothing sound. He made his way up the grand staircase, fiddling with the lockpick nestled safely within his pocket, a familiar comfort against the unease gnawing at his ribs.

Jack’s office was at the end of the hall, tucked away behind a heavy oak door. Tim had only been inside a handful of times, usually when Jack had something to show him but never alone. And never like this.

His heart thudded against his ribs as he reached for the door handle. Locked. Of course.

Tim exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders back before crouching down, slipping the lockpick from his pocket. The movements were automatic, muscle memory kicking in as he worked the pins. It was the second time within a month where he broke into somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

The lock gave a soft click.

Tim hesitated, listening. The house was quiet but he heard the distant chatter of Jack ranting and Janet’s muffled replies. Slowly, he twisted the handle and pushed the door open, slipping inside before shutting it carefully behind him.

The office smelled of polished wood and expensive whiskey, the air thick with the scent of old books and leather. A massive desk sat near the center of the room, papers stacked neatly, everything arranged with the kind of precision that suggested someone else—probably his mother—had put it there. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the wall but Tim doubted they were ever touched.

He moved quickly, his steps soundless against the plush carpet as he made his way to the desk. His fingers skimmed over the surface, searching for something out of place. He opened and closed the drawers when he found nothing but office supplies. 

He went to open another when it wouldn’t budge. Locked.Something about it made his pulse quicken as he knelt, fishing out his pick again. This lock was sturdier but not impossible. A few careful movements and then— click .

He pulled open the drawer.

It was empty.

Tim stared at the empty drawer, his brows furrowing. That was it? Jack wouldn’t lock up an empty drawer. There had to be something more. 

Frowning, he ran his fingers along the inside, feeling for anything off. The wood was smooth—polished, untouched—except for a thin scratch along the side wall, barely noticeable unless you were looking. Like something had been wedged or pried at before.

Carefully, he pressed his fingers against the bottom panel, testing its weight. It didn’t budge. He bit his lip,  knocking against the panel lightly, listening for the sound. Hollow.

It was a false bottom. 

He reached for his lockpick again, this time using the thin end to wedge between the seam. A few careful movements and a little pressure. The panel popped loose with a thump.

Tim lifted it slowly, revealing a hidden compartment stuffed with manilla folders. They were crammed in tight, worn at the edges, some slightly warped from where ink had bled to thick. He reached for the topmost one, heart hammering against his ribs as he flipped it open.

Lists. Names. Dates.

A cold weight settled in his chest as his eyes skimmed down the page. Some names were marked with checkmarks, others crossed out in thick, dark ink. A column labeled ‘ Time of Death’ sat next to them, filled in neatly. Some entries had notes beside them, clinical, impersonal.

At the bottom of each page was a signature. 

Jack Drake

Tim’s breath left him in a slow, unsteady exhale. His fingers tightened around the paper, eyes darting through more pages, faster now, searching—children. So many children.

Their ages scrawled beside their names. Some barely older than him, some younger. Tim swallowed hard, his vision blurred at the edges, hands feeling numb even as he turned the pages.

Then, a sudden noise—a heavy thump echoing in the quiet—sent his heart into overdrive. 

Panicking, Tim snapped the false panel back into place and clutched the file tightly. He backed away from the desk, each step heavy with dread, and rushed toward the door. The heavy polished wood of the door felt cold and unyielding under his shaking fingers as he fumbled with the doorknob, desperate to escape the room—and the terrible horrors he found in it.

Just as he mustered the courage to pull open the door, a familiar, disquieting voice emerged from the other side.

“Oh, Tim.”

The sound froze him in place. It was his father—Jack Drake—standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of disappointment, sorrow and something far colder.

“Why did you have to do this?” Jack’s tone was low, each word measured with a heavy finality that made Tim’s fight or flight activate. 

Tim’s mind raced and his throat tightened as he tried to form words. 

“Oh, Tim? Oh, Tim?! What have you done, dad?!” He managed, his voice cracking with a mix of shock and betrayal.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Tim took a tentative step back, hoping desperately to escape the looming presence of his father. But Jack was faster—almost predatory in his precision. With a swift movement, he blocked Tim’s path.

“Stop.” Jack commanded, his voice brittle with resignation that almost sounded painful to hear, he pleaded, “I was trying to help you, champ.”

“Help me?” Tim echoed, “Dad, these kids are dead!”

Tim waved the file in his hand, his voice frantic, “How is that helping anyone?!”

“You don’t understand.” Jack shook his head, “I did those kids a favor, they were going to die in those streets anyways.”

“Dad!” Tim cried out in horror, dread bubbling in his gut, “Dad, they were still children! Dad, they were my age. Some were younger—I can’t believe you.”

“Champ, please.” Jack tried, going to grasp for him but freezing when Tim flinched.

“Don’t.” Tim barked, “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t hurt you.” Jack swore, Tim shook his head.

“You can’t promise that. I know too much, aren’t you going to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Jack repeated with so much incredulity it wasn’t fair, “Champ, I would never kill you.”

“Well, I’m sorry for not believing you, dad!” Tim yelled, “The list of bodies tells me otherwise.”

Jack glanced back around before turning to him, a look of frustration and panic in his eyes.

“We did this for you! ” Jack shouted, and before Tim could react any further, Jack’s hand shot out. He was gripping a syringe that gleamed under the soft lightly of the corridor. Tim’s heart pounded in his ears as the syringe was stabbed firmly into his neck.

Tim’s hand shot up, gripping at the soft sting.

“Dad?” Tim’s voice was a mixture of terror and bitter resignation. He tried to wrench free but Jack’s grip was ironclad. 

“You’ll understand soon. I promise.” Jack replied, his voice full of warmth and care. It was thick like honey and sweet like syrup. The sort of kindness that Tim had grown up desperate to hear but always fell short of deserving. In one swift clinical motion, Jack punched the syringe into Tim’s skin. 

A searing pain exploded at the injection site, and Tim’s world began to tilt uncontrollably.  The file slipped from his grasp as he staggered, his vision narrowing to a tunnel of darkness. 

“TIM!” A voice screamed in his ear, loud and staggering. It sounded familiar, the name on the tip of his tongue as he stumbled to the floor. His hands fell behind him, attempting to brace for the fall.

“Jason…” Tim gasped, his voice fading as the room began to spin, the confrontation dissolving into a blur of betrayal and regret. 

The last thing Tim felt was the warmth of Jack’s unyielding gaze, like a burning inferno, and then as the consciousness slipped away, a chilling cold, and the world went black.

The story of death is a tale he heard often growing up. 

Jarlio and Marzanna were the twin children of Mokosh, the Goddess of Earth. Their birth was the result of Mokosh’s union with two other deities: Perun, the God of the Sky, and Vele, the God of the Underworld. When Perun discovered the twins, it prompted a fierce battle between him and Veles and a storm of lighting.

Mokosh attempted to make peace, and said that each god would raise the other’s child. Veles took Jarlio to the land of Nawai while Perun raised Marzanna in Prawia. Separated since birth and raised by others, the twins did not meet until they were in Yawia, as young gods. Unaware of their sibling heritage, they fell in love. 

Their marriage created a brief period of peace but when autumn arrived, Marzanna discovered that Jarilo had committed infidelity. In her rage, she killed Jarlio with a scythe.

The death of Jarilo drove the world into darkness and freezing temperatures in which Marzanna took on the role of the goddess of winter, death and illness. 

She roamed the barren forests, her presence heralded by the biting winds and the quiet, inevitable hush that fell over the land. In her wake, life receded; even the best of crops shriveled and the earth itself seemed to mourn the absence of warmth. 

At the end of winter, the people crafted a straw effigy of Marzanna. And in a ceremony, they carried the doll to a flowing river, where they either drowned or burned it—welcoming and celebrating the new spring and rebirth. But they hadn’t known…В жизни нет ничего определенного, кроме смерти.

Did you know?

In Russian, death is always feminine. 

Chapter Text

Tim woke up slowly, consciousness dragging him back like a body pulled from the depths of Gotham harbor. His limbs felt heavy and his head thick with the lingering effects of whatever had been in that syringe. The world around him was dim—warm lamplight flickered against dark walls casting shadows that stretched and curled like grasping fingers.

The first thing he registered was the strong, sharp scent of antiseptic. The second was the soft, rhythmic sound of humming. It was a tune all too familiar.

Janet.

His stomach twisted.

Tim forced himself to stay still, to keep his breathing even, his eyes half-lidded as he took in his surroundings. He was seated—no, strapped —to a chair, his wrists bound to the arms with something tight, cold. Zip Ties. A table sat in front of him, lined with neatly stacked files, glass vials filled with a crimson liquid and a single syringe resting atop a silver tray. The air was stale, clinical. 

A soft hand ran through his hair. 

Tim stiffened.

“Oh, мой малыш,” Janet murmured, voice soft, almost mournful, “I know this is frightening for you but it is for the best.”

He forced his body to relax even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to move, to run.

“Where—” His throat was dry, his voice rasping, “Where am I?”

“In the heart of our legacy,” Janet fingers traced absent circles against his scalp, tender in a way that made his skin crawl, “The place where it all began. Where Janet Drake began.”

Tim swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Her expression was serene, almost loving but her eyes were dead and hollow—something feverish was behind that gaze, something wrong.

His mother had always been beautiful. Regal. She carried herself with a poise that made people think she was untouchable, that she was someone who demanded admiration. Tim had found himself in reluctant awe and at her feet many times. But here, in the dim glow of the room, she looked wrong.

“I know you’re scared,” She continued, her fingers finally pulling away, “But I see you now, Tim. I see what you are.”

His pulse pounded in his ears. A heady rush.

Janet leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, watching him closely, “I always suspected.”

“Suspected?” Tim croaked around the pain,

“I always felt it in my bones—our family, our bloodline, it was different. We were touched by something beyond comprehension, мой малыш. Something so old, older than life itself. But I didn't know for certain. Not until I saw what you could do.” 

