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Chapter Text

The bowels of the defunct Cadmus satellite lab smelled of oxidized metal and old electricity—like a thunderstorm captured in concrete. Somewhere above, Gotham’s twilight dissolved into night, but down here there was no difference between dusk and dawn. The only rhythm Tim Drake lived by now came from the low, cyclical hum of refrigeration units and the throb of his own pulse echoing in his ears.
“Seventy-eight beats per minute,” he muttered, checking the biometric cuff cinched around his wrist. “Steady.”
Talking to himself had started as a grounding exercise. Now it was the only voice he heard.
He slid along a corridor lined with cryogenic canisters. Frost ghost-kissed the glass cylinders, each one empty—except the last. Inside, a single vial floated, pinned in suspension by magnetic clamps: 1 ml of Kon-El’s blood, harvested during a routine checkup at Titans Tower almost four years ago. Tim had kept it locked inside Wayne Manor’s sub-basement, labeled “Forensic Sample—DO NOT DISCARD.” He never thought he’d need it. He never thought Kon would die in his arms, chest caved in from a blast meant for someone else. He never thought grief could make a person this cold or this reckless.
Yet here he was, a Robin without a Batman, a friend without a tether, willing to cross lines even Ra’s al Ghul usually tip-toed around.
Tim entered the main lab: a sunken amphitheater of consoles encircling a single cylindrical gestation chamber. Holo-screens hovered like ghosts above the control dais, strings of genetic code scrolling in vertical waterfalls—green for Kryptonian alleles, blue for human, red for unstable. Earlier tonight the red columns had been everywhere, glaring at him like judgmental eyes. Now only two thin scarlet bars remained, pulsing between genes that regulated cellular bonding. A solvable problem, if he didn’t blink.
A half-empty mug of cold espresso perched on the console’s edge. Tim took a mouthful, winced, and swallowed anyway. Caffeine, glucose, cortisol. Keep moving. He flexed his left hand; a thin slice across his thumb stung—an accident from an hour ago when a scalpel rolled off the tray. He’d rinsed it quickly, wrapped it in a sterile patch, refused to pause.
Focus, Drake. He keyed a command. Holo-windows rearranged, overlaying Kryptonian resilience factors atop human growth regulators. Kon’s genome had always been a knife-edge compromise. Human enough to survive under a yellow sun, Kryptonian enough to bend rebar bare-handed. But perfect balance was fragile—and Kon had been an unrepeatable miracle made by Lex Luthor’s billions. Re-creating him from one milliliter of blood ought to be impossible.
Tim intended to prove “impossible” was just a word.
He palmed a data card, slid it into the main port, and opened his notebook: eleven hundred pages of simulations, each line annotated with the same initials—TD/K-E. Tim Drake/Kon-El. The slash between the names hurt to look at, but he left it; it was honest. He’d designed his algorithm to filter out human contamination, to rebuild Kryptonian telomeres, to splice the unstable gaps with CRISPR precision. He’d triple-checked every step.
Except one.
A flashing glyph appeared: INSERT NUTRIENT MATRIX.
Tim rolled over a trolley stacked with canisters. He cracked the lid on a vat of synthetic amniotic fluid, its surface shimmering like mercury laced with sunrise. He poured until the chamber read 64% capacity, then loaded micronutrient cartridges—iron, calcium, trace gold for energy channeling. The chamber lights glowed warmer, like a heart starting to beat.
UPLOAD GAMETE FUSION SAMPLE.
His hands trembled as he removed the vial from cryo-stasis. The blood sparkled with microscopic motes of blue—Kryptonian solar receptors preserved even in stasis. He locked the vial into the injector, exhaled, and pressed ENTER.
A thin crimson thread spiraled into the nutrient womb, dissolving like ink in water. Holo-screens flared: recombinant sequencing initiated. Billions of base pairs danced, knit, re-arranged. Tim watched a globe of raw possibility swirl in zero-gravity suspension—and for one impossible moment he expected Kon to step out fully grown, grinning, calling him “bro.”
Instead, the algorithm hit a snag. Genetic variance exceeded tolerance: 0.12%. The red bars thickened.
“Why?” Tim whispered. The answer materialized in chemical notation: Extraneous human alleles detected. Thirty-two markers identical to donor Timothy Jackson Drake.
The cut on his thumb throbbed. Ice sluiced through his veins. No… He reached for the emergency purge key—then froze. He could flush and start over—waste half the sample, maybe ruin the rest—or he could… adjust.
His training screamed protocol, contamination, abort. His heart whispered chance, miracle, family.
Tim disabled the purge. Instead he rerouted the algorithm, told it to harmonize the two human sources rather than delete one. The Kryptonian side would splice as designed; the human side would be… half Kon, half Tim.
A fresh stream of code rewove the genome. The red bars shrank, flickered yellow, then turned green.
EMBRYO STATUS: VIABLE.
He sagged against the console, breath heaving. Too late for second thoughts. He initiated accelerated gestation.

Hours blurred. Tim calibrated hormone feeds, modulated UV-A radiation to mimic solar incubation, fine-tuned ion buffering. He spoke aloud—half lullaby, half confession.
“You’ll never feel alone,” he promised the tiny cluster of cells dividing behind reinforced glass. “Not the way I did. I’ll explain the Titans, and Alfred’s breakfasts, and why Wayne Manor’s attic creaks in winter. I’ll tell you Conner’s jokes—well, the ones fit for minors.”
The embryo grew from pinpoint to marble to plum, each phase logged in terabytes of data. Time dilated; grief receded; purpose surged.
At T + 06:14:22, the chamber signaled: SECOND TRIMESTER EQUIVALENT COMPLETE. A fetal silhouette curled in golden amniotic light, its heartbeat amplified through speakers—thub-thum, thub-thum—steady, sure. Tim stared, hand splayed on the glass, syncing his pulse to the rhythm. Two hearts, same tempo.
Midway through the seventh hour, exhaustion hit like gravity. Tim downed glucose gel, ran a systems sweep. All green. He allowed himself to sit, back against a pillar, eyes half-lidded, listening to the baby’s heartbeat weave through the machinery’s susurrus.
Memories seeped in—Kon laughing under a Kansas sun, Kon ruffling Tim’s hair after a training match, Kon saying “Relax, Drake, you’ve done enough saving for one night.” Tim’s throat closed. Not enough, he thought. Never enough.
Alarms chimed—soft but insistent. He lurched upright. FINAL GESTATION PHASE INITIATED. Inside the chamber, the fluid level lowered, exposing a small form naked to the waist, vernix glistening on soft skin. Dark hair, damp eyelashes, tiny fists flexing.
Tim’s knees went weak. He fumbled for a towel, sanitizer, a warming blanket—anything. The chamber walls irised open with a sigh of hydraulics. Warm, sterile air spilled out; the lights dimmed.
His son floated weightless on a cradle of antigrav beams. The baby opened his eyes—ice-blue right, hazel left—and made a startled O with his lips. No cry, just breath.
“Hey,” Tim whispered, voice cracking on one syllable.
He slid his arms under the infant. The baby’s heat soaked into his palms, impossibly alive. The towel wrapped around delicate shoulders felt absurdly thin against the enormity of the moment. Tim pressed the child to his chest. A faint flutter brushed his collarbone—feather-light breaths. The baby rooted instinctively; Tim laughed—half-sob, half-wonder—and adjusted the blanket.
Close up, the resemblance was uncanny. Kon’s cheekbones. Tim’s nose. A curious crease between the brows like neither of them—a brand-new map of possibility. The heterochromia made Tim’s heart lurch; he’d read about spontaneous chromatophore variance in hybrid embryos but never thought he’d see it.
“Hello,” he breathed, rocking instinctively. “Do you know you just terrified me into existence?”
The baby blinked, yawned, and—like flipping a switch—drifted asleep. Tiny fingers curled around the edge of Tim’s torn glove but didn’t let go.
Tim shuffled to a diagnostics chair, collapsed gingerly. Warm weight settled against his sternum, heartbeat syncing again—thub-thum, thub-thum. Everything else—Batman’s missions, Gotham’s crimes, the gaping Kon-shaped hole—stilled in that rhythm.
Minutes, maybe hours passed. The lab lights dimmed to a night-cycle glow, cool blues tracing the outlines of consoles. Tim’s eyes burned, but he couldn’t stop staring—at the soft rise and fall of the baby’s back, at the fuzz of dark hair tickling his jawline, at the universe of responsibility settling on his shoulders like dawn.
“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered. The baby slept on, trusting implicitly in the arms of a man who no longer trusted himself.
Tim’s voice trembled. “I promise… to keep you safe. To teach you everything I can. To make sure you never doubt you’re loved.” Tears slipped free, warm trails down chilled cheeks. He didn’t wipe them. They felt like proof he was still human.
Somewhere aboveground, Gotham’s clocktower struck midnight—May 18, 2025—but down here a brand-new timeline began, measured in breaths and heartbeats and the quiet weight of a newborn hybrid sleeping on his father’s chest.
Tim Drake tightened his arms, lowered his cheek to downy hair, and watched his son’s eyelids flutter in dreams, awe anchoring him more firmly than gravity ever could.

Chapter Text

The Wayne Manor clocktower rang five times, low and distant. Dawn crept in through cracks in the world—first as a cold wash of light in the east, then as a warm tinge brushing against the horizon.
Tim didn’t notice.
Still seated in the diagnostics chair, he hadn’t moved more than a breath since the baby fell asleep on his chest. The lab’s blue lighting cast long shadows over them, as if the world itself were tiptoeing not to disturb this new heartbeat in its midst. The chamber still gurgled softly, running postnatal filtration cycles, but the rest of the lab had gone quiet.
He’d stopped crying hours ago. Now there was only silence. And awe.
The baby stirred, rooting against Tim’s collarbone before giving a small, disgruntled squeak. Tim adjusted his hold and brushed his lips over the crown of his hair.
“Okay, okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He still hadn’t named him. Part of him was afraid to. Naming him would mean this was real. Permanent. That he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross—and someone would come to make him pay for it.
Maybe Dick. Maybe Clark.
Maybe Alfred.
At that thought, his stomach tightened. He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t even left the lab. There were cameras, sure—but this facility was buried beneath layers of forgotten Cadmus encryption. No one could possibly know.
Right?
A beep echoed from the corridor. Security trip-line. Tim’s head snapped up. A second later, his fears were confirmed: soft, deliberate footsteps down the main hall, and the hiss of an old elevator engaging.
Tim’s heart slammed against his ribs.
“No, no, no—” he whispered, rocking forward, clutching the baby protectively. He moved quickly, but not far—there was no good place to hide a child down here. And Alfred Pennyworth always knew exactly where to look.
The door to the lab slid open with a whisper. For a moment, only the soft hiss of steam and the drip of condensation filled the void.
Then:
“Master Timothy.”
Tim turned slowly, like someone caught in the middle of a heist. He didn’t speak.
Alfred stepped forward.
He looked, as always, immaculate. Wool coat, leather gloves, a silver tray balanced in one hand like a practiced ritual. But his expression—composed, thoughtful, terribly gentle—made something in Tim’s chest twist.
“I took the liberty of reviewing the satellite diagnostics when I noticed your vitals had not shifted in over fourteen hours,” Alfred said. “Imagine my concern when the bio-readout displayed two separate heartbeats.”
Tim opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The baby whimpered, and Tim instinctively bounced him—gently, protectively. “Alfred, I… I didn’t mean for— I didn’t plan this— It was supposed to be him, and—” His voice cracked.
Alfred set the tray down on the nearest surface—black tea, toast, soft-boiled egg—and walked slowly toward them.
Tim backed up. “Please don’t take him.”
That stopped Alfred in his tracks. For a moment, his expression froze—hurt, then something older. He looked at Tim not as a child, but as a man trembling on the edge of a cliff, ready to throw himself to the wind.
“I would never,” Alfred said softly, firmly, “take your child from you.”
Tim flinched. The words hit like a bolt—your child—and echoed through every inch of his battered psyche. A mix of shame and disbelief flooded his face.
“But I— I used Conner’s DNA, and then there was contamination, I didn’t mean to include mine, but I—he’s not a clone anymore, he’s new, he’s—” Tim’s breath came too fast. “I thought you’d be angry. I thought you'd… think I crossed a line.”
Alfred took another step, slow and sure. “Timothy. I have watched you grow from a quiet, driven child into a man who has borne more pain than any soul ever should. If this child exists—because of you—it is not evidence of failure. It is evidence of love.”
The baby fussed again. Alfred held out a gloved hand—not to take, but to offer. “May I?”
Tim hesitated, then—after a long breath—nodded and placed the tiny bundle into Alfred’s arms.
The transformation was instant. Alfred’s entire posture softened. His shoulders relaxed. He looked down at the infant with a tenderness that belonged to a long life full of second chances.
“Well, then,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Look at you, sir. Quite the arrival you’ve made.”
The baby yawned and curled into Alfred’s arms like it was his birthright.
Tim wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, overwhelmed again. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I didn’t even plan for diapers or formula or anything, I just… I just needed him to live. I didn’t think past that part.”
“You never do, sir,” Alfred replied with a familiar dryness. “But you will. You always find your way.”
He turned and nodded toward the tray he’d brought. “Now, before we descend into total melodrama: eat. And hydrate.”
Tim blinked. “Seriously?”
Alfred’s eyes sparkled, but his tone was pure command. “You are not fainting on me with a child in your arms. And I will not be raising this boy on my own while you spiral into caffeine-induced martyrdom.”
Tim almost laughed. He pulled himself together and walked over to the tray, picked up the tea with hands that finally stopped shaking.
As he sipped, Alfred adjusted the blanket on the baby, who was now peacefully asleep again. “Have you thought of a name?”
Tim froze mid-bite of toast. “No,” he admitted. “I was scared naming him would… make it real. And if I let myself believe he was real, it might mean I’d lose him too.”
Alfred didn’t argue. He simply said, “Then you must name him. And hold him. And build him a world worth staying in.”
Tim looked down into his tea, then back at his son. The boy’s tiny hand had curled around the edge of Alfred’s coat lapel like it was a life raft.
“…You’re not mad?” Tim asked one more time, quiet and raw.
Alfred looked at him with a softness born of decades of impossible children and aching hope.
“My dear boy,” he said, stepping forward, offering the baby back, “I have buried too many sons to be anything other than grateful for the miracle of a new one.”
Tim took the baby, cradled him close, and let out a long breath.
“Congratulations, Master Timothy,” Alfred added with a small smile. “It appears I am now a great-grandfather.”