Tim felt a cold certainty fall over him. His mouth went dry, because she knew. She knew about the ghosts. She had seen him, but when did she have the chance to see him? 

Janet smiled, as though she could hear his thoughts, “You see them, don’t you? You see them like I do.”

Tim felt something inside him coil tight, a cold knot of dread forming in his stomach. His mother could see them too. How long had this gone unnoticed? Too focused on his own abilities to take into account that it might be just as genetic as the meta-gene.

Suddenly, it felt like everything was falling into pieces. The childhood stories of Baba Yaga, the three realms, of the Rusalka, and of Marzanna. 

“I know it's overwhelming,” Janet went on, her voice almost reverent, “to bear such a burden. To live knowing that the veil between the dead and the living is so thin. And it is a curse, Tim. A sickness. It has tainted our bloodline for generations.”

Tim’s breath came in sharper now, his fingers curling into fists against his restraints.

“A sickness?” His voice came hoarse, the weight of her words pressing against his ribs and heart. A twisted sense of relief—finally, there was someone who could understand him but fear lingered.

Janet nodded, slow and solemn, “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way they cling to us, the way they linger. They want us, Tim, they drain us. They keep us tethered to them, when we should be the ones free.”

Her gaze darkened, something desperate flashing behind her empty eyes, “I refused to let it consume me. I refused to let it consume you.”

His stomach twisted, the brief relief disappearing and something much worse replacing it.

“I found a way,” She continued, and there was a new edge to her voice, something triumphant, “A way to fix us.”

Tim’s eyes glanced over to the vials laid across the tray. Crimson like the blood rushing through his veins.

“Your blood.” Tim whispered in horrifying realization, “You're trying to manipulate your own blood.”

“Genius, isn’t it?” Janet agreed, Tim felt sick.

“No!” Tim snapped, “No, mama, this is a type of genetic modification that has never been done before. Transfusing blood into another person's body kills them. It hasn’t worked on any of the other kids, why would it work on me?”

“Because they don’t have our curse, мой малыш.” Janet shook her head in disappointment, “They were failures. Their lives were worthless in the beginning and worthless in the end.”

He shook his head, a laugh bubbling in his throat–wild and hollow.

“You’re insane.” 

Janet's lips twitched, just slightly. 

“I’m right .”

Tim yanked at his restraints, but they held firm. 

“Dad,” Tim snapped, jerking his head toward Jack who had been silently sitting in the corner, “You’re just letting her do this? You’re okay with this?!”

Jack flinched at the sharpness of his tone. Tim finally took in his father’s appearance, his eyes sunken and face shallow, “It’s for your own safety.”

“My safety?!” Tim screamed hysterically, “You’re going to fucking kill me!”

Jack paled even further, looking to Janet for guidance.

“How many times did you sign off on this?! How many innocent lives have you killed!?” Tim cried,

Jack’s jaw clenched but he said nothing. It didn’t matter, the gaunt look on his face told Tim everything. 

“You’re scared of her,” Tim heaved, his voice colder now, “aren’t you?”

Jack looked away.

“Pathetic.” Tim muttered, ignoring his fathers flinch.

He turned back to Janet, his heart breaking under the fondness in her gaze, the way she seemed to look at him as if he was precious.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” Janet said softly, “but you will, мой малыш.”

“No,” Tim gritted out, “I won’t.” 

Janet barely reacted, still watching him with that eerie stare. A sudden chill enveloped the room, goosebumps raising in a familiar way. Janet’s lips bloomed into a smile.

“It seems we have a visitor.”

From the corner of his eye, something shifted. Tim’s stomach dropped and his heart stopped as he blinked at the familiar blonde hair.

The cave was filled with a heavy silence.

Not the usual kind—the kind that settled in after a long patrol, when the city finally quieted, leaving only the occasional drip of water from above and the hum of the Batcomputer. No, this was the silence that pressed down, thick and suffocating, weighted by the voice carrying through the cave from the speaker.

Tim’s voice.

Jason sat forward on the metal bench, his head bowed between his legs and his hands clenching around his head as he listened. 

“You're trying to manipulate your own blood.”

Tim’s voice cut through the static. 

Jason hated this. He hated just sitting here, listening, when they should’ve been already moving. Every second wasted was a second too long.

Across from him, Bruce and Dick stood before the computer. They were both tense, rigid and unmoving. An expression worrying their faces, similar in a way that could only be seen in father and son. Dick had his hands gripping the back of the chair in front of him, fingers curled so tightly into the leather creaked under the pressure. Bruce was harder to read but his shoulders were tense and his fingers twitched.

Damian stood a few feet away, arms crossed and expression carefully blank. But Jason could see it in him too—-the same tell that his father had. His fingers had twitched.

“Is he stalling?” Damian asked,

“No,” Bruce countered, “he was genuinely unaware. Though, I doubt that will last long, he’s smarter than most.”

High praise , Jason thought bitterly, fuck all that did in the end, though.

Barbara’s face blinked onto one of the screens, “I’m tracking Tim’s location now. The comm he put in is still active. I should be able to unlock its status.”

“Got it.” Barbara said, as her fingers flew over the keyboard and the monitors flickered with different tracking points, “He’s at Drake Industries.”

“Janet brought him there?” Dick let out a breath, shaking his head, “Why? What’s the point of—“

“She called it ‘ fixing’ him.” Jason interrupted with a sharp tone, his fist clenched around the bench, “She said their bloodline was cursed or some delusion shit like that.”

“That ability…” Dick hesitated, “We had no clue Tim—or Janet—could see…”

“Ghosts.” Damian finished flatly, “That’s what she implied, isn’t it?”

“A meta-gene, maybe?” Dick pondered,

Jason scoffed, “I’m more worried about the killing kids part than the ghost part.”

“Maybe to her, it’s the same thing.” Barbara said grimly, “Whatever this curse is, she believes she’s curing it.”

“That doesn’t explain Jack,” Dick said, brows furrowed, “Tim said he was scared of her. That she was manipulating him.”

Bruce’s voice was quiet but firm, “That’s because she has been. Most likely for years.”

Jason’s fingers twitched against his knee. Tim’s voice cut through the static once more, this time louder and filled with panic.

“You’re going to fucking kill me!”

Jason shot to his feet, “That’s it—“

“Jason, wait.” Bruce’s voice stopped him.

Jason whirled around, “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! We’re just gonna sit here and listen while she brainwashes him?!”

“We need a plan,” Bruce said, turning toward the Batmobile. His expression was hard, calculating—but Jason caught the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, “Oh, we need a plan? That’s funny, cause I got a plan. I was planning on getting off my ass and going to get him before he fucking dies!”

“She isn’t planning on killing him.” Dick pointed out,

“That she knows of,” Damian interrupted, “You heard Timothy, what she plans on doing will kill him whether she is aware of it or not.”

“We will get him, Jason.” Bruce said, voice unwavering as he looked at him. He turned fully, striding toward the armory, “Now.”

Jason blinked, “What?”

Bruce didn’t look back, “Gear up. We’re leaving.”

Jason did not need to be told twice, neither did Dick or Damian who followed in his wake. 

Tim stared.

Angela stood just beyond the flickering edges of the dark, her figure faint and trembling, like the memory of a dream just before waking. Her expression was twisted with guilt, pain pulling at every inch of her face as she stared at Tim with wide, aching eyes.

“There you are,” Janet said with a smile too soft, too warm to be anything but false, “Took you long enough.”

Tim couldn’t breathe. His chest ached like he’d been struck, 

“Angie?” He rasped, his voice small.

Angela’s face crumpled, “Oh, sweetheart–”

“I told you not to speak to him again.” Janet’s tone snapped like a trap. Angela flinched.

Tim’s eyes darted between them, throat closing, “What is this? What—what is going on?”

“She was never supposed to get attached,” Janet turned her head slowly, not taking her eyes off the ghost.

“I didn’t mean to–” Angela said, her voice soft and desperate, “He was just a child—he is just a child.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Janet hissed, “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching him grow up with this curse in his blood—my blood?”

Angela shook her head, “He’s not a curse. He’s a boy. A good one.”

“You always were too sentimental,” Janet muttered, “You were there to observe, to report. Instead you decided to play mother, you held him when he cried, you sang to him, you let him believe it was all real.”

Tim’s mouth felt dry, his head stuffed full of cotton. He tried to find something solid, something to keep him afloat. 

“But it was real,” Tim rasped, “right? You loved me, right?”

“Oh, baby.” Angela moved closer, 

“I asked her to watch over you,” Janet snarled, “You were too young to understand what you were. Too vulnerable. I couldn’t be there all the time—not with how much work I had to do—so Angela kept an eye on you. To make sure you didn’t fall too far. She didn’t ever love you, not like I do.”

Tim looked back at Angela, desperation building in his chest. 

“That’s not true. She—she was there for me. She—” His breath hitched, “You did hold me when I cried. You told me stories. You…you said I was yours.”

Angela’s voice trembled, “You are. I mean it, sweetheart. You’re my son.

Janet raged, “She betrayed you, мой малыш. She fed into your delusions, made you believe that she cared, she made you soft.”

“I kept him human.” Angela countered but Tim felt something falling. Angela’s voice had always been filled with fire, a flame that could not be put out even in death but now it was gone, stomped out. 

Janet’s gaze burned, “He is mine. And you— you —don’t get to pretend otherwise.”

Angela looked like she was shrinking, her edges dimming. The defiance in her faded, replaced with something dull and broken, “Yes, ma’am.”

“No,” Tim said, too stunned, too horrified to stay quiet, “No, don’t—don’t do that. Tell me it was real, tell me you didn’t lie.”

Angela turned to him, her eyes wet with something that shouldn’t be possible.

“It was real,” She whispered, “I didn’t mean to love you, but I did.”

“Did?” Tim echoed, his voice cracking. Janet smiled, it was mean.

“Oh, мой малыш.” Janet’s fingers traced his cheekbone with a delicate touch, it felt like a razor being drug across his skin, “When will you learn how easy it is to be manipulated? She played her role well—almost too well. I should’ve intervened sooner.”

“You…you set me up.” Tim said hollowly, and Angela flinched at his dead tone. Jack made a noise in the back of his throat.

“Darling?” Jack said, “What’s going on?”

Janet’s expression soured at his voice, “Enough, did I give you permission to speak?”

Jack shut his mouth, just like that. Tim turned to Angela again, hoping, begging for anything but she only looked at him with sorrow. He felt frozen, his chest hollowing out as if Angela had reached inside and scooped him clean with her bare hands. The betrayal didn’t just hurt–it shattered. It shattered in the way glass shatters, unfixable. Tears fell from his eyes before he could stop them

Janet brushed them away before turning, her fingers grasped neatly in front of her, expression as serene as a Matryoshka. Her heels clicked softly against the cold floor as she approached the sleek metal tray. It gleamed beneath the overhead light, the glass vials and silver syringe lined up like surgical instruments on an altar.

“I told you,” She began, almost wistfully, “I warned you, тимофей. I told you so many times, be careful who you trust, did I not?”

Tim stayed silent, Jack flinched slightly at the sound of her voice. He stood awkwardly behind her, his eyes trained on the floor and fists clenched at his sides. Anglea drifted toward the shadows, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her mouth pressed in a thin line of worry. Neither of them said a word. It was pathetic. It made him feel alone.

“Answer me.” Janet’s voice turned cold,

“Yes, mama.” Tim whispered, “You told me.”

Janet’s hand hovered over the vials, fingers ghosting along the labels of the vials like a pianist.

“You’re so clever, always have been. All that digging, all that snooping. Your mind is sharp, sharper than your father’s ever was.” She hummed and plucked one vial between her fingers, turning to look over shoulder at Jack, “No offense, мой муж.”

Jack didn’t respond.

She turned back to her instruments, twisting the top off the vial with a soft pop, “But clever boys have a horrible habit of thinking they know everything. They think knowledge will keep them safe but the dead don’t care how smart you are.”

Her voice, though still soft, was beginning to fray at the edges. There was a tremble beneath the sweetness, a pressure rising in her throat. She slid the needle into the vial, drawing the thick crimson fluid slowly.

“This,” She breathed, “this is what they never understood. They call it madness. Delusion. But I see clearly. You see it too, don’t you, my love?”

She turned to him, syringe now full, the plunger held with elegant care. Her gaze locked onto his, wide and unblinking, “We are cursed. Our blood is a cage and it rots us from the inside out. The things we see—we can never unsee. They will never leave us alone, unless we make them.”

Tim trembled in his restraints, heart thudding wildly. 

“You’re not saving me,” He managed, voice hoarse, “You’re just like them, you became one of the monsters.”

Janet’s expression didn’t falter, but something in her eyes flared, bright and terrifying. 

“I am not a monster,” She hissed, the syringe trembling now in her grip, “I am your mother. Everything I’ve done—everything—was to protect you. To fix you.”

Behind her, Jack shifted forward, “Janet—maybe we should—”

“Quiet.” Janet didn’t turn, didn’t raise her voice. But the venom in the word was enough to make Jack recoil like he’d been struck.

Janet turned back to the tray, smoothing the label on the next vial, “You don’t understand, Timothy. You were always special. Always. But special children have to be watched, they need help and guidance. And the blood—it’s the key. We share it, don’t you see? You inherited it from me.”

Jack grimaced, “Janet, darling, please…”

“No.” She turned to Jack, her eyes wild, frantic sincerity overtaking her poise, “You saw it, Jack. You saw what he could do. It’s in him, like it’s in me. That’s why I needed the others, they weren’t like us but they were broken too. Just like him, just like me. We were fixing them.”

Tim’s eyes widened, bewilderment and horror drowning his fear, “They’re dead. You killed them.”

Janet tilted her head, studying him like a specimen under glass, “They were never going to survive this world. But you will, Timothy. Because I love you. Because you are mine.”

Tim shook his head, “Mama, you’re ill. You need help.”

“There, there, now,” She murmured, more to herself than anyone, “it’s almost time.”

The vials clinked gently as she prepared the injection. Tim stared down at his hands, bound tightly in zip ties. His chest heard and his heart thundred. He attempted to pull, but the zip ties allowed little movement, tight and secure around his skin. 

Think , Tim thought, think . 

The silence in the elevator was deafening.

Bruce stood at the head of the group, cape brushing the floor behind him and jaw clenched as the numbers ticked down on the small digital panel above the doors. Behind him, Jason tapped his fingers impatiently against his leg. Damian’s stance was taut, eyes darting toward the corners. Dick, unusually quiet, simply watched Bruce—waiting and knowing.

Barbara’s voice crackled through the comms again, calm but quick, leading them forward.

“You’re close. I’ve rerouted the security. Left corridor when the doors open, there is a staircase behind the panel on the wall—it leads down to a hidden sublevel that’s not on any floor plan.”

“Understood.” Bruce answered, low and baritone.

He kept staring at the panel even as a storm churned beneath the cowl. Worry coiled tight in his chest like a wire, sharp and choking. He hated this feeling. He’d trained himself to shut it out. He’d spent years building walls, armor, codes—tools to keep emotions at bay when they threatened to interfere with the mission.

And yet.

He’d told himself to not get attached. That had been the rule. Then he had taken in Dick, he had mourned Jason, he had taught Steph, he had adored Cass, he had fought beside Damian, he had built up Duke—he could no longer swear he could keep away the emotion but he could keep the line.

But the line had blurred. Again.

Because of another boy. A strange, brilliant, haunted kid with a too-sharp gaze and shadows under his eyes. A boy with a smart mouth, educated mind and a brilliance all too familiar.

Tim Drake had crept into his world and with few conversations made a place for himself in it. His fingers twitched near his belt, rage burned low in his mind. The idea of being too late—it was a thought he could not afford.

Barbara spoke again, “Something's interfering with the signal on the comm Tim was wearing. It’s cutting in and out. But the last reading put him at the far end of the level, you’re going to need to go deeper.”

The elevator doors slid open. Without hesitation, Bruce stepped into a sterile hallway. The floor gleaned white under harsh fluorescent lights. Everything about Drake Industries was sleek, cold and modern—clinical.

“Go left,” Barbara ordered, “now.”

They moved in vision, footfalls silent. 

Jason’s voice was low and gravely, “Why the hell would she keep a lab under own company?”

“She didn’t think she was doing anything wrong,” Bruce muttered, “People like her—when they believe they’re saving someone, they don’t hide. They preach.”

A moment later, they found the panel. Damina stepped forward first, fingers finding the latch and pressing it. A quiet hiss of released pressure, and the false wall swung open. A narrow staircase spiraled downward, barely lit.

“This looks like a horror movie.” Dick said, “I’m not liking this.”

“I don’t think any of us are, Dickie.” Jason muttered, Dick shot Jason a worried look. 

“Let’s go.” Bruce nodded, starting down the stairs. The others followed. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the silence heavier. 

Barbara’s voice fuzzed out for a moment, then returned, “I’m still with you, the signals’ getting weaker. Be careful.”

At the base of the stairs, the hallway opened up to another corridor–wider this time. No more bright lights, just flickering overhead bulbs and the buzz of faulty wiring. Doors lined the walls, heavy steel reinforced like prison cells.

Bruce paused, glancing down the hall, then the other. Dick swallowed, “She built this. Not just for storage.”

“No,” Damian said quietly, “It appears to be a testing facility.”

“An asylum,” Jason growled, “She experimented on them here too.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, images flashed unbidden—those files Tim had uncovered, the names, the ages. Children. All of them children, just like Tim.

He stepped forward, the others moving around him now, fanning out.

“We’ll split up,” Bruce decided, “search each room. Carefully. We don’t know what we’ll find in them.”

“Don’t waste time,” Barbara warned, “That floors unstable, there are too many spikes in the power output. I don’t like the readings I’m getting.”

Bruce moved methodically, checking behind each door. His mind was racing, a constant war between focus and fury. Janet had built a nightmare under her own empire, she’d turned science into torture, blood into a weapon.

And she was going to turn that weapon onto her son.

His fingers tightened into fists. 

“Bruce,” Barbara said suddenly, “Something’s happening—”

A scream tore through the halls, a sound so wretched and broken it stopped him in his tracks. In the corner of his eyes he saw Jason reach for his gun, 

“Oh god.” Barbara said, “He—“

Tim’s eyes darted across the room, searching for anything. A tool, a weakness, a way out. But the walls were bare concrete, the medical tray was miles away. His hands were still found tightly with the zip ties cutting deep into his wrists. His legs—while technically free—were useless because the chair beneath him was bolted to the floor. 

He was fucked.

Janet hovered, cooing softly under her breath as if comforting a child, “You don’t need to be afraid. I told you—this is for your own good, мой малыш.”

Her voice was gentle, maternal in its nature, it was terrifying. She brought an antiseptic wipe to his neck, the smell burning his nostrils. Tim’s heart slammed against his ribs, because it wasn’t the arm she was prepping. 

Her fingers brushed against his neck, tapping it delicately.

“Straight to the jugular,” She said, like she was commenting on dinner, “It’s the quickest route, cleaner too. The others—poor things—they had to be tested first. You, my love, you’re perfect.”

Behind her, Jack flinched.

“Janet,” He said, his voice laced with an edge of dread, “We agreed–this wasn’t….He’s our son.”

She smiled, “ My son. I told you before, Jack. His blood is the clearest, the strongest.”

“It’s dangerous.” Jack whispered,

Janet didn’t even blink, “He is strong, I expect nothing less because he is mine.”

Tim’s pulse roared in his ears. He shifted in the chair, a last ditch attempt to loosen the zip ties but to no avail. They dug in deeper, unrelenting. His vision blurred—her sickening voice, the syringe edging closer, the blood—and the awful realization that this was it. That he was going to die here, tied and trapped—helpless.

Tim had never really been a fighter. He was a runner.

But he was not going to lay down and die. Not like this.

He grit his teeth, jaw trembling. 