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
It was the kind of silence that made Tim’s nerves itch—like the stillness before a mission, or worse, the numb void after one. He stood barefoot in the nursery he'd half-converted from one of the tech storage rooms, arms curled tightly around his tiny son. The baby slept against his chest, warm and content, nestled beneath a soft blanket that smelled faintly of cedar and antiseptic.
Tim hadn't slept.
He hadn't even tried.
His mind was too loud. Too fast. Too cruel.
He sat slowly on the floor beside the rocker Alfred had brought in earlier that day. The baby shifted with a quiet sigh, but didn’t wake. One small hand fisted in the collar of Tim’s hoodie, as if even in sleep, he knew who he belonged to.
Tim wasn’t sure he deserved it.
He doesn’t know what you are yet, whispered the dark part of him. What you’ve done. What you’re capable of. What happens to people who trust you.
He looked down at the baby—at his son—and panic surged up like bile.
What if I ruin him?
The thought wouldn’t leave. It spiraled through him, faster with each beat of his heart.
What if he was too cold, too broken, too obsessed with doing everything right to actually be good at any of this? What if he failed the one person who didn’t get a choice about trusting him?
What if…
What if Clark found out?
Tim’s chest tightened.
He could imagine it perfectly—Clark, looming in shadow, disappointment etched into every perfect line of his face. The disapproval would come first. Then the grief. And then—then maybe the accusation.
You stole my son.
You corrupted his DNA.
You had no right.
Tim’s breath came faster. He pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes, as if that might keep the thoughts out.
What if Clark took the baby?
Worse—what if he looked at this perfect little boy and saw an abomination? A failed experiment. A mockery of Conner’s memory. Lex Luthor’s child, and now yours?
What if he decided the world was safer without him?
The thought struck like a hammer to the chest. Tim nearly choked on it. He curled his arms more tightly around the sleeping infant, as if shielding him from a phantom threat.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispered. “Not even him.”
The baby didn’t stir. His breath was steady, his heartbeat a quiet whisper against Tim’s own.
Tim leaned his head back, throat raw. He didn’t want to hate Clark. He loved Clark—or at least, he had. He respected him. He grieved with him. But the version of Clark that lived in Tim’s worst-case imaginings wasn’t a father. He was a symbol. A force. A protector who saw threats where grief lived.
And Tim wasn’t sure if the man could tell the difference.
Maybe that was why he hadn’t called anyone yet. Not Dick. Not Cass. Not Bruce. Not Clark.
Not even to tell them: he’s here. He’s real. He’s mine.
The baby’s tiny fingers twitched. He exhaled, and Tim felt the warm breath through his shirt. It knocked something loose.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispered, cradling him closer. “I know this isn’t how you were supposed to get here. I know I broke every rule.”
He looked down again. The baby had Tim’s mouth, Kon’s cheekbones, and a tiny crease between his brows that he hadn’t inherited from either of them. Something new. Something entirely his.
A little miracle. A little sin.
Tim swallowed hard, and something fragile gave way in his voice.
“I just… I needed there to still be some part of him in the world. I needed to believe that love could leave something behind.”
The silence stretched. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just waiting.
Tim let his fingers run gently over the baby’s impossibly soft hair. His heart beat painfully slow now, like it was trying to remember how to keep rhythm.
“I want to name you,” he whispered. “Even if it makes everything feel more real. Even if it makes it harder to let go—”
His voice broke. He blinked hard, forcing the words through.
“Because I want to hold onto you forever. And I want you to know who you are. Not just what you’re made from.”
He exhaled, trembled, then nodded once—like the weight of the decision deserved some kind of ceremony.
“Connor,” he said first, voice almost reverent. “For him. For the boy I loved like a brother and maybe more. For the part of him that’s still alive in you.”
The baby made a tiny hiccup of a sound. Tim smiled faintly.
“Frederick,” he added softly. “For Alfred. Because he saved me, again and again. Because without him, I wouldn’t be here to hold you. And because I want you to grow up with the grace and strength he carries in every step.”
He leaned down, kissed the baby’s forehead. Then, with a quiet steadiness that surprised even himself, he whispered:
“Connor Frederick Kent-Drake-Wayne.”
Each name a tether. Each hyphen a story.
Kent—for the legacy that shaped him.
Drake—for the man who built him.
Wayne—for the family that will fight like hell to protect him.
He let the name settle in the air, wrap around them like armor.
Connor. His son.
Tim didn’t move for a long time after that.
Eventually, the first morning rays reached the nursery window. They cut across the room in golden beams, catching the soft fuzz of the baby’s hair, the gentle curve of his cheeks, the quiet trust of his breathing.
Tim stayed like that—back to the wall, baby curled on his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around this tiny, sleeping heart.
The fear didn’t vanish. The guilt didn’t go. But the name helped. The weight in his arms helped more.
Connor Frederick Kent-Drake-Wayne slept through his father’s silent tears, content in the only place he’d ever known.
And Tim held him like he was the last piece of light in a world that had tried far too hard to go dark.

Chapter Text

The grandfather clock in Wayne Manor’s east wing chimed seven, its deep, resonant notes curling through the corridors like cautious footsteps. Tim tightened his arms around Connor and pressed a silent kiss to the baby’s silky hair. He’d spent the night pacing—back-and-forth loops across the nursery carpet, across the study, across the hall—nowhere felt safe enough and everywhere felt one gasp away from disaster.
Alfred found him standing in the doorway to the conservatory: sleepless eyes, fever-bright; hoodie half-zipped; Connor swaddled tight to his chest.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, voice gentle but immovable, “your brothers will arrive within the hour.”
Tim flinched as if struck. “Why did you call them?”
“Because family,” Alfred replied, “is not a luxury one can defer indefinitely—particularly when a new branch has just appeared on the tree.”
Tim’s pulse spiked. His mind juked to every worst-case headline:
Former Robin Uses Illegal Cloning to Create Son.
Wayne Heir Declared Unfit—Custody Battle Looms.
Wayne Family Intervention Ends in Tragedy.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “They’ll look at him and see… evidence. They’ll decide I’m unstable, reckless—”
Alfred arched an eyebrow. “You have certainly behaved recklessly,” he conceded. “As do all of your siblings with alarming regularity. What matters is what you do now.”
Tim’s breath came thin. “If they try to take him—”
“Then you will fight,” Alfred said simply, “the way you have always fought for what you love. But first you will give them the chance to love him, too.”
Tim swallowed. Connor stirred, fussed, then resettled when Tim’s hand found the small of his back. He couldn’t imagine being more than a few feet away. The thought of anyone—even Dick—reaching out to hold Connor made his chest seize.
Alfred watched the panic flicker behind Tim’s eyes. “One step at a time, sir. Let them meet your son. Let them see you with him. The rest can be negotiated.”
Negotiated. Like a hostage exchange. Tim almost laughed—too sharp, too near a sob. “What if that’s not enough? What if they decide love isn’t the point?”
Alfred set a steadying hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Then we will remind them.”

Dick arrived first, boots soft on the marble but energy bright as sunrise. He opened his mouth to greet Tim with a joke—and stopped at the sight of the infant cradled against Tim’s heart. His smile melted into wonder.
“Tim…? Is that—?”
Tim’s throat closed. Words jammed behind his teeth. Please don’t take him. The plea rang so loudly in his skull he half-expected Dick to hear it aloud.
Dick stepped closer—slower than Tim had ever seen him move—until he could look down at the tiny face peeking from beneath the blanket.
“Hey, little guy,” Dick murmured. He didn’t reach out. He just looked, eyes shining. “You’ve got Tim’s stubborn brow. Sorry about that.”
A laugh—thin, watery—escaped Tim. Some coil inside him loosened.
Jason sauntered in next, leather jacket creaking, bravado dialed to eleven. “So the rumors are true,” he drawled. “Drake went full Mad Scientist Dad.” But his smirk faltered when he saw Connor give a sleepy kick. Soft awe leaked through the cracks. “…He’s small.”
Damian entered last, posture perfect, chin high—surveying the room as if entering enemy territory. His gaze landed on Connor and went unreadable.
“Explain,” he demanded.
Tim braced, tightening his hold. “His name is Connor Frederick Kent-Drake-Wayne,” he said, voice steady by sheer will. “He’s my son.”
A silence fell thick as velvet.
Damian’s eyes flicked from the infant to Tim’s hollow cheeks and back. “You look unwell, Drake.”
“I’m fine,” Tim lied.
Jason huffed. “Yeah, file that under Bull.”
Tim’s heart pounded. Any second they’d decide he was unfit. Any second someone would stretch out their arms and take—
Dick shifted first—but instead of reaching for Connor, he wrapped his arms around Tim. Careful, loose enough that Tim could bolt if he needed, yet solid as bedrock.
“You’re a dad now,” Dick whispered against Tim’s temple. “That’s scary and amazing, and we’ll figure it out together. Nobody’s taking him from you.”
The words hit like oxygen.
Jason clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder—gentler than usual. “You built yourself a family, Replacement. About damn time.”
Even Damian stepped forward, expression pinched but earnest. “If Father could raise me under League scrutiny, we can certainly manage one hybrid infant.” He paused, then added in a near-inaudible mumble, “He will require proper sword training, of course.”
Something inside Tim cracked—this time not from fear but from relief so fierce it hurt.
Connor yawned, stretching a fist the size of a grape. The brothers watched, spellbound.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Young Master Connor will be hungry soon. I have prepared formula—”
“I’ll feed him,” Tim blurted, panic flaring anew at the idea of surrendering even that small duty.
Alfred inclined his head. “Of course.” But he set a sandwich on the side table all the same. “After you eat.”
Tim opened his mouth to protest—and found Dick already lifting the plate, steering him toward the couch. “Sit,” Dick said. “Hold your kid, eat your food, and let your incredibly good-looking big brother read the bottle-warming instructions.”
Tim sank onto the cushions, Connor snug against his chest. His hands still shook, but the spiral slowed, unwinding thread by thread in the warmth of the room, in the quiet jokes, in the unspoken promise ringing louder than fear:
You are not alone.
Connor’s lashes fluttered. He made a contented squeak and burrowed closer to Tim’s heartbeat.
For the first time since the chamber opened, Tim let his eyes close—just for a breath—as his family’s voices mingled around him like a shield he hadn’t dared hope for.
He would still worry. He would still stumble. But the ledger had shifted: panic balanced by presence, doubt offset by brothers who caught him before the fall. And in Tim’s arms, Connor Frederick Kent-Drake-Wayne slept on, oblivious to the vows being forged around his quiet, steady breath.