He looked Janet in the face, he had her eyes—the same cool blue that froze others in their tracks. He braced his thumb against the hard edge of the chair, pressed it forward and twisted . 

The snap was loud but his scream was louder. It split the air before he could stop it, raw and guttural. Fire raced up his arm as he panted through gritted teeth. Tears sprung in his eyes, but he didn’t stop.

Janet had frozen in momentary shock.

The joint had dislocated just enough. He shoved his now-loosened hand forward, jerking it against the tie. Plastic gave with a stretch and his hand was free. He went and tore at the other, ripping it off in seconds, leaving deep angry welts along his wrist.

He attempted to get up.

Only for Janet to strike like a viper.

The syringe plunged into the side of his neck—fire igniting beneath his skin. His muscles spasmed. He let out a strangled cry, kicking out blindly. His foot slammed into her gut. The force knocked her off balance and the syringe tore from his skin, ripping a shallow gash as it came loose.

Janet staggered back with a hiss, nearly falling. Tim’s head reeled, everything spun sideways.

His fingers trembled as they reached for his neck, brushing against the torn flesh slick with warmth. He pulled his hand back.

Crimson coated his fingertips. A damning color, thick and bright against the pale of his skin.  His breath stuttered, his vision blurred at the edges and the room titled. A low ringing settled in his ears as he struggled to focus, locking his gaze on Janet.

She was watching him—beaming. Not with pride or joy but with triumph.

“You’re already stronger than the others,” She murmured, cradling the ruined syringe like it was something sacred, “They screamed for hours. But not you, my boy. You’re special. I told your father—didn’t I, Jack?”

Jack was pale, frozen halfway between the door and the wall, as if torn between fleeing and jumping forward. A beat of sweat traced down his temple, but his eyes- were locked on Janet like he was still trying to understand the woman he’d married.

Tim’s head pounded. A rush of heat flushed his skin, but he blinked, focusing through the haze. She hadn’t gotten all of it in—not the full dose. He saw it in the way she cradled the syringe, a large portion still left, thick and syrupy.   He could feel it, the way his blood hadn’t completely caught fire, the way the room still spun but not as violently as it should. His body was fighting it off. But not for long.

He stumbled, knees buckling, catching himself against the wall. His fingers scraped against the cold concrete, dragging him forward. His legs moved like they were submerged in mud—slow, stiff, every step a battle.

The door. 

He had to reach the—

The heavy, reinforced door slammed open with a mechanical hiss, and light poured into the dim chamber. 

A dark figure surged through the smoke—cape trailing behind him, the emblem on his chest stark against the shadows.

Batman.

Robin was beside him, blade drawn. Nightwing followed, muscles coiled, eyes sharp, Red Hood brought up the rear—gun already raised, stance rigid and dangerous.

Janet barely flinched. 

Tim couldn’t help but think it was a dramatic entrance before his knee’s gave out—but he didn’t hit the floor like he’d thought he would. A strong arm caught him mid-fall. Padded leather. The faint smell of oil and gunpowder.

Red Hood.

“I got you,” Jason muttered, his voice soft but furious, “You’re alright. You’re okay, kid.”

Tim sagged into him, barely registering the warmth at his side. His hand gripped Jason’s leather jacket like a lifeline.

Batman stopped forward, his voice low and commanding, as cold and as smooth as ice, “Janet Drake.”

She turned to look at him slowly, the empty syringe still in one hand. Her other hovered protectively over the remaining vials on the tray. 

“You are not supposed to be here,” She said simply,

“This ends now,” Bruce said, his tone never rising but the fury beneath it was unmistakable, “You don’t want this fight. It’s over.”

“It’s too late, you’re too late. He’s mine.”

“No,” Bruce said, his voice steel, “He’s not.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Janet said quietly, “I wanted to save him but if I can’t save him…”

Something in her tone caused Jack to rise, confidence returning to his posture. Angela, who was once his solace, stood silent and broken in the background, her eyes pleading with something renewed, but unmoving as Janet commanded silence.

In the haze of pain and betrayal, Tim’s senses sharpened, He could almost taste the metallic tang of blood and fear. His head, still swirling from adrenaline, caught sight of a small, metallic object glinting in the harsh light. 

Tim’s heart dropped as the realization sank in through the haze of his shock. It was a detonator.

“I’d hurry if I were you,” She said, voice calm, almost amused, “You have five minutes before this entire building goes up in flames. I’ve always found poetic endings fitting, don’t you?”

Her words echoed through the space like a death sentence, she didn’t run nor did she flinch. She simply stepped back and tilted her head, as though she was already watching the flames consume them. Jack took her hand.

Tim’s heart plummeted, “She’s gonna blow the whole place.”

“Confirmed,” Barbara’s voice came in sharp, he startled at the forgotten comm in his ear, “Detonation signals just lit up across Drake Industries. I’m rerouting the escape route now. Four minutes and forty-five seconds.”

“Move!” Bruce barked,

Jason caught Tim as he swayed, slinging is arm over his shoulder, “I’ve got you, c’mon, kid—no passing out yet.”

Tim coughed, breath wheezing, “Thanks for the save. I’ll rate you five stars for the customer service.”

“Still talking? That’s a good sign,” Nightwing grinned weakly, sprinting ahead to kick open a side door, “This way—Bab’s, where’s that tunnel?!”

“To the left. East wing stairwell. There’s a maintenance shaft that’ll get you clear. Move fast.”

They tore through the halls, smoke already curling from the vents and stairwells. The foundation groaned under the stress. Tim could feel it beneath his feet—Drake industries was crumbling.

“Did it ever recall to her,” Tim slurred, “that we could just talk about our problems? Like normal people?”

Damian muttered, “Like you do?”

Tim laughed and then coughed hard enough to see stars. Jason gripped him tighter.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Tim didn’t respond. The team reached the stairwell, thundering upward two steps at a time. Another explosion rumbled overhead, shaking the railings, dust raining down on their head. Two more minutes.

“Almost there.” Barbara called over the comm,

Tim glanced over his shoulder, watching fire crawl along the upper levels, windows shattering. The building was collapsing inward, like it was folding in on itself. He didn’t see Janet. Or Jack. Or Angela.

Just smoke.

And fire.

And silence.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, Dick slamming his shoulder into the metal door. It gave, revealing a narrow tunnel half-choked with smoke. It felt like they were running through a furnace. 

Jason practically dragged Tim now. His legs had stopped listening. 

“I don’t think—”

“You’re not dying, Tim.” Jason growled, “Not after all this.”

“Right.” Tim choked,

Thirty seconds.

They stumbled out into the open air, just as the sky behind them turned orange. 

Boom.

The shockwave knocked them to the ground.

Tim landed hard on his side, head spinning. Jason was over him in seconds, but his eyes were already drifting skyward. Smoke and flames danced across the skyline—Drake Industries, his family's empire, burning to ash. Inside, his parents burned with it.

Janet was right, it was poetic.

The whole world blurred at the edges.

“You made it,” He heard someone say,

Maybe it was Bruce. Maybe it was Jason.

“Rest.”

His eyes slipped shut, the fire reflected in them one last time. And then—

nothing.

Chapter Text

There was something to be said about the people who think they can escape death. Tim had always found it humorous because death is everything and nothing all at once, painful and peaceful, hell and heaven. Warmth clung to his chest like a phantom, it was not a comforting kind of warmth.

The burn is internal, like his veins were trying to crawl out his skin. Something foreign fought inside him, screaming to be let out. Or maybe it was just his imagination. It was hard to tell.

He wasn’t sure where he was. He caught voices sometimes, low whispers and echoes of a gentle touch. One of them—Leslie, he thought—said something about a hemolytic transfusion reaction. Though, his mind was stuck on a story from long before.

“There was once a soldier, he came home from the war with nothing but his boots and a sack.”

He heard the click of tools. Metal against metal. Cold water soaking gauze. There was pain when someone adjusted his neck, then adjusted a line. He didn’t flinch, he didn't move. His body was distant—floating somewhere above or below him. But the story rooted him.

“He was clever, though. Clever and cruel, in the way you have to be, if you want to survive in war. The soldier walked the earth and met Death on a road. She was tired, thin as bone, dragging herself from soul to soul. The soldier gave her food, warmth and a place to stay.”

His body didn’t feel as hot, but it ached with something old and deep.

“When she was finally asleep, exhausted and trusting, he put her in the sack. He thought it was mercy. If no one could die, no one would suffer, right?”

His chest twisted. A cough rattled up from his throat, wet and deep and someone steadied him. A hand lingered between his chest and shoulder blades. He felt his lungs expanding, begging for air.

“But people did suffer. They just couldn’t escape it, not without death to take them from the pain. So he let her go, but Death doesn’t forget when you try to steal from her.”

“She came from him in the end. When no one else would. You cannot escape death.”

The last of the story clinged to the edge of his mind like frost. His eyelids felt lighter. Less like iron weights and more like paper. He tested them, slow and unsure, and the world that seeped through was blurred and dim, shadowed in a low light. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and linen. 

There was a silhouette in front of him, near his bedside. Not a ghost—ghost’s didn’t slump like that, they did not breathe. He blinked again. It hurt, but not in the way it used to. 

It was Jason.

Leaning forward in the chair, half-draped over the bed like his body had given up mid-way. His temple rested against the back of his forearm, brow furrowed even in sleep, like he never fully let his guard down. There was a faint tension in his shoulders, as if even unconscious he was aware of every movement. 

Tim’s throat felt dry. Thicker than parchment. He tried to move and regretted it instantly. 

Across the room, another presence stirred.

“Easy,” came a voice—low, steady, familiar. Bruce.

Tim blinked again, he sat in a sturdy armchair across the room, half-shadowed. Tim might’ve missed him entirely if not for the shift of his outline in the light. Bruce stood slowly and crossed the room, a glass of water in hand.

“You’re safe,” He said,

Tim opened his mouth, tried to answer but only managed a dry rasp. Bruce helped him sit up slightly and held the glass steady while Tim took a slow sip. He distantly noticed his thumb was wrapped tightly. The water was cool and clean, a relief so sharp it almost hurt.

Bruce kept a hand braced behind his back, firm but careful. Once Tim finished, he eased him back onto the pillows. 

“You’re at the manor,” Bruce said, “You’ve been here for three days. Mostly unconscious. Dr.Thompinks stayed the first night. Alfred and I took turns after that.”

He paused, glanced toward Jason.

“Jason refused to take shifts,” He added, “He stayed here. Everytime you stirred, he was up. He wouldn’t leave your side.”

Tim let his eyes drift back to the older boy. He shifted again, and something tugged at his neck. He reached up instinctively.

“Don’t,” Bruce murmured gently, catching his wrist. Tim stilled. Bruce guided his hand back down, but didn’t let go immediately. 

“You’ve got a bandage there. A few stitches, it’s going to scar.” Tim blinked, dazed and Bruce continued with his calm tone of voice.

“You were injected with the wrong blood type. Your body started rejecting it—aggressively. The site ruptured a vessel, there was bruising and inflammation but we were able to stabilize you.”

Tim stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He remembered the syringe. Janet’s hands. Her eyes—wide, erratic and crazed, like she wasn’t seeing him. Just another subject.

“I didn’t know if anyone would come,” Tim whispered,

Bruce was quiet for a beat before answering.

“We did.” 

Tim turned his head toward him. It was a simple thing to say, not dramatic, not even emphatic. But it landed like something solid. Something that wouldn’t move if the ground gave way.

“You don’t have to talk about it yet,” Bruce added, “You can rest, you’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

“Are they dead?” Tim croaked, ignoring Bruce. 

Bruce glanced at him, an odd look in his eyes like he was warring between sympathy and something else—something harder to name. Finally, he said, “Yes.”

Tim exhaled. It wasn’t relief exactly, but it wasn’t grief either. 

“Good,” He mumbled,

Bruce didn’t flinch, nor did he scold. He just had the word hang there, heavy but not judged. Tim supposed he had a lot of experience with homicidal, apathetic children. A quiet settled between them, the kind that made even the soft rustle of blankets feel too loud. Jason stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.

After a moment, Bruce leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. 

“You don’t have anywhere to go,” He said plainly, not unkindly, just direct, “And I’m not about to send you back to some hospital or into the system.”

Tim looked over at him, caught off guard.

“You can stay here,” Bruce continued, “as long as you want. There’s plenty of space, probably too much. And you’re….wanted.”

Tim blinked, chest tightening, “I can’t.”

Bruce hummed in question.

“I’ve caused enough trouble already.” Tim argued,

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him, “Trouble?”

“My mother burned down a building and tried to murder me,” Tim muttered, “and my dad—”

“You didn’t do any of that,” Bruce said, cutting him off gently but firmly, “none of that is on you.”

Tim looked away, jaw tight—it stretched his neck stitches.

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I didn’t mean it,” Bruce added, “This place, our family—we may work out of obligation but you aren’t one. You’re not a burden.”

Tim swallowed hard, but said nothing.

Bruce glanced toward Jason again, “The boys….they want you here. Even Damian, and that’s saying something.”

Tim let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh or might’ve been exhaustion. His hands curled in the blanket.

“And you?” He asked, “Do you want me here?”

Bruce didn’t hesitate, “Yes.”

It was a simple fact, no qualifiers, no explanation, just fact. Tim nodded slowly. He didn’t trust it—not fully—but he wanted to. He wanted to believe it more than anything.

“Okay.” He said finally,

Bruce leaned back in the chair, like something settled in him, too, “We’ll talk more when you’re stronger. You’ll have your own room. You can change your mind later, if you want but for now…just focus on getting better.”

Tim nodded again, quieter this time. The room felt warm.

Jason shifted again in his sleep, and this time his fingers brushed Tim’s hand on the mattress. Tim felt his lips twitch slightly, hand curling up to press his fingers against Jason’s pulse. Alive and beating, a remembrance. 

Tim sat cross-legged on the bed, blanket pooled around his waist and an old hoodie two sizes too big hanging off one shoulder. His limbs still ached if he moved too quickly, but stillness had started driving him crazy. He would prefer the pain over the bedrest any day.

After days of lying flat, the familiar coil of restless energy had returned to his muscles—like his body remembered rooftops, even if his mind was still catching up.

Across from him, also sitting cross-legged on the bed but with far less grace, was Jason. He had a scowl on his face and a deck of Uno cards in his hands like he was about to beat someone to death with them.

“I swear to God, if you skip me again, Dickhead—”

“It’s not my fault you don’t know how to play defense,” Dick said from where he was perched on the footstool beside the bed, a bright grin on his face as he threw down a reverse card, “You should’ve saved that wildcard, Little Wing.”

“Defense?!” Jason sputtered, “What is this, a game of fucking football? I will throw you out the window.”

“Tt.” Damian interjected, coolly drawing a card and placing one down with dramatic precision, “You’re both idiots. You lack strategy. This game is simple, and yet you play like toddlers.”

“That’s rich,” Jason muttered darkly, “coming from the literal toddler.”

“I’m fourteen.”

“Exactly.”

Tim watched them with a mixture of amusement and low-level panic. It had started off as a normal game, calm and friendly. Then someone made a comment about it being more effective with bullets—Jason, of course—and things unraveled from there.

“I don’t think I’ve sat this still since I was eight.” Tim said, mostly to himself and stretching his fingers before placing a green three on the pile.

“You did just survive medical hell,” Jason reminded him, pointing at him with two fingers, "Don't make me knock you out to keep you resting.”

“Such violence.” Tim muttered,

Jason gave him a glance, “I’m a Crime Lord.”

Tim rolled his eyes, ignoring the odd warmth that fluttered in his chest at the care. Just offered a dry smile and turned back to the game.

“Sorry, Dames.” Dick laid down a draw four,

Damian narrowed his eyes, “You dare.”

“Come on, it’s just a card—”

“You insult me and dishonored this round.”

“I feel like you’re purposefully escalating things—”

From somewhere—Tim isn’t exactly sure if it was a boot or the space-time continuum—Damian produced a dagger and launched himself off the bed.

“I’ll show you a draw four,” Damian growled, lunging at Dick with frightening accuracy. 

Dick let out a laugh that was far too casual for someone being chased with a weapon, “I’m just trying to play a game with my family!”

The two of them disappeared out of the room in a blur, Dick’s laughter trailing down the hall followed closely by Damian’s indignant war cry.

Jason didn’t even blink.

Tim stared after them, then looked over slowly.

Jason shrugged and leaned back on his hands, “Welcome to the family.”

Tim let out a breath that surprised him—it was a laugh. A real one. Quiet and hoarse, but unmistakable. It felt good.

Jason stretched out his legs, cracking his knuckles with a sigh before he turned back to Tim, “How are you actually doing?”

Tim looked at him, eyes tired but open. The question hit deeper than it should have. He’d been asked it a few times now—by Alfred, by Brce, even Leslie when she came in for a check-up—but this felt different. Jason asked like he might understand the parts Tim didn’t know how to say.

“Not dead,” Tim smiled faintly, wry and worn, “yet.”

Jason tilted his head, watching him for a beat. There were things in his eyes, unspoken and sharp, like he was seeing right through the joke.

“There are things—” Jason began, his voice low.

“Worse than death,” Tim finished the words repeated to him much too often,

Jason huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, there are.”

He shifted, scooting closer until his shoulder brushed Tim’s. Then he laid beside him, arms behind his head, both of them staring up at the smooth, white ceiling. It was blank, unremarkable—but easy to look at.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t heavy, it was easy, familiar. 

“It doesn’t go away overnight,” Jason said, “The grief. They might not have been good parents, but you can still mourn them. But you’re not alone in it, Tim.”

Tim gripped the sheet hard. His throat still ached, but not like before. This ache felt deeper.

“I keep thinking about her,” He admitted, “The one’s she hurt and used. The way she acted. I can’t stop hearing her voice, seeing her face. I–I don’t know how to make it quiet.”

Jason radiated heat and comfort, it was different from what he was used to. He didn’t mind it. Tim used to hate the smell of cigarettes, now, not so much.

“You don’t.” He said simply, “Not all the way, I still close my eyes and see my mom. But it gets easier…less painful.”

Tim closed his eyes.

“You did everything you could,” Jason added, “And more than anyone else would’ve. You’re the reason no more children are dying, Tim.”

They were quiet again, the ceiling above them a dull, perfect canvas. Tim closed his eyes. Jason turned his head slightly, enough to look at Tim without stretching his neck too much.

“You’re annoying,” Jason stated, Tim made a disgruntled face,

“What the hell, Jason?”

“You’re annoying,” Jason repeated, “and stubborn, and hard headed, and way too nice. But you’re my brother and I won’t let you suffer alone again.”

Tim opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling like it might shift under the weight of that word.

Brother.

It stuck in his chest in a way that didn’t hurt. It rooted but it didn’t rot, rather it bloomed.

“You're ugly,” Tim stated, his lips twitching at Jason’s deadpan, “and mean, and too violent for your own good. But you’re my brother too…just so you know.”

Tim watched with half-lidded eyes as Jason’s eyes warmed slightly, the aquamarine shining as he took in the words then he snorted, “Whatever, kid.”

“Whatever, old man.” Tim mocked, closing his eyes.

There was silence before Jason muttered, “I’m not old.”

“You’re gray hairs tell me otherwise.”

“I take it back, you’re no longer my brother. You can fuck right off.”

“No takesies backsies.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Jason cursed, “how old are you, five?!”

Tim’s legs still ached if he stood too long, and every so often a muscle would seize up without warning. But it was better. Enough that he could move around the manor without help, which made all the difference. Being upright, walking—even just existing outside of bed—chased off some of the lingering fog that clung to him like smoke.