Chapter Text

Tim jerked awake to a sound so tiny he nearly convinced himself he’d dreamed it—a damp, congested wheeze followed by a soft, miserable whimper. Morning light bled pale gray through the nursery curtains. Connor lay in the bassinet beside the bed, fists twitching, cheeks flushed a blotchy red.
Tim’s heart detonated.
He scooped the baby up, feeling heat radiate through the swaddle. Too hot. Connor’s breaths came shallow, each inhale followed by a rattling crackle in his chest.
“Alfred!” Tim’s shout tore down the hall before his brain caught up. “Alfred, something’s wrong!”
Footsteps thundered—Dick skidding into the doorway, Jason right behind, Damian already dialing on his comm. Tim barely registered them. He pressed his lips to Connor’s forehead, recoiled at the fever blazing beneath impossibly thin skin.
“He’s burning up—he can’t breathe—why can’t he breathe?” Tim’s voice rose, brittle and wild.
Dick reached for the baby; Tim reflex-snapped back. “Don’t— I’ve got him.”
Jason lifted both hands, placating. “Okay, okay—what do you need?”
Tim’s thoughts scattered. Medical kit—oxygen—Kryptonian respiratory physiology? Panic stole every useful file in his mental archive.
Alfred arrived, robe flaring like a cape, med scanner in hand. “Lay him on the bed, sir.”
Tim hesitated a heartbeat too long; Dick guided his elbow. Together they set Connor down. The baby’s tiny chest hitched, searching for air that didn’t come easily.
Alfred’s scanner pinged a rapid series of tones. “Temperature: 102. Pulse: erratic. Respiratory congestion detected.”
Damian frowned at the readout. “Could be parainfluenza. Or accelerated metabolic instability.”
Tim felt the room pitch. “He’s Kryptonian-human—human fevers can trigger power surges—if his heat vision activates—”
“Then we’ll adjust,” Jason cut in. “Right now we get the fever down.”
Dick dashed to the bathroom, returned with lukewarm towels. Alfred produced infant acetaminophen and a micro-nebulizer. “Master Timothy, hold him upright.”
Tim propped Connor against his chest; the baby whimpered, little body trembling. Alfred fitted the nebulizer mask, mist swirling around Connor’s tiny nose. Each shaky breath drew in vapor, pushed out a rattling cough.
Tim’s vision blurred. I did this. I made him. I broke him.
“Focus, Tim,” Dick said, hand firm on his shoulder. “He’s fighting. He just needs help.”
Minutes stretched razor-thin. Jason stripped blankets, Damian angled a fan for gentle airflow. Fever-reducing drops slid between Connor’s lips; Tim counted each swallow like a lifeline.
Gradually, the rattling eased. The furious red in Connor’s cheeks faded to pink. His cries softened to weak grumbles, then to exhausted whimpers. Finally—an exhale that didn’t hitch.
“Temperature stabilizing,” Alfred confirmed, voice hushed with relief.
Tim’s knees buckled; Dick caught him before he hit the floor. Tears he couldn’t spare burned free anyway. He kissed Connor’s damp hair, whispering, “You’re okay. You’re okay, baby.”
Jason let out a shaky laugh. “Kid’s first Bat-family crisis, and he’s not even a week old.”
Damian rolled his eyes but lingered close, one finger brushing Connor’s swaddled foot. “He was… formidable.”
Alfred began cleaning instruments. “Keep him hydrated, allow him to sleep skin-to-skin. Monitor his temperature every fifteen minutes.” He met Tim’s eyes. “And you, sir, will breathe.”
Tim managed a nod.
Dick squeezed his shoulder. “We panic because you panic, little brother. Next time, lead with calm, huh?”
“I’ll try,” Tim whispered, rocking Connor as the baby drifted into fever-drained sleep. His own heartbeat still hammered, but the world had righted itself—tilted, cracked, yet holding.
Surrounded by siblings standing guard, Tim settled onto the bed, Connor against his heart, and exhaled a vow into the quiet:
Never again alone. Whatever comes, we face it together.

Chapter Text

The manor was still.
Not the kind of silence that pressed with tension—just the soft, content quiet that only came in the early hours, when the world hadn’t fully woken and time felt suspended. The faint sound of wind rustled through the trees outside, and somewhere in the distance, the grandfather clock chimed four.
Tim sat in the nursery’s rocking chair, Connor curled against his chest, both of them wrapped in a knitted blue blanket Alfred had unearthed from the attic. His fingers traced lazy patterns over his son’s tiny back, each breath against his skin an impossible miracle.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep here. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.
But the exhaustion had hit him like a wave—after the fever, after the terror, after the crashing relief when Connor finally settled. He hadn’t been able to put him down. Not even for a minute. Not when he could still feel that terrifying heat lingering in his skin. So he sat down in the rocking chair, whispered soft words to a baby too young to understand them, and somewhere along the way, sleep claimed them both.
Now, hours later, Connor had stirred again—not crying, just shifting, tiny hands curling in the fabric of Tim’s shirt. His eyes blinked open, dark blue and a little hazy, but focused—focused—on Tim’s face.
Tim couldn’t breathe.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice still raw from too little sleep and too many emotions. “I’ve always got you.”
Connor made a soft coo, forehead nudging into Tim’s chest. Like he understood.
Tim cradled his head in one hand and held him a little tighter with the other. He couldn’t stop looking at him. The tiny nose, the impossibly long lashes, the soft swirl of black hair. His cheeks were still a little pink, but cooler now, and his breathing was steady, rhythmic.
He counted each breath. Just to be sure. He didn’t even try to stop himself.
“You’re real,” he murmured. “I don’t know how—I mean, I do know how, but—I didn’t plan this. I didn’t plan you. I was trying to bring someone back. And instead I got someone brand new.”
His voice cracked. He pressed his lips to Connor’s hair.
“You’re so new. And so small. And I don’t know what I’m doing. God, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Connor let out a tiny, sleepy sigh, eyes fluttering shut again.
“But you’re perfect,” Tim whispered. “You’re… perfect.”
The word felt too big for something so small, and yet not big enough. There were entire databases in Tim’s mind that couldn’t describe the weight in his chest when he looked at this little life he’d created. Entire languages wouldn’t be enough.
This wasn’t what he was trained for. Not what Bruce had prepped him to handle. He could defuse bombs blindfolded, hack international firewalls in under a minute, and analyze a crime scene in seconds—but none of that helped when his son coughed or cried in his sleep.
None of it prepared him for the way he could sit in one spot for hours just listening to his baby breathe.
“I used to think love was this… reckless thing. Something you fell into, something that made you vulnerable.” Tim leaned back slightly, just enough to see Connor’s face, still slack with sleep. “But this—this doesn’t make me vulnerable. This anchors me.”
Connor squirmed again, mouth opening in a soft yawn. One tiny hand reached up, brushing Tim’s jaw.
Tim stilled.
He hadn’t cried when the chamber opened. He’d been too shocked. Too afraid. Hadn’t cried when Alfred found out. Not when his brothers held him up through the panic. Not even when Connor got sick and his entire world nearly stopped.
But now—now that everything was quiet, now that Connor was here, safe, warm and alive on his chest—Tim felt something break open in his ribcage.
Tears slipped down his cheeks, quiet and unforced. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“I didn’t think I could feel this,” he said, voice thick. “Not after everything. Not after everyone I’ve lost.”
He closed his eyes.
“But I do. I love you so much it scares me.”
Connor stirred, gave a soft hum of agreement, and settled again.
Tim smiled through the tears. He adjusted the blanket around them both, then leaned his cheek against Connor’s head.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you forever.”
And in that quiet moment, the world didn’t need fixing. There was no mission, no danger, no impossible expectation hanging over him.
There was only Tim.
And his son.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was a fortress of shadows by nightfall. The nursery light glowed softly, casting long golden streaks across the floor. Connor lay in his bassinet, snug and quiet, wrapped in a fleece blanket with cartoon bats stitched into the hem. He was peaceful—beyond peaceful.
Tim wasn’t.
He stood beside the bassinet, arms crossed, bloodshot eyes locked on Connor’s tiny, steady rise and fall. His fingers twitched every few seconds—counting breaths. Listening. Waiting.
Jason leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve been standing there for three hours.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t, because if you knew that, you’d be horizontal by now.”
Tim didn’t look away. “He’s breathing faster than usual.”
“He’s dreaming,” Jason said. “Babies do that. It’s normal.”
“You don’t know that.” Tim’s voice was tight, like a fraying wire. “He’s not normal, he’s… part Kryptonian. What if his metabolism spikes again? What if his lungs don’t—what if I miss something?”
Jason sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m going to do the rare thing and not be an asshole for once. Look, I get it. You’re scared. You think if you stop watching him, something bad’s going to happen.”
“Because it could,” Tim said sharply. He finally tore his eyes away to look at Jason. “I created him in a lab, Jay. I don’t even know all the risks. What if he has genetic instability? What if his DNA is unstable in a week, a month—what if I messed something up and I don’t see it until it’s too late?”
Behind him, Dick entered with a tray: grilled cheese, soup, a glass of water. Comfort food. Safety food. “We’ve been here,” Dick said gently. “We’ve all done this.”
Tim turned back to Connor. “I can’t sleep. If I sleep and he—if he needs me and I don’t wake up in time—”
“Tim,” Dick said softly. “You’re human. You need rest.”
“I don’t care.”
The room stilled.
Tim’s voice cracked. “I don’t care if I fall apart. I just can’t lose him. I can’t.”
Jason stepped forward. “You’re not going to lose him. Not because you slept.”
“You don’t know that.”
Dick knelt beside the rocking chair, placing the tray on the small table. “No, I don’t. But what I do know? Is that you’ll definitely lose yourself if you keep this up. And he needs you—not the version of you that’s falling apart on your feet.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” Damian’s voice cut through, quiet but sharp as a blade. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Your shoulders are uneven. Your pupils are dilated. You haven’t consumed sufficient calories in thirty-six hours. You’re unfit to protect anything in this condition.”
Tim opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Damian stepped closer.
“You forget,” Damian said, more gently now, “I was raised by assassins. I know paranoia when I see it. You’re not protecting him by destroying yourself.”
Tim looked down at Connor. His son’s hand twitched in his sleep, his mouth forming a quiet “o” as he breathed.
He was tired. Tired in a way that felt like it came from his bones, like it soaked through every layer of him and weighed down even his thoughts. His head buzzed constantly. Every time his eyes closed—even for a blink—his brain showed him something going wrong.
“I don’t know how,” he whispered. “How to stop watching him.”
Dick stood and pulled Tim into a hug before he could resist. “Then let us watch him for a while.”
Tim’s shoulders tensed—and then slowly, slowly sagged. He didn’t return the hug, but he didn’t fight it either.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Dick murmured. “We’re your brothers. Let us help.”
“I don’t…” Tim hesitated, then said, too honestly, “I don’t know how to trust that.”
Jason gave him a lopsided grin. “Then fake it ‘til you make it. We’ll be here either way.”
Damian stepped forward and wordlessly adjusted the blanket over Connor, then turned to Tim. “If it will assuage your guilt, I will monitor his vitals myself tonight.”
Tim blinked, startled. “…You’d do that?”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “He is our family. Of course I would.”
Tim’s mouth trembled. His legs felt too weak to stand much longer.
Dick guided him to the rocking chair. “At least sit. Close your eyes, just for a few minutes. We’ll take shifts. Nothing’s going to happen to him.”
Tim hesitated.
Then—without a word—he sat.
He curled slightly to the side, eyes still fixed on the bassinet. Slowly, beneath Jason’s careful draping of a blanket over his shoulders, Tim’s eyes fluttered half-shut. Not closed. Not yet.
But the fear was quieter now.
Connor stirred, sighed in his sleep.
And Tim whispered, “Please be okay.”
Then, finally, finally, his head tilted to rest on the chair’s backrest, and sleep caught him mid-sentence.

Chapter Text

The nursery’s night-light bathed the room in a gentle amber glow. Outside, rain tapped a soft rhythm against the tall windows—steady, soothing, almost like a lullaby timed for father and son.
Tim, wrapped in a knitted throw, finally surrendered to real sleep. His head lolled to the side in the rocking chair, dark lashes unmoving, the tension in his jaw eased for the first time since Connor’s birth. A faint snore slipped past his parted lips.
His brothers stood guard.

00:47 – Dick’s Watch
Dick sat cross-legged on the rug, journal propped against his knee. Every ten minutes he glanced up, counting the rise-and-fall of Connor’s chest. The baby slept on, hands splayed like starfish.
Perfect, Dick scribbled. He looks like both of them—and entirely himself.
Connor hiccupped in his sleep; a soft frown crossed his brow. Dick ghosted a finger along the blanket’s edge, humming the first few bars of Brahms’ lullaby. Connor relaxed again, tiny fist unclenching.
Dick grinned. “Still got it.”

01:20 – Jason’s Watch
Jason swapped in with a mug of lukewarm coffee and a paperback tucked under one arm.
“Alright, little dude,” he whispered, easing into the armchair opposite Tim, “it’s Uncle Jay time.”
He set an infrared baby monitor on the windowsill—Wayne Tech prototype, tuned to detect micro-temperature spikes. The soft green readout held steady.
Jason opened his book but kept one boot tapping in quiet time with the rain. Halfway through a chapter, Connor stirred, eyes slitting open. No cry—just a silent, confused moue.
Jason rose instantly. “Hey, champ. Need a pit stop?” He lifted Connor with practiced gentleness, checked the diaper (dry), then paced slow circles. Connor nestled against his broad chest, head fitting beneath Jason’s chin as if molded for the spot.
“Yeah, I know,” Jason murmured. “World’s weird. But you’ve got the best crew running point, trust me.”
Connor’s eyes drifted shut again. Jason waited two whole minutes before easing him back into the bassinet.
“Five-by-five, kid.”