The Cave was cold, but it had grown familiar in the strange few weeks. He found comfort in the clicking of keys, the whirring of tech, then hum of a computer tower left running. It was quiet, aside from Bruce’s low exhale every now and then as he leaned over the desk, sifting through data. He wore casual clothes, not a suit nor armor, and a pair of blue light glasses that rested over the bridge of his nose. Somehow, that felt even more jarring than the cowl.

Tim sat behind him in one of the chairs, curled forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. His eyes peeked through his fingers as he watched Bruce work. He wasn’t sure when it started—this…observing. 

Maybe the first day Bruce let him into the Cave, like it was no big deal. Or maybe the second, when Bruce had offered him a mug of cocoa instead of asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

Bruce was a conundrum.

There was a weight to him that reminded Tim of a storm, not just violent but full of pressure yet he was full of silence. Tim had grown up never really trusting adults, especially not the well-dressed, well-spoken ones who smiled too easily or offered hollow comforts.

But Bruce…Bruce didn’t ever ask for anything. He didn’t push and what was more confusing than anything else—Tim slept better when he knew Bruce was nearby.

It was mortifying, how safe Bruce felt. Like some part of his body knew what to do with his presence even when his brain didn’t.

Tim leaned forward, his elbows slipping from their place on his knees as he sat up properly. He watched as the screen illuminated Bruce’s face, highlighting the sharp angles and the pinch between his brow. His glasses reflected the lines of code and grainy footage from a rooftop camera.

“Are you still working on the Falcone-Black Mask case?” Tim asked, his voice startling loud in the dead silence. 

Bruce didn’t look up from his screen, Tim appreciated that, “Yes.”

Tim hummed, shifting in his chair so one foot tucked beneath him, “The Falcones are the aggressors and the ones pushing first. They’re trying to take the waterfront before Mask can retake back his hold on Burnley.”

Bruce said nothing, the silence echoed. Then, he clicked through a few screens, pausing on a map of territory markers, some blinked red, “Go on.”

“They’ve been baiting him,” Tim continued slowly, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, “They’ve been using sloppy intimidation in Mask’s territory. They’ve knocked over low-level stash houses, just enough to provoke but not enough to get blamed.”

“They want Roman to start something.” 

“Exactly,” Tim nodded, “And they’re using everyone they can get their hands on to do it too. They’ve killed a few of everyone, Black Mask’s drug runners, his intel men, his cops and even some of his no-name workers.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes closely, “You’ve been following this case closely.”

“Not really,” Tim shrugged lightly, “I mean, I’ve been watching out for the territories but I can’t exactly tell you why the Falcones want want Burnley’s waterfront. It’s pretty dead out there. I thought at first it was for transport, I was thinking they were going to build their own docks.”

“But?”

“But the water’s not exactly built for boats.” Tim admitted, “The rouge current’s are too strong.”

“What do you suggest?” Bruce finally looked away from his screen, spinning his chair to face Tim.

Tim chewed his lips, “If you want to cut the legs out from both sides, force a ceasefire.”

“How?”

“Offer to mediate a territory split,” Tim said, tapping a finger against his knee, “it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done it. Falcone wants the waterfront, and Black Mask wants to keep his place on the East end. You keep Crime Alley as neutral ground—and maybe even the Narrows too, if you can swing it—and it’ll slow the conflict. They’ll still posture like most alpha males, but at least fewer people will end up in body bags.”

Bruce regarded him for a moment, “Do you think they’ll agree to that?”

“No,” Tim said sheepishly, “not in the long run. But they’re smart enough to agree to it for now. They’ll toe the line but they won’t cross it. It’s a temporary solution, I admit.”

“You’ve done well.”

Tim blinked, startled by the praise, “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Bruce disagreed gently, “you’ve helped and that deserves praise.”

Tim looked down at his lap, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his sweatpants. Bruce stared at him, eye’s darting over with an inscrutable look, “You’re not running anymore.”

Tim swallowed, the interpretation up in the air but he understood it for what it meant. He wasn’t running, not from praise nor from whatever the hell was going on with this weird family he had begun to think of as his own—reluctantly, so very reluctantly. 

Tim leaned back in his chair, shoulders finally easing, “No.”

“Good.” Bruce nodded, waving to the open area next to him, “Come here, help me comb through this footage.”

Tim felt his lips twitch up into a beaming smile, Bruce glanced at him and when he did it was filled with warmth and a type of affection that Tim had never been on the receiving end of before.

Tim hadn’t told anyone this—not because he couldn’t, but because he wasn't sure how to explain it without sounding unhinged.

There was something strange about the Manor and it wasn’t the ghosts, not really. He was used to those by now, the chill in the hallways that no one else seemed to feel, the murmurs of the dead tucked behind the grandfather clocks and beneath the floorboards. The Wayne’s, mostly. Generations of Waynes haunted the manor, but this was predictable.

But there was something else here. Something that followed him like a shadow with its mouth sewn shut.

It centered around one person.

Damian Wayne was weird.

Not in the way that made Tim wary of others. Not in the way of fake smiles and sweet lies. Damian was sharp-edged and blunt, but Tim didn’t mind that at all—in fact, he found it rather charming. No, Damain’s strangeness wasn’t personality. It was presence.

The bright green of his eyes looked like pools of something unknown and ancient. Not the unkind, glassy watchfulness of ghosts, but something deeper, like the boy was from a lineage of death just like Tim’s own.

Tim knew the origin of every Robin. Knew where Dick Grayson had come from—could still see John and Mary Grayson in the shadows beyond him. Jason Todd wore his heritage and scars like war paint. Stehpanie Brown had vengeance in her blood. But Damian?

He didn’t carry echoes, no one watched over him from beyond. There were no lingering spirts racing his steps, no sense of tether grief, not even a digital footprint.

Damian didn’t feel haunted.

He felt like a haunting.

Tim didn’t know how else to explain it. Damian felt like death and life mixed into one—stitched together wrong and breathing anyway. His footsteps were light, his voice quiet and his presence still.

It reminded Tim of Jason, sometimes—in a very distant way. But where Jason was an inferno, an overwhelming rush of anger and warmth and sheer aliveness, Damian was the opposite. He was cold, controlled and quiet in the way of tombs.

And there were moments—brief ones—where Tim couldn’t tell if Damian was alive or not. Where he seemed to fade, just slightly, like a light dimming behind frosted glass. Like the world wasn’t always certain he belonged in it. 

Tim knocked lightly on the doorframe with two fingers. The sound echoed gently into the room, soft enough not to startle. 

Damian didn’t look up, but his shoulders shifted slightly as if acknowledging his presence without stopping his brushstroke. The air inside the studio was thick with the smell of paint and turpentine, muted music humming from a speaker tucked into the corner. The walls were lined with finished and half-finished canvases, scattered with bursts of color and precise strokes.

Tim glanced over to Damian, he had a rough photo in front of him. Grainy and unpolished, the kind of thing that gets reposted a hundred times before disappearing into the internet clutter. Tim recognizes the photo as a reference for Damian.

The canvas was filled with a sunset that bled across the skyline in bold reds and dusky purples, shadows slinking long over a quiet street.

“That’s really good,” Tim murmured, quietly and without hesitation.

Damian’s brush paused. His ears, already pink with heat from working, flushed a deeper shade.

“It’s nothing,” He muttered, “I was bored.”

Tim gave a soft hum, stepping closer to examine the painting, “Still, you saw something worth recreating. That matters.”

Damian shifted his weight, “It is just a painting.”

“And it used to be a photo,” Tim pointed out, “you turned it into something else. That isn’t nothing.”

There was a beat of silence. Damian didn’t respond but he didn’t wave him off either. Tim folded his arms loosely across his chest, voice lower now, more like a confession.

“I’m a photographer,” He said, “not professionally, but I’ve been holding a camera since I was seven. I think I like taking photos for the same reason you like to paint. To make a statement.”

“A statement?” Damian echoed, his eyes moved from his painting to Tim.

Tim swallowed, “I once told someone that pictures will always be remembered, they’re a mark on history. They can’t forget you if you leave something behind.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change but there was slight looseness to his posture now. A quiet understanding.

“What kind of photos do you take?” He asked, tone almost curious as he turned back and continued to paint.

“Street stuff.” Tim shrugged, “Sometimes, though, I take photos of people. I like to catch the moments that might be pointless to others and turn it into something worth a memory.”

“Do you have copies?” Damian questioned further,

“Always,” Tim nodded,

Damian hummed, the sound low and thoughtful as he leaned back slightly from his canvas, inspecting his work with a critical eye. 

“I’d like to see them,” He said, not quite looking at Tim as he spoke.

Tim blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. It wasn’t that Damian didn’t speak, rather, it was that he rarely asked. But there was something sincere in the way his voice softened at the edges, something almost careful. Like the request meant more than he was letting on.

“Yeah,” Tim said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Sure. I’ve got them backed up on a drive. I can show you them at some point.”

Damian gave a short nod, then reached for another brush, “Good. I want to see what you see.”

Most people thought photography was about catching a scene, but it wasn’t. Tim’s photo’s held pieces of his soul, it held his care, his love and his adoration. It was about perspective, about where you stood, what you chose to keep in frame and what you let slip into the blur.

“Do you always paint from photos?”

“Not always,” Damian granted, “It’s often easier, though. People and animals move too much, they can ruin composition.”

Tim left out a soft laugh, “Yeah. But sometimes they ruin it in the best way.”

Damian glanced sideways at him, and there was the faintest curve at the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile, but something close, “We disagree.”

“We do.” Tim smirked,

“I wouldn’t mind painting one of your photos.” Damian admitted quietly, 

“Hm.” Tim grinned, “I wouldn’t mind it either.”

Tim found the manor’s rooftop by accident.

He hadn’t meant to—just followed a drafty hallway, an old servant’s staircase, and then a narrow door that creaked like it hadn’t been opened in months. But when he pushed through, the world opened above him, sharp and endless. Gotham’s skyline stretched out like a jagged pulse in the distance, the night wind tugged at his hood and pressed cool air against his cheeks.

He liked it. Up here, the noise of the manor faded and he was reminded of nights spent in Crime Alley—just with mildly more breathable air.