02:05 – Damian’s Watch
Damian slipped in silent as his namesake shadow. A datapad rested in his left hand, a tiny pulse oximeter in the right.
He knelt by the bassinet, clipped the sensor gently onto Connor’s foot, and watched the readings scroll: oxygen 99%, pulse a steady 122.
“Acceptable,” he pronounced softly.
Connor let out a sudden sneeze. Damian’s spine straightened. He produced a micro-blanket, wiped the minuscule spray with surgical precision, then studied the infant’s face.
“You inherited Father’s brow,” he said after a moment. “Unfortunate. We will work on discipline.”
Connor responded with a burble that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Damian’s lips twitched—almost a smile. He placed a plush Bat-cow beside the baby before retreating to stand sentry at the window.

02:47 – Sibling Convergence
Rain intensified, rattling the panes. A mild thunderclap rolled overhead. Connor startled, tiny mouth pulling down; before a cry could form, three sets of hands converged.
Dick cranked the bassinet’s mobile, soft stars revolving overhead. Jason dimmed the light further. Damian laid a firm hand on Connor’s chest—steady, grounding. The baby blinked, sighed, and relaxed back into dreams.
Across the room, Tim shifted but did not wake.
The brothers exchanged a quiet nod—mission accomplished—then settled into a loose triangle of vigilance: Dick by the bassinet, Jason on the windowsill, Damian near Tim’s chair.
Silence returned, broken only by rain and the occasional coo.

04:12 – Dawn’s First Light
Gray light seeped into the nursery; the storm had wandered off east. Birds began tentative morning calls.
Tim stirred, eyes fluttering open. For one disoriented heartbeat the room swam—until he saw Connor, sleeping peacefully, a small plush cow under one arm. He saw Dick dozing upright, Jason half-reading half-napping, Damian standing sentinel with impeccable posture.
Tim exhaled—the first deep, full breath he’d taken in days.
He brushed a grateful glance across each brother, then rose, joints stiff. As he leaned over the bassinet, Connor’s lids cracked open. Recognition sparked; a slow, gummy smile spread across the baby’s face.
Tim’s heart lurched, full to bursting.
“Morning, little star,” he whispered.
Behind him, Dick stirred. “Told you we had him.”
Tim swallowed past the lump in his throat, eyes misting. “Thank you.”
Jason smirked. “Anytime, Parent-of-the-Year.”
Damian merely nodded, but his voice was soft. “He is… adequate.”
Tim gathered Connor into his arms, blanket and Bat-cow and all. Dawn painted them gold.
For one fragile, perfect moment, the world was nothing but the warm weight of his son, the sleepy loyalty of his brothers, and the lingering rhythm of rain against distant eaves—
—and Tim knew, bone-deep, that closing his eyes hadn’t meant letting go.
It had meant trusting his family to keep watch.

Chapter Text

Breakfast had barely cooled when Alfred cleared his throat with that particular, portentous hum Tim had learned to dread.
“Master Timothy,” he said, refilling Tim’s coffee. “I’ve invited Mr. Kent to the manor this afternoon. He should arrive around three.”
Coffee sloshed over the rim. “Alfred—what? Why?”
“We have something important to discuss,” Alfred replied, tone mild but irrevocable. “And civility suggests we do it face-to-face.”
Tim’s chest constricted. Clark. Here. Today.
The next six hours blurred into a high-speed collision of catastrophizing: What if Clark saw Connor and thought clone instead of child? What if a single look shattered the unsteady peace Tim had found? What if the most powerful being on Earth decided the safest place for his grandson was anywhere but within Tim’s reach?
Tim cleaned the nursery twice, recalibrated the baby monitor, and paced a trench in the hall rug. His brothers tried distraction—Jason cracked jokes, Dick suggested sparring, Damian offered to “neutralize the Kryptonian if necessary.” None of it helped.
At 2:59 the manor’s security chimed: Aerial approach detected.
Tim’s pulse spiked. He gathered Connor—napping in a soft blue onesie—against his chest and stood in the foyer like a defendant awaiting verdict.
A gust of displaced air preceded Clark Kent’s gentle landing on the front steps. He wore no cape, just a navy sweater and the uncertain smile of a man crossing a minefield.
“Alfred.” Clark shook the butler’s hand, then turned to Tim. “Hey, kid.”
Kid. The word almost knocked Tim over. He clutched Connor tighter, throat bone-dry. “Hi, Clark.”
Clark’s gaze dipped, finding the bundle in Tim’s arms. Blue eyes widened—shock first, then something weightless and impossible to read.
Alfred, exquisitely unfazed, gestured toward the sitting room. “Perhaps we should all be comfortable.”
Tim moved like glass might shatter under his feet. He sank onto the edge of the couch, holding Connor protectively upright. Clark sat opposite, huge hands steepled between his knees.
Seconds felt like centuries.
Tim’s nails bit his palm. “I—I didn’t plan to hide him. I just… needed time.”
“May I?” Clark nodded toward the sleeping infant.
Every alarm in Tim’s body blared no, but Alfred’s steady presence at his shoulder reminded him of trust learned the hard way. Tim exhaled, shifted forward, and—hand trembling—let Clark take the warm, fragile weight.
Connor stirred, stretching one fist. Clark’s breath hitched audibly. The baby blinked—blue meeting blue—and for a beat the room held its breath with them.
“Hi there,” Clark whispered. Awe softened every line of his face. “I’m your grandpa.”
Tim’s vision blurred. He waited for condemnation, for steel behind Clark’s civility. Instead, tears shimmered in the Kryptonian’s eyes.
“He’s… perfect,” Clark murmured.
Tim’s voice cracked. “You’re not… angry?”
Clark looked up, grief and wonder braided together. “Tim, I’ve lost two planets, two fathers, and one son I chose with my heart. You gave me a piece of Conner back—and more than that, you gave the world someone new. How could I be angry at love?”
The dam inside Tim broke; all the fear he’d worn like armor washed away in a single, silent sob. Clark reached out, broad hand settling over Tim’s trembling one.
“We’ll figure the rest out,” Clark said softly. “Together.”
Connor yawned—small, indifferent to cosmic reconciliations—and settled against Clark’s heartbeat.
Tim wiped his eyes, breath shaky but lighter. For the first time since the chamber’s glow faded, the future felt wide enough to hold hope.
And in the quiet manor sitting room, with Alfred smiling like a proud architect, Tim Drake let himself believe that family—messy, improbable, miraculous—might truly be stronger than fear.

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor’s west solarium had become “the daytime nursery”—a greenhouse of safety glass and filtered warmth, where winter sun gathered like honey in the afternoon hours. Alfred claimed the light was excellent for an infant’s circadian rhythms; Tim suspected the butler also liked that the room’s discreet cameras could capture milestones from half a dozen unobtrusive angles.
Today’s milestone: tummy time.
Connor—barely six weeks old, cheeks plumper every day—lay on his belly in the center of a foam-tile checkerboard. His Gotham Knights onesie bunched at the hips, tiny knees tucked, fists planted as though he were bracing for a push-up. A warrior the size of a loaf of bread.
Tim knelt beside him, one hand hovering inches from a fragile rib cage like a spotter at the bench press. Sweat prickled under Tim’s hairline though the room was perfectly climate-controlled.
“He’s breathing fast,” Tim muttered.
“That’s effort, not distress,” Alfred replied, lowering himself with the ease of a practiced valet to Connor’s other flank. He held Tim’s phone at the ready; a red recording light winked. “Let him show us what he can do.”
Connor grunted—a squeak equal parts protest and ambition—and pushed. His head bobbled, dark fluff glinting gold in the sun, then gravity reclaimed him. Cheek to mat. A raspy exhale of indignation.
Tim flinched. “Maybe he’s not ready.”
“He is,” Alfred assured, voice pitched calm enough to lower blood pressure. “And you, sir, are precisely five times more nervous than your son.”
Connor tucked his knees, planted forearms, tried again. Toes kicked. This time his head rose a full two inches. Sunlight crowned that unruly swirl of hair like a halo. His mismatched eyes—hazel flecked with Wayne-gray, Kryptonian blue ringed in morning-sky—went wide at the view.
Tim’s breath hitched. “There you go, buddy! Look at you!”
Across the mat, Dick leaned against the sofa, filming on his own phone. “That’s Kon’s drive right there.”
“And Drake stubbornness,” Jason chimed from an armchair, casually acting like he wasn’t recording, too.
Damian stood arms folded, expression schooled but eyes bright. “Quadriceps activation is acceptable.”
Connor wobbled—neck muscles trembling like tuning wires—then let out a triumphant coo that broke into a delighted mini-giggle. The sound split Tim’s heart open wider than fear ever had. He laughed, voice cracking, grin so wide it almost hurt.
Sweat darkened the onesie fabric at Connor’s shoulder blades; Alfred’s camera caught a single droplet of effort sliding down a baby temple. Tim twitched forward, ready to assist, but Alfred’s gloved fingertips brushed his wrist: hold.
Connor’s arms began to shake. Muscles gave. He lowered—not crashed, just surrendered—cheek turning sideways to keep his airway clear. Breath puffed, hitching twice, then steadied.
Tim exhaled like he’d finished a marathon. “Okay. That’s enough for today.”
“An excellent first attempt, Master Connor,” Alfred confirmed, voice threaded with pride as he hit stop on the recording.
Connor blinked—processing—then broke into a gummy, lopsided smile as a chorus of praise washed over him. Tim scooped him up, hugging him so close Connor’s racing heartbeat thundered against his own. The tiny body shivered with fatigue, then melted, weightless against his dad’s chest.
“He did great,” Dick said, clapping Tim’s shoulder. The camera in his hand was already uploading to the family chat. “And so did you—for not panicking.”
Tim laughed—half sheepish, half fiercely proud. “I panicked the entire time.”
“Yes,” Alfred noted dryly, stacking foam tiles with military precision, “but internally. Progress.”
Jason tossed a rolled towel toward Tim; it landed draped over Tim’s knee like a victory sash. “Kid just leveled up. Next challenge: rollover defense tactics.”
Damian huffed agreement, already sketching a toddler workout diagram in a pocket notebook labeled Wayne Ops Junior.
Connor yawned—jaw unhinging, limbs splaying, the universal baby sign for workout complete. Tim kissed the tiny temple, inhaling warm baby shampoo and a hint of adrenaline.
“Tomorrow we try again, little star,” he whispered, laying one protective palm over the fluttering back.
The brothers drifted off—Dick replaying slow-mo footage, Jason narrating grandiose sports commentary, Damian muttering about suitable infant armor plating. Alfred lingered to slide the video into the “Connor Milestones” archive before gathering mats with the contented air of a general after a clean training drill.
Tim remained in the sunlit quiet, rocking gently, marveling—yet again—at the raw courage that lived inside something so small…and how fatherhood kept stretching his courage wider each day.
A final ray of afternoon light spilled across them. Connor was already asleep, lips pursed, dream-muscles twitching in micro-victories. Tim settled deeper into the mat, heartbeat syncing to his son’s, ready for every next wobble, every lift of the head, every new horizon Connor would discover—and knowing, for once, that he could meet those horizons without fear.
Because courage, it turned out, was contagious.

Chapter Text

It started, as most dangerous things in Tim’s life did, with Jason Todd walking into the nursery holding two coffees and wearing the world’s most suspiciously casual smile.
“No,” Tim said immediately.
Jason raised an eyebrow, unoffended. “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“You’re holding two coffees. That’s either a bribe or preparation for something reckless.”
Jason plunked one of the cups down in front of Tim. “I want to take Connor to the park.”
Tim froze. “By yourself?”
Jason gave him a look. “No, with the Royal Gotham Philharmonic. Yes, by myself. For like two hours. A walk. Maybe a baby swing. Some vitamin D. That’s the whole mission.”
Tim clutched Connor tighter. The six-week-old blinked up at him from his bundle of soft blankets, entirely unbothered.
“No. He’s—he’s too young.”
Jason held up a hand. “Tim. You haven’t left this house in weeks. You haven’t slept more than three hours at a time. You haven’t worn real pants since Connor discovered his lungs.”
“I’m not letting you take him into Gotham, Jay. There are people there.”
Jason snorted. “It’s the middle of the day. We’re going to Robinson Park. In the suburbs. It’s mostly golden retrievers and yoga moms. I’ll wear a mask. And body armor. ”
He sobered a little, crouching down to meet Tim’s eyes.
“Tim, I get it. You’re scared. You should be. That’s normal. But you’re not doing this alone. Let me take him for a bit. You trust me, right?”
Tim looked down at his son—his son—with his wild patch of dark hair and sleepy, trusting face. He hesitated so long Connor let out a squeaky hiccup of protest.
Jason caught it and smiled. “He needs fresh air. And so do you. Twenty bucks says you nap for at least an hour once we’re gone.”
Tim swallowed. “Two hours. No longer. You text me pictures every fifteen minutes. If anything seems off—anything—you bring him straight back.”
Jason raised his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Nope. But I was a Robin.”
That earned a weak laugh. Tim stood, cradling Connor one last time, then passed him—passed him—into Jason’s arms. Jason adjusted the carrier with the ease of someone who’d clearly practiced when no one was looking.
“Alright, kid,” Jason whispered to Connor. “Let’s go get some sunshine before your dad changes his mind.”

Robinson Park — Forty Minutes Later
Jason strolled the winding paths of Robinson Park, Connor snug in the chest harness beneath a light blanket. He stuck to the quiet side, away from the playground, nodding politely at dog walkers and joggers.
Connor cooed intermittently, blinking up at tree branches, wide-eyed at the sky.
“Not bad, huh?” Jason said, slowing to let a breeze wash over them. “This is called outside. It’s got leaves and wind and—whoa, you okay there, bud?”
Connor had gone stiff, staring at a duck. He made a delighted, startled noise and flailed one arm. The duck quacked back indignantly before waddling off.
Jason laughed. “You just threatened a duck. Proud of you.”
He found a shaded bench and sat, rocking gently. Connor looked around in awe, mouth forming a perfect little “O” at the unfamiliar world. Jason took a picture and sent it with the caption:
Baby vs. Nature. Nature losing.
Ten seconds later, Tim replied:
You’re holding him properly, right?
Jason snapped another photo—Connor curled against his chest, blanket tucked, one fist gripping the harness strap.
Obviously. Chill. He’s perfect.
I know.
Thanks, Jay.
Jason stared at the message for a long moment before replying with a simple:
Anytime.

Wayne Manor — One Hour Later
Jason returned exactly on time.
Tim met them at the front door like he’d been pacing behind it the entire time (he had). The moment Jason handed Connor over, Tim pressed his nose into the baby’s hair and breathed in like he hadn’t let himself exhale since they left.
“Did he…?”
“Pooped once. Smiled at a duck. Possibly threatened said duck. Otherwise? Model citizen.”
Tim blinked. “He smiled?”
“Big time. I think he likes birds.”
Connor stirred sleepily, yawned, and tucked his head against Tim’s neck. Jason grinned and clapped his brother’s shoulder.
“You did good, Tim. He’s happy. He’s safe. You’re doing this.”
Tim nodded, heart still racing but a small smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
“Next time,” Jason said, already heading down the hall, “I’m taking him for ice cream.”
Tim called after him, “He doesn’t even eat solid food yet!”
“Details!”
Tim shook his head, Connor snug against his chest, and for the first time in weeks, the world felt a little wider. A little safer.
A little more possible.

Chapter Text

It was a rare quiet morning in Wayne Manor—stillness settled into the corners like sunbeams through old drapes. Alfred stood just outside the nursery, arms crossed, brow arched in the time-tested expression he’d used to corral every member of the Wayne household for decades.
“Master Timothy,” he said crisply, “you are going to shower.”
Tim clutched Connor a little tighter. “I will. After his nap.”
“You said that two days ago. Your hair is clinging to your skull like ivy. You smell faintly of baby powder and regret. Go.”
“But what if—”
“I’ve raised six vigilantes, Master Timothy. If anything happens during a fifteen-minute shower, I shall eat one of Master Bruce’s capes.”
Tim blinked at him, clearly unconvinced.
Alfred sighed and softened. “He’ll be safe. I promise.”
Reluctantly, Tim pressed a kiss to Connor’s head, gave him one last look, and disappeared down the hall.
Alfred stepped into the nursery and gently lifted the baby from the bassinet. Connor’s tiny fists stretched above his head, mouth opened in a quiet yawn that morphed into a little chirp of protest—quickly soothed by the warmth of Alfred’s chest.
“There now,” Alfred murmured, easing into the rocking chair by the window. “Just you and me for a moment, Master Connor.”
The baby snuggled closer, already calm again.
Outside, the trees rustled in a gentle breeze, casting soft shifting patterns across the nursery wall. Inside, all was warm and still. Alfred cradled Connor with practiced ease, one hand supporting the small back, the other gently brushing over the wispy dark hair that reminded him achingly of Thomas Wayne.
“You’ve inherited quite the legacy,” Alfred said softly, voice more to himself than to the child. “Kent strength. Drake brilliance. Wayne stubbornness. And yet here you are, a blank page. A second chance.”
Connor let out a little grunt, as if in agreement.
“I never thought I’d hold the child of a child who lost so much… and yet refused to stop loving.”
Alfred's voice grew quieter.
“Your father is terrified, you know. Of failing you. Of not being enough. But he is already more than many before him. He is present. Devoted. He chose you—chooses you, every minute of the day. That kind of love… it will build you a foundation stronger than any steel.”
Connor blinked sleepily, mouth twitching as if in response.
Alfred chuckled. “Yes, yes, I’m rambling. You’ll come to expect that from me. I do go on.”
He continued rocking gently, humming a lullaby lost to memory. The smell of warm baby skin and talcum powder filled the room like nostalgia. The kind of memory that nestled into the bones and stayed forever.
After some time, soft footsteps padded back into the nursery. Tim stood in the doorway, hair damp, eyes wide.
“You’re still in one piece,” Alfred said without looking up. “Remarkable.”
Tim smiled weakly. “He didn’t even cry.”
“He is an excellent judge of character.”
Tim stepped closer, reaching instinctively for his son—but paused when he saw how peacefully Connor rested on Alfred’s chest.
“I could hold him a little longer, if you like,” Alfred offered, gently swaying.
Tim nodded, something tender in his throat. “Yeah. Just a bit.”
And so the two of them sat there in quiet companionship—Tim perched on the edge of the bed, Alfred in the rocking chair, Connor dreaming peacefully between them. Three generations stitched together by love, grief, and hope.
And in that soft-lit nursery, with no enemies at the gates and no masks on their faces, the heart of the house kept beating. Steady. Gentle. Endlessly enduring.

Chapter Text

It happened in a blink.
Tim had set a now twelve-week-old Connor on the low sitting-room couch—just long enough to grab the fresh diaper on the coffee table. One soft rustle, a surprising twist of newborn momentum, and—
thump.
Barely eight inches, onto a plush rug, but the sound ripped clear through Tim’s chest.
“Connor!”
He scooped the baby up, frantic eyes scanning for injuries that weren’t there. Connor blinked; for half a heartbeat his lip trembled—more startled than hurt—then he let out a tiny, indignant squawk.
“Alfred!” Tim’s voice cracked. “Alfred, I—he rolled—oh God—”
Alfred materialized in the doorway, tea towel in hand, composure unruffled. “Let me see him, sir.”
Tim all but shoved the child into Alfred’s waiting arms, then staggered back, lungs seizing. The room tilted; the walls seemed too close. His heartbeat roared in his ears—too loud, too fast, drowning thought.
Alfred ran practiced fingertips over Connor’s skull, spine, limbs. “No contusions. Range of motion normal. Pupils reactive.” Connor, now mildly peeved, responded with a healthy wail that proved his lungs worked fine.
“Unharmed, Master Timothy.”
But Tim barely heard. His breaths came shallow, hitching. Vision tunneled to pinpoints: Connor falling again and again and again.
You failed him you failed him you failed—
“Master Timothy,” Alfred said firmly, stepping closer, “look at me.”
Tim’s gaze snapped up—wild, unfocused.
“Good,” Alfred murmured. “Now breathe with me. In for four.”
He inhaled. Tim tried; air caught in his throat.
“Hold for four,” Alfred counted, voice calm as a metronome. “Now out for four.”
Tim exhaled raggedly. Alfred repeated. Again. Again. Slowly the buzzing in Tim’s skull lifted; the walls eased back.
“That’s it,” Alfred assured. “He is safe. Your reaction is understandable, but the danger has passed.”
Tim pressed shaking hands to his eyes. “I let go. I turned for a second—”
“And in that second your son proved he can roll sooner than expected,” Alfred replied. “A milestone, albeit one accompanied by undeniable dramatics.”
The corner of Tim’s mouth twitched—half-laugh, half-sob. He reached for Connor, who had already quieted, cheeks blotchy but eyes bright.
Alfred transferred the baby gently. “Feel his heartbeat.”
Tim laid a palm over Connor’s chest. Steady. Strong. The simple rhythm untied the last knot inside him.
“He’s okay,” Tim breathed.
“Indeed. And so are you.”
Tim sank onto the couch—cushions now fortified by Alfred with throw-pillows as a gentle, silent correction. Tears blurred his vision, but relief loosened them into warmth instead of terror.
“I thought—” Tim’s voice cracked. “I thought I’d broken him.”
Alfred sat beside him. “Children are resilient, sir. Fathers, less so.” He squeezed Tim’s shoulder. “Your fear is proof of your devotion, not evidence of failure.”
Connor hiccuped, then grinned—utterly unbothered. Tim laughed, watery but real, and kissed the soft crown of his son’s head.
Alfred rose, smoothing his vest. “I shall prepare a celebratory cushion wall around every sofa in the manor.”
“Overkill?” Tim asked.
“Standard Wayne protocol,” Alfred said, leaving the room with a faint, knowing smile. “Tea will follow in five.”
Tim cradled Connor, heartbeat finally syncing with his son’s. The fall hadn’t broken anything—but it had quietly marked the next stage: Connor could move now. The world would keep getting wider.
And Tim would keep learning that love meant letting go, just enough, while staying close enough to catch.

Chapter Text

Tim dreamed of suitcases.
Row after row, gleaming under the airport’s fluorescent glare—his mother’s designer luggage, his father’s beat-up carry-ons. Each time one rolled away down the concourse, Connor toddled after it on unsteady legs, calling for a dad who was already boarding the next flight. Tim tried to run, but the floor became tar; the gate attendant kept stamping EXPEDITION EXTENDED across every ticket.
I’ll only be gone a few months, kiddo—be brave for me.
His father’s voice, warm and distant.
Don’t make a fuss, Timothy. There are grown-up things to do.
His mother’s perfume, stinging his eyes like smoke.
And over it all, Connor’s cry fading down a jetway Tim could never reach.
He jolted awake, pulse hammering.
Darkness. The manor’s master bedroom. Rain whispered against the windows. Connor lay sprawled across Tim’s chest, small mouth puffing quiet breaths that misted the cotton of Tim’s T-shirt. Safe. Here.
Tim’s heartbeat didn’t slow.
What if I become them?
The thought crawled in, cold and certain. What if the mission drags me away for “just one night,” and one night turns into weeks? Dad always said the expeditions would end soon. Mom promised the next gala was the last.
Tim tightened his arms, as if physical closeness could anchor time itself. Connor stirred but didn’t wake; one tiny fist rested over Tim’s heart, the weight impossibly light and crushing all at once.
You’ll leave him.
The voice in his head sounded like his own—older, worn. The city will need you, the cape will call, and you’ll tell yourself it’s only temporary. Then planes, rooftops, morgues—
Tim’s breath hitched.
He glanced at the clock: 3 : 47 AM. Too late to wake Alfred, too early to summon his brothers. He was alone with the echo of a nightmare and the warm, perfect proof of everything he could still lose.
Very gently he shifted upright, keeping Connor balanced against his chest. The baby’s head nuzzled beneath Tim’s chin; the soft thump of that tiny heartbeat whispered now, now, now—all that mattered.
“I’m not them,” Tim breathed into the dark, voice shaking. “I won’t be them.”
But the doubt clung like cold sweat. Gotham always exacted a price. How many nights before a stakeout overran bedtime? How many crises before a ‘quick patrol’ became a lost weekend?
He stared at the ceiling until constellations he’d taped there in childhood swam into view—small plastic stars glowing a patient green. His dad had laughed when Tim installed them: You could just look outside, son.
But Tim needed stars that never moved. Stars that waited.
He looked down at Connor.
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “If the city needs me, it can wait. If the mission calls, it can wait. You come first.”
His throat tightened. “And if I forget—if I start to drift—remind me. Cry, scream, do whatever it takes. Don’t let me go.”
Connor sighed, lashes fluttering, as though answering in his sleep.
Tim exhaled—slow, deliberate—like Alfred had taught him. In for four, hold, out for four. The panic receded by inches, leaving a fragile hush.
Outside, thunder rumbled low; inside, Tim pressed his cheek to the crown of Connor’s head and watched the phosphorescent stars until the edges of the nightmare softened. He stayed awake long past dawn, just to be sure, promising in silent loops that the lights in this house would never flicker out for his son the way they once had for him.
And when Connor finally stirred, blinking up at the pale morning, Tim was still there—eyes tired, arms steady, determined to be the unmovable sky his child deserved.