He stepped forward, bare feet soft against the stone and sat near the ledge, careful not to let his legs dangle. The height didn’t scare him. He’d been up high before, on rickety fire escapes, rusted scaffolding, crooked rooftops held together with crooked nails and hope.

Angela used to scold him for that. Not with words, exactly. Just a hum of disapproval and a flicker of cold that would settle over his shoulders like a blanket, protective and kind. 

He missed that. He missed her, in a sick and twisted way.

Tim pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. The stars were barely visible with the light pollution that Gotham suffered from but he looked anyway.

Angela had been the one constant in the mess of his childhood. She wasn’t just a ghost, she was a friend and a mother. She stayed when his parents didn’t. She watched over him, she had been his and she had been Janets.

Tim clenched his jaw, but the pain that bloomed in his chest wasn’t sharp but hollow. 

Angela often promised she would protect him. But she hadn’t. Angela hadn’t saved him, not from Janet, not from the needle of the cold room, nor from the burning in his veins. She hadn’t stopped it, she was a coward. 

Tim dragged a hand over his neck, cold fingers settling along the scar that graced his neck. His body was healing, the manor was quiet and he was safe. 

There was a noise, a jingle of a doorknob being struggled with and then the light steps of someone familiar.

“Found you,” Dick said, stepped out with a soft smile and two mugs in his hands, “Alfred said you disappeared. He’s mildly offended you didn’t announce it.”

Tim glanced over but didn’t move, “Didn’t know I needed permission to get air.”

“You don’t.” Dick said easily, handing him a mug. It was warm between Tim’s fingers, “He just likes to know where us strays are.”

Tim blinked at that but didn’t argue. The rooftop was cold but the warmth between his palms and the quiet presence next to him made it slightly more bearable. 

“You doing okay?” Dick asked eventually, 

Tim gave a one-shoulder shrug, “I’m breathing.”

“Low bar.”

“At least it’s above air.”

“If it was any lower it would be death.” Dick commented, 

“Yeah,” he murmured, “wouldn’t be the first time I flirted with that.”

Dick smiled slightly, but didn’t push even though Tim knew he wanted too. Instead, he just sipped his drink, letting the silence settle between them comfortably. 

“She lied to me,” he said finally, “Angela. I don’t...I don’t know why that's the part—out of everything—that won’t stop hurting me.”

Dick let out a breath, “Because she mattered to you.”

“She was all I had,” Tim stated, his voice quiet and cracking pathetically, “And I thought—I really thought she cared. Even when I stopped trusting everyone else. Even when I thought I’d lose myself, I held onto her like she was proof I wasn’t crazy. That there was someone out there who gave a shit.”

“And then she didn’t.” Dick concluded,

Tim let out a bitter laugh, “Yeah.”

“She watched Janet do all of it. She watched those kids die, she watched her hurt me and she stayed still.” Tim rubbed his thumb along the side of the mug, feeling the smooth ceramic.

“She failed you,” Dick said gently,

Tim nodded, “And I let her.”

“No,” Dick shook his head, putting down his own mug, “it is not your fault for trusting. It is never your fault for wanting to be loved. This isn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Tim snapped, then, a beat later, “I don’t know.”

“I think,” Dick started slowly, “it’s worse when the people we trusted lie. Not because of what they did, but because it changes all the memories. It makes you question what was real and what wasn’t.”

Tim didn’t reply.

“I don’t know who she was to you,” Dick continued, “but I know what it’s like to have someone you trust turn out to be someone else entirely. It screws with your head.”

“You think it’ll stop?” Tim asked, in a whisper, “Do you think I’ll ever stop second-guessing everything she ever said?”

Dick reached out, slow as to make sure Tim wasn’t going to flinch away, before his hand rested in Tim’s hair, “Eventually.”

Tim closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth of Dick’s hand, feeling slightly unsteady.

“I don't want to hate her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Even if she deserved it?”

“Sometimes people we love do awful things. You don’t owe her forgiveness but you don’t have to carry her weight either.”

Chapter Text

Somewhere down the hall, the unmistakable clatter of broken glass echoed, followed by Alfred’s disapproving murmur and Damian’s unapologetic retort. A door slammed. Someone—probably Jason—yelled, “Not it!” from two floors up.

Tim sat cross-legged on the couch as the big screen cast a pale blue light, Duke sat next to him, practically falling off the couch. On the screen were colorful characters speeding through a twisting Mario Kart track, rainbow streaks and shells flying in every direction. The music was loud, ridiculous, and vaguely stressful.

“I swear to god,” Duke growled, leaning forward in laser-focused determination, “if you drop one more red shell, I’m flipping the couch.”

Tim leaned back against the couch with a beaming smile, “You know, threatening furniture isn’t going to help you win the game.”

“I don’t need help!” Duke snapped, “You’ve clearly made some unholy pact with the game code. There’s no way you’re pulling tripled mushrooms and stars back to back.”

“It’s called luck.”

“It’s called cheating.”

“You can’t cheat in Mario Kart!” Tim yelled, as his character flew past Duke’s on the final stretch of rainbow road.

Duke let out a loud noise, “Obviously you can—get off me! Damn, you just ran me off the road.”

“Get better.”

“You’re lucky I like you.” 

The match ended with Duke in fourth place, Tim in a smug first. He grinned as the victory screen danced across the TV. Duke threw his head back dramatically, “When I picked this game I thought it would be a bonding experience.”

“This is bonding,” Tim said innocently, “you’re learning how to lose with grace.”

“You’ve known me for how long, and you still think that’s something I do?”

Tim snorted, finally glancing over, “Fair.”

Duke was easy to be around, chill and smart without being smug. And more than that, he didn't look at Tim like he was fragile. It was nice, and Duke had a meta ability—one that could be oddly similar to Tim’s own curse in some moments.

A moment passed before Duke hit pause, “Okay. Real talk, you good?”

Tim blinked, “What?”

“I mean like…really. You’ve been quieter than usual. And not the ‘I’m a broody cryptid’ kind of quiet. The ‘I’ve been in my own head for days’ kind.”

Tim hesitated, “I’m fine.”

“Tim.” Duke narrowed his eyes,

“Really, I’m fine…It’s just.” Tim cut himself off, he chewed on his lip as he thought.

“Dude, talk to me.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling is all,” Tim shrugged, “It’s probably nothing.”

Duke gave him a disbelieving look but sighed, “Well, you’re doing better. You showed up, you let us drag you into game night and you haven’t ghosted us for college in like, two whole weeks.”

“That’s because Jason threatened to toss my laptop into the pool if I didn’t give it a break.”

“And we all thank him for his service.”

Tim huffed a laugh—then, the door burst open behind them, slamming into the wall like a declaration of war. 

“My boys!” Stephanie yelled, launching herself across the room.

Tim had just enough time to realize what was happening before a blur of lavender hoodie and knee socks tackled him into the couch cushions. 

“Steph—!” Tim wheezed, “Why?”

“I sensed joy happening without me,” She said, wiggling to get more comfortable in his lap, “That felt like a personal attack.”

“You fatass, you’re literally on top of me!”

“You’re welcome.”

Duke raised an eyebrow, “Do I need to separate you two?”

“No!” Steph said, grabbing Tim’s abandoned controller, “I’m here to inject some fun into this grayscale game night. Also, I brought snacks.”

From her hoodie pocket, she pulled out a crumpled bag of sour candy and held it out.

Tim stared, “That's…probably not sanitary.”

“You say that like you haven’t eaten worse.” Steph wiggled the bag of candy in front of his face,

Duke reached over and grabbed a gummy worm without hesitation, “I support this.”

“Et tu, Duke?” Tim gave him a disgusted look,

“It adds texture.”

“See?” Steph shot Tim a smug look, “Duke gets it.”

Steph grinned, triumphant, as she selected Princess Peach on the character screen, “Let’s go. I’m about to wipe the floor with your mustachioed plumbers.”

“You’re going down.” Tim narrowed his eyes, 

“You say that everytime,” Steph waved him off elegantly, “yet, I’m the one always winning.”

As soon as the bright colors of Rainbow Road loaded back up, the yelling started immediately.

“Why is there a banana on the boost?!” Steph screeched,

“Tactical placement,” Duke replied smugly as he drifted past,

Tim threw his head back in despair, and shouted, “Who hit me with a green shell!”

“Collateral damage,” Steph said cheerfully, “All is fair in love and war.”

The couch jolted with every scream. Steph kicked out when Duke elbowed her, and Tim nearly threw her off his lap trying to dodge a red shell.

When the race ended, Stephanie howled in victory while Tim and Duke groaned. Tim leaned his head back against the couch, breathless but his mind was quiet.

“Rematch?” Duke asked,

Steph smirked, “You’re going down, Thomas.”

Tim lay in bed at the manor, still and quiet, the buzz of life slowly draining from his limbs. The sheets were soft, the room dimly lit by the faint glow of a nightlight tucked near the wall—something Alfred insisted on after the nightmares started again. Across the hall, he could hear Dick’s soft snores—reassuring in their familiarity. A gentle, human sound, alive and well. 

And yet, none of it reached him.

He stared up at the ceiling. Smooth plaster, unmarred and pale, like stretched skin over old bones. It reminded him of the morgue, of hospitals, of the quiet places the dead liked to linger.

He ran a hand down his face and tried to blink the fatigue from his eyes, but the weight pressed against him wasn’t tiredness. It was something else, something colder.

The temperature of the room was fine, warm, even. Alfred had turned up the heat hours ago, just like he always did when he thought they wouldn’t notice. There was probably still a fire going downstairs, crackling quietly in the hearth. Every logical part of Tim’s brain knew he was safe.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the chill in his body had nothing to do with the air.

It was something deeper, a cold that came from the inside. That pressed against the back of his eyes and made the tips of his fingers ache.

He rolled his head to the side and froze.

Martha Wayne was sitting in the chair by the window. She hadn't been there before and he was sure of that. There’d been nothing but a stack of books and an old sweater when he turned in for the night. 