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t think he was ready to take Connor out in public again after the fall, but Alfred had gently insisted.
“You both need fresh air,” he’d said, placing a knit hat over Connor’s fuzzy head. “A short walk to the park, perhaps. Just long enough to remind yourself the world still spins and is not, in fact, made of pillows and fear.”
So Tim went. Wrapped Connor in a soft navy blanket, tucked him into the stroller, and walked the quiet path near the manor’s outer garden that eventually looped into Gotham’s more family-friendly park area. He kept to the less crowded trails. If any strangers got too close, he turned slightly—subtly—shielding Connor with his body like a cape.
It wasn’t even busy that morning. A few joggers. A teenager scrolling on her phone while her golden retriever sniffed everything. Two older men playing chess on a stone table under the elm trees.
He almost let himself relax. Almost.
Until a voice—sharp and too sweet—cut through the calm.
“Oh, what a darling baby!”
Tim turned. A woman in her late fifties beamed at him. Designer coat, huge sunglasses, a stroller with a golden monogram on the side. A few paces behind her, a nanny trailed a toddler in a matching vest and booties.
“Thank you,” Tim said politely, automatically shifting closer to Connor’s stroller.
“How old is he?” she asked, peering in.
“Three and a half months,” Tim replied, hesitant.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. Her smile didn’t falter, but her voice tilted. “Well. I suppose they all grow at different rates, don’t they?”
Tim froze.
“I only ask,” the woman continued lightly, “because my grandson was sitting up on his own by three months. And he already had such control of his little hands. Yours looks so… delicate. Still a bit curled, poor thing. Almost like a preemie?”
The nanny behind her flinched.
“Some babies just don’t develop quite as quickly,” the woman finished with a breezy laugh. “But I’m sure he’s lovely in his own way. You’re doing your best, I’m sure.”
Tim’s vision blurred at the edges. He nodded stiffly, excused himself, and walked away as fast as he could without breaking into a jog. Connor had stirred at the raised voices, but now settled, unaware, soft breathing rising in rhythm with each of Tim’s increasingly frantic steps.
By the time they made it home, Tim’s thoughts were a swarm.
What if she’s right? What if he’s not developing right because I’m doing something wrong? Maybe I’m not holding him right. Or talking to him enough. Maybe I’m too tired to notice something crucial. What if there’s already damage? What if I’ve broken him and it hasn’t shown up yet?
Inside the manor, he went straight upstairs. The stroller was forgotten by the door. He held Connor close to his chest and sat down on the nursery floor, legs crossed, baby curled against him like a fragile bundle of unanswered questions.
Tim stared down at his son’s face. Soft. Calm. Innocent.
But now, doubt crept in where love had only moments before filled every inch of him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry if I’m not doing this right.”
Connor shifted, one small hand uncurling just enough to rest against Tim’s collarbone. His breathing was slow and warm and trusting.
Tim’s eyes burned.
He didn’t hear Alfred enter—silent as ever—until the old man lowered himself gracefully onto the floor beside him.
“Let me guess,” Alfred said softly. “A stranger in the park offered unsolicited parenting wisdom?”
Tim didn’t answer. He just nodded, jaw tight.
“They always do,” Alfred said gently. “People project. And very often, they compare. It has little to do with your son, and everything to do with their own need to feel superior.”
“She said he looked underdeveloped,” Tim croaked. “Like he should be doing more. What if she’s right?”
Alfred paused. Then, after a moment, reached out and traced one gloved finger along Connor’s soft hair.
“I have seen many babies in my day, Master Timothy. Yours is healthy, alert, and thriving. He tracks your voice. He recognizes your scent. He is learning the sound of safety and the shape of love. That, I dare say, is development.”
Tim let out a shaky breath. “What if I mess it up?”
“You will,” Alfred said calmly. “From time to time. All parents do. But you will also do far more right than wrong.”
Connor made a soft noise, then gave a tiny sneeze that startled him into a hiccup.
Alfred smiled. “That is the sneeze of a baby who is very much fine.”
Tim finally let out a small laugh—exhausted and uneven, but real.
Alfred stood, then offered a hand. “Come. Let’s feed the boy, and perhaps his father as well. I believe your son is overdue for his daily round of tummy time, followed by a nap he won’t take, and a victory photo to send to Master Richard.”
Tim hesitated, then stood, still holding Connor close.
And as they walked out of the nursery, Tim leaned down and whispered against his son’s ear:
“You’re perfect. I’ve got you. And I’m trying, kiddo. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Rain tapped softly against the manor’s library windows, turning the tall panes into muted watercolor sheets, the gray sky outside blending seamlessly into the wet trees beyond. Each drop struck with a gentle rhythm, as if nature itself was humming lullabies too tender for words.
Most afternoons, the room smelled faintly of old leather, parchment, and dust—a comfort in its own right. But today, layered under the usual scent of old books and quiet years, was the gentle presence of vanilla-bean and amber. Alfred must have lit a candle earlier, a quiet act of care left glowing in the corner. Its small flame flickered against the glass casing, dancing golden shadows across the spines of shelved volumes.
Tim settled into the deep window seat with the kind of sigh that came from deep in the ribs, the kind he only ever let out in solitude or safety. He stretched his legs beneath the layered weight of knitted blankets—grays and soft blues, worn from years of Wayne family use—and let the weight press him down, cocooned from the vastness of the manor.
Cradled against his chest, three-and-a-half-month-old Connor fit like he was carved for this space. He lay stretched along Tim’s sternum, tucked just under his chin, with one cheek mashed slightly against the fabric of Tim’s hoodie. His breathing came in small, uneven sighs, like his lungs were still learning the choreography of rest. And yet, there was nothing uncertain in the way his tiny fingers flexed outward and then curled, searching by instinct until they found the drawstring near Tim’s collarbone.
He latched on, a gummy fist tightening around the cord. There was a satisfied little hum—barely more than a breath—and then stillness again. Tim smiled, eyes fluttering closed as he rested his chin lightly against Connor’s head.
“Comfy, little star?” he whispered, voice no louder than the flick of a turning page.
The only reply was the near-silent, rhythmic sound of Connor’s breathing, soft enough to blend with the hush of rain. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off—low and long, not frightening but felt in the bones like a deep drumbeat. The kind of thunder that arrived after the worst had passed.
Tim gently pulled the blanket higher over Connor’s legs, letting his hand rest between his son’s tiny shoulder blades. He rubbed small, instinctual circles there—calming, grounding, more for himself than the baby. His touch mapped each rib and soft curve, committing it all to memory.
For once, there were no alarms sounding in the back of his brain. No to-do list running in endless cycles. No patrols to plan, no contingency scenarios to simulate. No fear pressing against the edges of joy. Just the weight of a baby on his chest and the warmth of the library wrapping around them like a second skin.
Each rise and fall of Connor’s chest tethered Tim more tightly to the present. There was no past grief here, no haunting what-ifs. Just now. Just this.
Time blurred around the edges. A log popped in the fireplace across the room, sending a small constellation of sparks dancing up the flue. Outside, wind brushed through the ivy that clung to the manor’s walls, but it was muffled—inaudible beyond the window glass, more suggestion than sound. Inside, the world had gone still, reduced to the perfect gravity of this one moment.
Tim traced the profile of his son with his eyes: the delicate slope of a cheek; the button tip of his nose; the nearly translucent lashes that curled at the corners, catching faint light like spun silver. His hair, soft as breath, curled stubbornly at the crown no matter how Tim tried to smooth it. The swirl reminded him of Conner and yet... didn’t. It was something new. Something his.
There were echoes in Connor—flashes of Kent, fragments of Drake, shades of Wayne—but also something that belonged only to him, something Tim hadn’t found language for yet. Not science or legacy. Just Connor.
“I love you,” Tim said softly, the words carried on a breath rather than voice. It wasn’t a declaration. It was a vow, sacred and simple.
Connor didn’t stir, but Tim swore the baby nestled closer, his tiny brow relaxing in sleep. As if he understood, in some secret way, that love was a promise his father intended to keep.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Tim wasn’t sure anymore.
Eventually, the candle burned lower, casting a smaller and smaller pool of light across the shelves. The scent lingered, a last warm exhale before the wick gave out. The storm softened into whispers and hushes. Even the fire mellowed into slow pops and glowing coals.
Tim’s head fell back against the cool windowpane, his breathing syncing with the steady rise and fall of the bundle on his chest. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, his body loosened, mind quieted, heart stilled.
The manor kept watch. The storm kept time. Father and son slept—heartbeat to heartbeat—as the world outside faded, and the rain kept writing lullabies against the glass.

Chapter Text

The manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
It was late—past 2 a.m., maybe closer to 3—but time had stopped making sense a long time ago. The only sound in the room was the soft rhythm of Connor’s breathing, a metronome of peace against Tim’s chest.
They were back in the nursery rocker, lights low, the soft creak of the chair barely audible as Tim rocked them gently. Connor lay fast asleep in one of Tim’s oldest hoodies—folded and cinched into a makeshift swaddle, the sleeves knotted carefully to hold him snug. Tim hadn’t meant to cry.
But he had been holding it in for too long.
And now, he couldn’t stop.
It started as a hitch in his breath. Then a burn in his throat. Then everything spilled, uninvited, out of his chest—guttural, quiet sobs that shook through his shoulders like aftershocks. He turned his face slightly so the tears wouldn’t fall on Connor’s sleeping head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracked. “I’m so sorry.”
Connor stirred briefly, shifting closer into the warmth of his father’s body. The small weight of him was grounding and overwhelming at once.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tim whispered hoarsely. “I’m trying. God, I’m trying so hard. But some days I feel like I’m just pretending to be the person he needs.”
The words poured out, broken and desperate, soaked in the kind of guilt that only comes from loving something too much to trust yourself with it.
“I never had this,” he said, rocking a little harder, tears slipping freely now. “Not the way I needed. Not the way you deserve. And I don’t know how to be that person. I’m scared I’m gonna mess it all up. I’m scared I’ll forget to pack a bottle, or miss a sign, or blink, and you’ll be gone—like everyone else I’ve ever cared about.”
He choked out a laugh, wet and bitter. “And I keep telling myself I’ll do better. That I’ll be better. But what if it’s not enough? What if love isn’t enough?”
Connor didn’t answer. He just breathed. Soft and steady and sure. Trusting his father with everything, even as his father unraveled.
“I want to be good for you,” Tim whispered. “Even if I never get it perfect. Even if I break sometimes. I swear to you, I will never stop trying. You are everything, baby boy. You’re my second chance.”
The tears didn’t stop, but the storm inside eased—just a little. The pressure cracked open, and in its place came a trembling kind of calm.
Tim pressed a kiss to Connor’s forehead, holding him close.
“You’re not alone,” he murmured, as if promising it to both of them. “Not ever. I’m staying. I choose you.”
Outside, the wind moved gently through the trees, brushing against the manor’s windows like a lullaby. Inside, in a rocking chair worn soft from sleepless nights, a father held his son as the sun considered rising.
And in the quiet aftermath of tears, Tim finally let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he could be enough.

Chapter Text

The world shifted in the quiet way only the manor could detect.
There was no thunderclap. No rip in the sky or dramatic boom. Just the soft hum of the grandfather clock resetting itself at precisely 3:00 p.m.—an impossible tick forward in the middle of a sleepy afternoon.
And with it, Bruce Wayne walked back into his home.
The Bat was back from the timestream.
Alfred had known hours before. Something in the air had changed. A stillness in the shadows. A presence old as the cave beneath the house. He said nothing. Only prepared the study and made tea, because that's what you do when the storm comes home.
Tim, however, hadn’t known.
He’d just gotten Connor down for a nap. The little one lay curled in his crib, arms overhead in that boneless, trusting baby sprawl. Tim hovered nearby, glancing from the baby monitor to his son, heart still raw from last night’s breakdown.
So when Alfred gently knocked, and said, “Master Timothy… there’s someone here to see you,” Tim didn’t think much of it.
Not until he stepped into the study and froze.
Bruce was standing in front of the fireplace.
Tim’s stomach dropped like a trapdoor opened under his ribs.
“Bruce,” he breathed. Then louder: “Bruce?”
The man turned.
Older than the last time Tim had seen him—more shadows in his face, more miles behind the eyes—but alive. Solid. Whole.
And watching Tim with a look he couldn’t read.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Bruce crossed the room.
Tim instinctively took a step back.
“I—I didn’t know you were back,” he said, voice tight.
“I just arrived,” Bruce said. “Alfred told me… enough to get me here.”
Tim nodded, stiff. “So you know.”
“Yes.”
More silence.
Tim could barely breathe. This is it. He’s going to take him. He’s going to say I’m not stable. That I’m not ready. That I—
“Where is he?” Bruce asked quietly.
Tim blinked. “What?”
“Where’s my grandson?”
The word hit like an earthquake.
“...What?”
“I want to meet him,” Bruce said, softer now. “Alfred said his name is Connor.”
Tim stared. The panic in his chest hadn’t gone—if anything, it was louder now, pressing in with a thousand jagged claws.
“I—he’s sleeping,” Tim said. “He—he had a rough night and I finally got him down. Maybe later—”
“I’ll be quiet,” Bruce said.
There was something in his voice. A kind of gravity Tim hadn’t heard before. Not when Jason died. Not even when Damian first came home.
Tim hesitated. Then wordlessly, he turned and led the way.
They walked in silence to the nursery.
Connor was still asleep, tiny chest rising and falling with steady rhythm. His stuffed bat plushie sat beside him, slightly askew. One hand clutched the tail of his soft blanket. His mouth twitched in his sleep—probably dreaming of warm bottles or ceiling fans.
Bruce stood at the doorway, unmoving.
Then slowly, like a man afraid to disturb sacred ground, he stepped closer.
And something in him cracked.
Not visibly. Not loudly.
But Tim could feel it.
Bruce stared down at the baby with awe so thick it silenced the air. And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper so reverent it didn’t sound like him at all.
“He’s so small.”
Tim nodded, lips pressed tight, heart pounding.
Bruce turned to him then. And for the first time in a long time, his eyes weren’t hard. They weren’t tired. They were full.
“You did this?” he asked.
Tim opened his mouth. Shut it. Then nodded again. “Yeah.”
“With Kon’s DNA?”
“And… mine. By accident.” Tim swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to create him. I just wanted—I missed him. I was grieving, and it got out of control, and then… then he was here. And I couldn’t—Bruce, I can’t let him go. He’s mine. Please don’t take him from me.”
Bruce’s face shifted sharply. “What?”
“I know what this looks like, okay? I know I’ve been sleep-deprived, and I spiral, and I panic. I’m not perfect—but I’m trying. I love him. I love him so much it terrifies me. Just—just don’t say I can’t keep him. Please.”
Bruce didn’t answer at first.
Then, he looked back at Connor, at the small hand curled beside his cheek, the faintest dusting of dark hair on his head, and something ancient in Bruce Wayne finally, finally, softened.
“I’m not here to take him,” Bruce said.
Tim’s breath caught.
“I’m here because I just found out I have a grandson,” Bruce continued. “And I’ve spent my entire life missing my children’s childhoods. You all came to me broken, or angry, or already half-grown. I never got this. Not once.”
He knelt beside the crib—slowly, carefully—and reached a gloved finger toward Connor’s hand.
Connor, somehow sensing the attention, stretched in his sleep. His tiny fingers brushed Bruce’s knuckle before curling back in.
And Bruce—stoic, impenetrable Bruce—smiled.
It was small. Worn. But real.
“I’ve missed too much already,” he said. “I’m not missing this.”
Tim’s knees gave out, and he sat on the nursery floor, emotion washing over him in waves too strong to hold back.
Bruce looked over.
“You’re a father, Tim,” he said gently. “And from what I hear—you’re a good one.”
Tim looked up, eyes shining. “You’re… okay with this?”
“I’m proud of you,” Bruce said. “You’ve given this family something we’ve never had. A child born into love. A second chance.”
Tim laughed—wet and tired and full of disbelief.
Then, softly, “You’re a grandpa.”
Bruce snorted faintly. “Don’t remind me.”
But he didn’t look annoyed. He looked… grateful.
He looked like a man holding a miracle.

Chapter Text

It was just after dawn when Bruce padded softly into the nursery, the house still wrapped in early-morning hush. Tim—finally persuaded to sleep—was stretched across the daybed, one arm flung over his eyes, lost to the world for the first time in days.
Bruce paused beside him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then he turned to the crib.
Connor was awake.
Wide, curious eyes blinked up at the mobile of tiny planets spinning lazily overhead. At the first creak of Bruce’s step, the baby stilled, caught in that bright, careful focus unique to infants discovering faces.
“Good morning,” Bruce whispered.
He eased his hands beneath the small body—struck again by how little weight they held—and lifted Connor close. The baby studied him, solemn and patient, as though evaluating this new presence in his orbit.
Bruce carried him to the rocking chair by the window. Gotham’s skyline glimmered far beyond the grounds, just beginning to blush with sunrise. He sat, settling Connor against his broad chest, instinctively finding a steady rhythm in the rocker’s glide.
“Your dad is a remarkable man,” Bruce murmured, voice low and even, the way he might brief a new partner. “Smart. Loyal. Stubborn in all the ways that matter. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Connor gurgled, tiny hands fisting in the fabric of Bruce’s black Henley.
“I missed this with him,” Bruce admitted. “With all of them. Dick was already flying through the air when I met him. Jason was half fury, half heartbreak. Tim—Tim walked into my life already carrying too much. And Damian…” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Damian arrived wielding a sword.”
He shifted Connor a little higher, supporting the wobbly head with a careful palm. “But you— you’re the first I’ve held at the start.”
The baby made a soft, questioning sound. Bruce answered by pointing toward the window. “See that? City lights. Someday you’ll ask why they flicker, why they matter. Your father will tell you about duty. I’ll tell you about hope.” He paused, the rocker creaking gently. “Both are true.”
Connor’s gaze followed the slow sweep of Bruce’s finger, though he understood none of it yet. His world was heartbeat, warmth, breath. Bruce exhaled, letting his own heartbeat fall into that smaller rhythm.
“Your name carries stories,” he went on. “Connor, for courage. Frederick, for grace. Kent, for strength. Drake, for resilience. Wayne… for home.” The last word caught slightly in his throat. “We’ll make sure you feel all of that.”
Outside, a robin trilled; sunrise painted gold across the nursery wall. Connor yawned—an exaggerated, full-body motion—then nestled closer, eyelids fluttering.
Bruce’s expression softened. Lines of battle and loss eased under the quiet weight of new life. He brushed a knuckle across downy hair, marveling that something so small could steady a man who had faced gods and monsters.
“You won’t remember this,” he whispered. “But I will.”
Another slow rock. Another breath. In the daybed’s shadow, Tim stirred but did not wake, trusting the moment to hands that finally knew how to be gentle.
Grandfather and grandson drifted together in dawn’s hush—one discovering wonder, the other relearning it—while Gotham, for a rare heartbeat, seemed perfectly at peace.

Chapter Text

Four months.
Connor was four months old.
It hit Tim like a lightning bolt when he glanced at the date circled on the nursery calendar that morning. Four months since that lab chamber opened. Four months since Connor blinked up at him with brand-new eyes and rewrote the course of his life in an instant.
Now Connor was no longer the sleepy, bundle-wrapped infant from those first few weeks. He was curious. Wiggly. Loud when he wanted to be. Tim sat cross-legged on the nursery floor beside a soft, oversized play mat as his son squirmed happily on his belly, cooing at nothing in particular.
Connor had learned to wriggle.
It wasn’t quite crawling. Not yet. But he’d figured out how to push off with his toes, scooting himself in lopsided arcs across the mat. He’d grunt with effort, flail his chubby arms for balance, and kick his legs like he was swimming through air.
Tim watched in awe as Connor inched his way toward a crinkly star toy, grabbed it with both hands, then promptly stuffed a corner into his mouth.
“Victory,” Tim said softly, smiling.
But under the warmth of that smile, a different thought brewed.
It had been four months. And not a single sign of powers.
Not even a flicker.
No floating. No eye glows. No tiny earthquakes from fussy cries. Clark had told him what to expect—how Kryptonian powers manifested slowly under Earth’s yellow sun. But even half-Kryptonian babies usually showed something by this point. Even the smallest sign.
And Connor had nothing.
Tim reached for the pacifier resting on the edge of the mat and offered it to his son, who took it happily, still chewing on the toy with the unbothered ease of a baby with no idea his father’s heart was breaking in slow motion.
“I don’t think you’re going to fly, kid,” Tim whispered.
He hadn’t said it aloud until now. Hadn’t dared.
It had crept in gradually, between the lines of the baby books and the long emails from Clark about hybrid development. The tiny, impossible hope that some spark of Kon might shine through more literally. That maybe, in some way, Tim could preserve not just the memory of Kon, but the power of him.
But Connor hadn’t inherited that.
Maybe it was the way the DNA mingled. Maybe human-Kryptonian hybridization didn’t take kindly to grief-forged science. Or maybe… maybe it was just the universe’s way of saying this child was not Kon.
He was his own person.
Tim looked down at the wriggling baby and felt the ache twist into something softer. He reached out and gently brushed Connor’s cheek with his knuckles.
“You don’t need to fly,” Tim said. “You’re already more than enough.”
Connor, oblivious to the weight of the moment, blew a spit bubble and grinned.
Tim laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss the top of his head.
“You don’t have to be a superhero,” he said, voice warm. “You just have to be you. That’s more than I ever dreamed I’d get.”
Outside the window, autumn had begun to stretch its fingers across the trees—reds and golds dancing on the breeze. The manor stood still and quiet in that soft light, cradling its newest heart in layers of old walls and warm silence.
On the nursery floor, Tim stretched out beside his son, watching Connor’s clumsy wiggles as if they were miracles. Because to him, they were.
No heat vision. No flight.
Just love. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Tim found Damian exactly where Alfred had predicted: in the Wayne Manor training room, barefoot on the polished maple floor, practicing a fluid kata with a wooden bo staff. Every strike snapped through the still morning air with surgical precision.
Tim cleared his throat.
“Got a minute?”
Damian stopped mid-sweep, dark brows lifting. “Father said I was on ‘uncle duty’ today.” He made the phrase sound like a classified assignment. “Where is the target?”
Tim couldn’t decide if that phrasing was hilarious or horrifying, so he chose to ignore it. He adjusted the carrier strapped against his chest and stepped forward. Inside, four-month-old Connor peered out—wide-eyed, pacifier bobbing.
Damian’s gaze softened by a fraction. He set the staff aside and approached with the solemnity of a knight receiving a quest. “Is he fed? Changed? Properly rested?”
“Bottle, diaper, nap—boxed set,” Tim said, smiling. “He’s all yours for the next hour. I’ll be upstairs finishing reports.”
Damian hesitated, then offered his arms. Tim slid the carrier’s straps over his brother’s shoulders, tightening the buckles with practiced ease. Connor blinked up at his new perch, fist curling around a bit of Damian’s tunic.
“When he fusses,” Tim coached, “just bounce lightly or hum. Oh, and if he starts gnawing your shirt, that means—”
“I am not incompetent, Drake,” Damian said—but the edge was dulled by the way he instinctively cupped Connor’s head.
Tim backed toward the door. “Shout if you need me.”
As soon as Tim was gone, the training room felt cavernous. Damian glanced down at the tiny passenger. Connor stared back, pacifier squeaking.
“This is the Wayne family dojo,” Damian informed him. “We train here to protect Gotham. You will, of course, master proper form before you can walk.”
Connor blew a spit bubble.
Damian considered. “Very well. We begin with observation.”
He paced to the mirrored wall and faced outward so Connor could see their reflection—a tall teen in League-blacks and a chubby infant strapped to his chest like an adorable piece of tactical gear.
“This is us,” Damian said. “Formidable.”
Connor squealed, kicking both feet.
Encouraged, Damian retrieved a light practice dagger—the rubber kind used for beginners—and performed a slow, exaggerated twirl. “Focus on blade alignment.”
Connor laughed—an honest-to-goodness belly laugh that echoed off the walls.
Damian froze. He did the spin again. Same squeal, even brighter.
“…You find this humorous,” Damian noted, a bewildered smile crawling across his own face before he could stop it. He tried a simple figure-eight flourish; Connor’s eyes tracked the motion, mouth forming a fascinated o.
“Remarkable visual acuity,” Damian murmured. “Your father will be pleased.”
The pacifier dropped. Connor gnawed Damian’s tunic instead.
“Hn. Feeding cue.” Damian unhooked the bottle Tim had tucked into the carrier pocket, tested the temperature against his wrist—just as Alfred had shown him—and offered it. Connor latched instantly.
“Efficient,” Damian praised, watching the small throat work as the milk disappeared. When Connor paused, Damian lifted him to burp—gentle thumps between infant shoulder blades, another skill Alfred had drilled into him with military rigor.
A tiny burp emerged. Damian looked proud enough to put it on a trophy shelf.
After the bottle, Damian laid Connor on a soft mat, staying prone beside him. The baby immediately began his signature wiggle, pushing with stubby legs until he executed a half-rotation that left him staring triumphantly at the ceiling.
“Excellent reversal,” Damian murmured. He placed two fingers in front of Connor; small hands grasped them with surprising strength. “Grip is improving. Good.”
For the next twenty minutes, Damian narrated everything—counting reps of wiggles, commenting on muscle engagement, drawing parallels between tummy-time and League core conditioning. Connor soaked it in, offering happy chirps and drool in response.
Eventually the wiggles slowed; lids drooped. Damian lifted his nephew back into the carrier, securing the straps with meticulous care. Connor snuggled against his chest, sighing contentedly.
Damian rocked side to side, almost unconsciously. “Rest now, little one. Growth requires recovery.”
The dojo door eased open. Tim peeked in. “Everything okay?”
Damian straightened—not too abruptly, mindful of the sleeping weight. “The mission was successful. He consumed four ounces, performed ten assisted leg drives, and achieved three self-initiated rolls.”
Tim grinned. “Sounds like you two had fun.”
Damian’s cheeks colored faintly. “He is… adequate.”
Tim stepped closer, brushing a fingertip over Connor’s wispy hair. “Thank you, Damian. Really.”
Damian nodded, then ducked his head to look at the slumbering infant. “Next session we introduce balance work.”
Tim laughed. “Maybe start with sitting first.”
“We’ll see.”
They exited together, Damian still swaying in that unconscious, rocking step. And for all his League training, all his stoic composure, he couldn’t stop the small smile that lingered as his nephew dreamed against his heart.