Her figure was unmistakable. Pale skin, dark hair swept into soft curls. A long dress with lace at the collar, elegant but old-fashioned, soaked in some places with blood that clung like mold. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, gloved fingers still and blood dripping from the bullet hole in her temple.

But it was her eyes that made his lungs seize.

She was crying.

Not sobbing, not whimpering, just silently weeping. Tears rolled down her cheeks, steady and endless, as if she’d been doing it long before he noticed her. Her lips trembled, just barely. Her eyes were wide, glossy and locked onto his like she saw him in a way no living person ever truly could.

Tim’s breath stilled in his throat and the air grew sharp.

He tried to move but every muscle in his body had gone stiff, his limbs weighed down by something that felt like iron. The room pulsed around him, slow and suffocating, like something just beneath the floorboards had started breathing.

The dread hit him in waves. It didn’t come with a scream or a bang. It came like a quiet thing with sharp teeth—slow and certain. It crawled up his spine like a centipede, legs prickling against his skin. It settled in his mouth and tasted like ash.

He wanted to speak—wanted to ask her why she was crying, why she was here—but his voice wouldn’t work. His throat was too dry and his jaw too locked. She didn't need to say anything anyway. Her grief was an answer in itself. 

He watched her blink slowly, one last tear slipping down her cheek. Then, without moving a single movement, she vanished. The chair was empty.

The cold remained.

The sun had just started to dip below the skyline, casting long shadows over Gotham’s quieter streets. The kind of hour that made the city feel almost peaceful, when the worst of the noise softened and the streetlights hadn’t quite flickered on yet.

Tim rolled beside Bruce on his skateboard, one foot lazily pushing him along the sidewalk while the other rested on the board. His backpack was slung low on his shoulders, a few notebooks sticking out of the half-zipped top. Bruce walked beside him, hands in his coat pockets, his pace measured and easy like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

They weren’t talking about crime scenes, or ghosts, just walking.

“I dropped my psych class,” Tim said, kicking a small pebble with the edge of his board, “The professor was a tool.”

“Oh?” Bruce glanced over with a raised brow, “What happened?”

“He tried to tell me dissociative states were ‘dramatic embellishments of the mentally unwell’,” Tim grumbled, with air quotes and an eye roll, “I asked him how many trauma survivors he’d actually spoken to. He didn’t appreciate that.”

Bruce gave a low chuckle, “Proud of you for speaking up.”

Tim grinned a little, shrugging, “It’s whatever. I’m still full-time. Picked up a creative writing elective.”

“How’s that going?” Bruce nodded,

“It’s weird….they keep wanting me to write about feelings.”

Bruce gave him a knowing side glance, “Sounds difficult.”

“Says the guy who’s allergic to therapy.” Tim huffed a laugh, pushing forward a little before hopping off the board to walk beside him.

“I’m not allergic. I’m just…” Buce trailed off, pretending to search for the word.

“Emotionally constipated?”

“I was going to say ‘cautious’, but yours works too.”

Tim snorted and Bruce’s arm reached out, wrapping around his shoulders as they continued on. For a moment, they didn’t speak.

Then Bruce said, voice low, “You look tired.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted down to the cracks in the sidewalk, he rubbed the heel of his palm over one eyes.

“I am,” he admitted carefully, voice barely above a breath, “But it’s not like a normal tired. It’s not school. It’s not working on cases. I’ve been sleeping fine, mostly. It’s just…”

Bruce waited. He always waited when it mattered. 

Tim slowed his steps, and Bruce adjusted with him, their place downshifting into something slower. There was no rush.

“The ghosts,” Tim said at last, eyes still downcast, “they’ve been restless. No one’s said anything specific but they’re warning me. I can feel it. Something’s coming and I don’t know what.”

Bruce's grip tightened just slightly around his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He asked, not accusing but worried.

Tim shrugged, “Didn’t want to sound paranoid. Or maybe I was hoping I was wrong. But it’s this cold and heavy sort of feeling. Like something trying to settle into place. And every night, they’re louder.”

Bruce slowed to a stop entirely. Tim did too.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bruce said, meeting Tim’s eyes, “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

Tim didn’t respond right away, he glanced up at Bruce then looked away, jaw tight.

“Be careful,” he said instead, voice quieter than before, “please.”

Bruce blinked at that, surprised by the urgency behind the words.

“Always,” He said, with no hesitation.

And when Tim looked back at him, searching his face like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the word, Bruce reached up and brushed a had through his hair, gently pulling him in to press a kiss to his temple.

“You’re my son, Tim. I’ll always be there for you.”

Tim smiled, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Tim had grown up distrusting adults. 

They always said one thing and meant another. Promised safety, then disappeared. Spoke of love like it was conditional. He’d learned early how to read their words, how to predict the inevitable fracture before it came. A survival instinct dressed in cynicism.

His parent’s had been the first crack, in their own horrific, spectacular way. Blood on her hands. Rage behind his eyes. Jack and Janet Drake had been proof that family didn’t mean love. Sometimes it meant destruction and death. 

Angela had followed suit, soft voice, warm eyes, the ghost who’d swept the hair out of his eyes and whispered comforting reassurances as he cried and promised she’d never leave him. Then she did, betrayed him, lied.

And still— still —Tim had made Bruce the exception.

He’d let himself believe that Bruce was different. That maybe, despite everything, he’d found someone permanent. 

But maybe permanence was just another lie people told kids like him.

Tim pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until stars blood behind his lids.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known better to trust in false platitudes and empty promises. Should’ve known that even Bruce, the man who always came back, who always made it out, couldn’t outrun the rules of Tim’s universe forever.

Bruce was dead.

Or atleast, that’s what Dick had said. But there was no trace, no ghost, no whispers, just silence.

Tim’s voice cracked as he pressed the words out, hoarse from holding back tears all day, “The veil’s still. Still , Dick. That’s not how this works. I see everything—victims, murderers, kids with unfinished lives—but Bruce? Nothing. Not even a flicker.”

He stood in the middle of the cave, hands shaking at his sides. The lights of the Batcomputer flickered behind him, casting faint blue shadows across his too-pale skin. 

“I know what death feels like. I know what it sounds like,” Tim went on, voice rising with each word, “and this isn't it. It’s like he's not even—he’s not in the veils, he’s not on this side, it’s just…it’s just gone. That’s not normal, Dick. That means something, it has to.”

Dick turned slowly from the workbench. He looked…older, somehow. Worn thin by weeks of trying to hold the family together while holding himself together. Tim had seen that look before—when the Grayson’s fell, it was the same grief, just heavier now. Even as Mary Grayson stood next to her son in the afterlife, a look of sympathy and adoration mixed into one as she gazed upon him.

“There was a body, Tim.” Dick said quietly, “A real, dead, broken body. I saw it. Damian saw it. He’s gone.”

“No,” Tim denied, too fast, “you saw something. That doesn’t mean it was him. People fake deaths all the time—hell, Bruce has done it before. But I would know if he were dead. I would feel it. The veil would know.”

Dick stepped forward, arms folded across his chest, “Tim, listen to yourself.”

“I am listening.” Tim said, hands moving to clutch his arms like he was trying to hold himself together, “I listen to ghosts every day. I listen to people who don’t know they’re dead, who scream through walls and follow me down alleys and beg for peace. And none of them–none of them are Bruce. Not even a whisper. You really think I wouldn't know.”

Dick sighed, “Or maybe…maybe you don’t know. Maybe this ability—this thing you’ve built your reality around—it’s not infallible. Maybe it’s being blocked. Maybe you’re burned out. Or maybe…maybe Bruce just moved on. Maybe he’s not stuck like the others.”

Tim’s chest caved in like someone had pressed a hand to his sternum and started digging.

“No. No, he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t just vanish and—” Tim’s voice cracked. He stopped back, blinking rapidly, jaw clenched against the storm behind his eyes, “He promised.”

“Tim—”

“He promised me,” Tim said, louder now, shaking his head, “He told me he’d always be there. He said I wasn’t alone. That I wouldn’t have to be alone.”

“I know,” Dick promised gently, “and I want to believe that, too. But you have to stop this–this obsession. You’re going to tear yourself apart.”

Tim looked up at him, devastated.

“I’m not obsessed. I’m right. You just don’t want to hope because it’s easier to grieve than risk being wrong.”

“Tim.”

“No one’s listening to me,” He went on, voice rising to a desperate pitch, “Not you, not Alfred, not Damian—and Jason’s off-world. I know he’s alive. And If you’d just—if you’d just believe me for five minutes—”

“I do believe you,” Dick snapped suddenly, stepping forward, “I believe that you’re hurting. I believe you’re terrified. But what I don’t believe is this magical narrative you’ve constructed to avoid facing the fact he’s gone.”

“I’m not avoiding it!” Tim shouted, tears finally breaking loose, streaming hot down his cheeks “I’m trying to stop it from being true!”

Dick looked like he might cry, too. But he didn’t. He just shook his head, voice quieter now.

“You need help.”

Tim froze. His whole body went still, breath catching like it had been punched out of him. Janet whispered those same words to him too, once. 

“You think I’m crazy.” Tim’s voice was thin and crumpled,

“I think you’re grieving,” Dick whispered, “and I think it’s breaking you.”

Tim’s jaw worked. He bit his bottom lip so hard it almost split. His throat was raw from yelling, from holding it all in for too long. And even still, all he could do was whisper—

“Bruce would’ve believed me.”

That did it.

Dick’s face twisted. His shoulders tensed, and he snapped, voice echoing hard off the cave walls—

“Well, I’m not Bruce!”

It was like someone shattered glass between them. The silence that followed was sharp and terrible and Tim felt himself losing his brother.

Tim didn’t move, he didn’t flinch. He just looked at Dick like something in him and cracked for good. And without another word, he turned and walked away.

Somehow, he managed to lose two families when most only lost one. 

Maybe, he was cursed with something more than just death.

Two days later, he booked a flight to Madrid, Spain.