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled through Wayne Manor’s south atrium, painting long stripes across the marble floor. Hidden somewhere in those stripes, Dick Grayson crouched in a makeshift “jungle” he’d created from every potted plant Alfred allowed inside.
Across the atrium’s gap—ten whole feet away—four-month-old Connor Drake-Kent-Wayne lounged in a baby bouncer, kicking happily. Tim hovered just off-screen in the doorway, eyebrow arched.
“Tell me again,” Tim said, arms folded, “why you’re turning my son’s tummy-time into Ninja Warrior: Houseplant Edition?”
Dick flashed a grin. “Enrichment, little brother. Kid needs visual stimulation, and I need an excuse to finally use the word foliage in a mission brief.”
He vaulted over a fern, somersaulted, and landed in front of Connor with exaggerated ta-da arms. Connor squealed—arms flailing, wide blue-and-hazel eyes shining.
“That,” Dick whispered, “is the sound of approval.”
Tim sighed but handed over the diaper bag. “Two hours. If you break him, Bruce will ground you.”
“I used to fly for a living,” Dick reminded him. “A baby is basically a low-altitude practice dummy—with personality.” He winked; Tim rolled his eyes and vanished down the hall.

Act I: The Tour
Dick scooped Connor—carrier and all—onto his hip and began the Grand Atrium Safari.
“That’s a ficus,” he narrated, pointing. “Fic-us. Hard to climb; slick bark.” Connor reached, fascinated.
They paused at a window seat where the sun pooled warm and bright. Dick unbuckled the carrier, setting the baby on his lap facing outward.
“Rule one of flying,” Dick said softly, guiding Connor’s tiny arms wide, “is trust your spotter.” He mimed a slow “wing-flap,” making whooshing noises. Connor gurgled, kicking delightedly.
“Rule two,” Dick continued, lifting him gently overhead, “is look where you’re going!” He dipped Connor down in an arc; the baby shrieked with laughter.
Dick’s own chest tightened. So that’s what pure joy sounds like.

Act II: The Floor Show
Blanket spread, Dick sprawled belly-down opposite Connor for tummy time.
“Okay, Wingman,” he said, chin propped on his hands, “show me your moves.”
Connor pushed. Wiggle. Wiggle. Tiny grunt.
“Use the core!” Dick coached. “Glutes engaged!”
Another wiggle—and Connor scooted forward an entire inch. Dick gasped theatrically. “He’s on the move, folks! Start the obstacle clock—he’s set a new course record!”
Connor beamed, drool escaping at warp speed. Dick offered a soft rattle shaped like the Flying Graysons’ logo—custom 3-D printed, of course. Connor seized it, shook it with surprising force, bonked Dick’s nose.
“Ow,” Dick mock-groaned. “Lethal weapon already. Uncle Jason will be proud.”

Act III: Wind-Down
Soon eyelids drooped, wiggles slowed. Dick gathered Connor against his chest, settling into the window seat where late-morning light had mellowed to gold. Outside, robins darted between branches—tiny acrobats tracing invisible trapezes. Dick pointed them out in hushed commentary until Connor’s blinking turned to long, slow blinks and finally sleep, small fist tangled in Dick’s shirt.
Dick inhaled the baby-shampoo scent, an ache of memory tugging—nights on Haley’s circus train, curled against his own mother’s heartbeat. For a moment, past and future braided together: a boy who lost his parents holding a child born into a family determined not to lose anyone else.
“You’re safe, kiddo,” he whispered. “We’ve got nets everywhere.”

Tim reappeared exactly on the two-hour mark, footsteps soft. He paused at the sight: Dick half-reclined against the window frame, mouth curved in a sleepy smile, Connor snoring delicately on his chest.
Tim’s shoulders lowered. “He didn’t wear you out too much?”
Dick looked up, blue eyes warm. “Best workout all week.” He brushed a fingertip over Connor’s hair, then carefully transferred the dozing bundle to Tim’s arms.
“Thanks,” Tim said quietly.
Dick ruffled his brother’s hair. “Anytime. Oh—he added ‘wingover scoot’ to his repertoire. I wrote it up in the log.”
Tim chuckled. “Of course you did.”
Together they left the atrium, one brother yawning, the other rocking his sleepy son—sun stripes stretching behind them like trapeze ropes left swaying after the show.

Chapter Text

Seven months.
Connor’s wispy hair had darkened into night-black curls; his eyes were bright marbles that flipped between Kent blue and Drake hazel depending on the light (from Tim’s mother). He could sit now—wobbly but determined—and he’d mastered a one-knee, one-foot scoot across rugs that Damian insisted was “tactically superior” to crawling.
Saturday at Wayne Manor was an almost mythical thing: no alarms, no patrol debriefs, just late-morning sunshine and the smell of Alfred’s cinnamon-cardamom coffee drifting through the kitchen. Tim orbited the island in habitual sweeps—cupboard corners padded? Bottle warming? Baby upright?—while Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Damian lingered like protective moons around a single bright star.
Connor, enthroned in his high-chair, gnawed thoughtfully on a silicone spoon. Every so often he’d lift it overhead and bring it down with the solemnity of a gavel: boom. Declaring, perhaps, that breakfast court was in session.
Jason sipped coffee, amused. “Kid’s calling order.”
Dick leaned in, cheeks puffed. Pbbbft. A ridiculous raspberry. Connor startled, then grinned so wide his gums shone; a string of drool glittered in the sun.
“C’mon,” Dick coaxed, tapping the tray, “give Uncle Dick something to work with—da-da, maybe?”
Tim froze mid-pour of formula. He and the others had been running a light-hearted pool for weeks: first word—Dad? B? Alfred? So far their prodigy offered only squeals and the occasional babble refrain (“ba-ba-ba-BA!”) that left every adult teary-eyed with glee.
Bruce—ever the data analyst—kept a discreet tally sheet in his breast pocket. Columns: “Word,” “Date,” “Witnesses,” “Context.” A tiny pen peeked out, ready.
Now Connor locked onto Tim. Spoon halfway to his mouth, he paused, gaze sharpening. Then, decisive, he dropped the spoon. Clack. Both hands lifted, fingers flexing. A demand.
Tim set the bottle aside, wiped formula off his wrist, and leaned close. “Hey, little star. Hungry?”
Connor answered with a soft vowel—“ahh”—then shaped his mouth again. A hush fell over granite countertops and gleaming copper pans.
“Da…” Connor puffed, delicate brows knitting in concentration. “Da.”
Tim’s heart detonated. Around them the kitchen seemed to tilt, pulling focus to that single syllable.
But Connor wasn’t finished. He drew breath, tiny chest expanding, and tried again. Hands curled like grappling hooks for emphasis:
“Bat!”
Clear. Unmistakable. The consonant rang off tile.
Five grown vigilantes gaped.
Jason broke first—laughter ricocheted off cabinet doors, a wild, echoing bark. “No freakin’ way—his first word is Bat?”
Dick whooped, spinning once in place like a gymnast who’d stuck a landing. “That is perfect!”
Tim’s eyes flooded. A half-sob, half-laugh burst free as he unbuckled the tray, scooping Connor up. Kisses rained on chubby cheeks. “You said Bat, buddy? That’s—you—oh my god.” Tears slid unchecked; he didn’t care.
Bruce’s smile was small but unstoppable, a crack in granite. “Technically on brand,” he murmured, and the pen in his pocket clicked: First word—BAT. Under “Context,” he scribbled family breakfast.
Damian smirked, already jotting in a miniature leather journal: Primary allegiance established. He slid the book back into a hidden sleeve like a satisfied field operative.
Connor beamed, delighted by the uproar. Toddlers double down on triumphs: he planted one pudgy hand on Tim’s jaw, stared each adult square in the eye, and shouted again—louder, confident:
“BAT!”
The word shot to the vaulted ceiling; Alfred’s chandelier trembled with history in the making. Bruce laughed—quiet, rusty, shocked out of him—and for a breath the kitchen filled with something brighter than sunlight.
Jason thumped the table. “Kid’s ready for a cape—tiny little diaper cape.”
“Absolutely not,” Tim managed, hugging Connor close. The baby squealed, triumphant.
Dick wiped an eye. “Okay, next goals: pull-ups, backflips, and the phrase Nightwing rules.”
“Negative,” Damian intoned. “First full sentence will be Gotham is mine.”
Tim kissed Connor’s hair, voice thick. “Let’s aim lower. Maybe please and thank you first.”
Connor responded by trying to chew on the spoon again—mission accomplished, fuss forgotten. Tim tucked the memory into his heart like a talisman: first word, first belonging, first rally cry that he was part of something fierce and unbreakable.
He pressed his forehead to his son’s. “Bat,” he repeated, softer, tears slipping free. “Yeah. We’re Bats. All of us.”
Outside, a breeze rustled fall leaves; inside, the family bustled—Jason composing a victory ballad on a wooden spoon, Dick already ordering BAT onesies online, Damian detailing infant krav-maga milestones, Bruce silently updating the tally sheet, date underlined twice.
And Tim—laughing, crying, whole—whispered a new promise only his son could hear:
“Next word’s gonna be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
Connor burbled, as if agreeing, and lifted the spoon—ready, perhaps, to gavel the court into session once more.

Chapter Text

The lab hummed with low, pulsing light.
Deep beneath the Fortress of Solitude, a chamber long thought inert began to glow. Crystalline panels shifted, old Kryptonian tech booting up like a forgotten memory. In a burst of white light and flickering static, the resurrection pod opened with a hiss.
And Kon-El gasped for breath.
He jolted upright—chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin. The air was cold. His mind was a whirl of noise: pain, light, memories like shattered glass. He remembered dying. He remembered saving the world.
And now… he was back.
He stumbled from the pod, grabbing onto the wall. Alarms began to blare in a language he barely understood. He blinked, disoriented, until he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored crystal—same face. Same body. Same mess of black hair.
He wasn’t dreaming.

Tim was at the Manor when the alert hit his communicator: Kryptonian biosignature reactivated.
There was only one Kryptonian signature like that.
The bottle in his hand hit the floor.

The Fortress loomed cold and alien when Tim arrived—Connor strapped snugly to his chest in his winter onesie, hood shaped like little bat ears. He barely remembered flying there—just Alfred’s voice telling him to breathe, and the world narrowing into one question:
Could it really be him?
And then he saw him.
Kon stood in the center of the Fortress, shirtless, confused, very much alive.
Tim stopped dead, every cell in his body screaming.
Kon turned.
Their eyes met—and Kon’s brow furrowed in slow, confused wonder. “Tim…?”
Tim’s knees buckled. “Oh my god.”
Kon was on him in seconds, strong hands catching his arms—but he paused, seeing the baby between them. His mouth parted, shock bleeding into something deeper. He stared at the bundle, then back at Tim.
“Is that—?”
Tim’s voice broke. “Kon, I—there was an accident—I didn’t mean to—”
Kon stared at the baby again. At the round cheeks. The curl of black hair. The familiar eyes, one shade off.
Connor blinked up at him and blew a bubble.
“…Is he mine?” Kon asked, voice barely a whisper.
Tim nodded, arms tight around the baby, as if afraid someone would rip him away.
Kon’s gaze flickered—panic, disbelief, awe. He stepped back, hands up. “You—you made a kid?”
Tim flinched. “Not on purpose. I was trying to clone you, I—I missed you so much, and I didn’t check the DNA purity and mine got mixed in and he just—happened. He’s not a weapon. He’s not a clone of either of us. He’s a baby, Kon. Our baby.”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away from Kon’s face. Couldn’t survive the next moment if Kon hated him.
But Kon didn’t move.
He stepped forward again—slowly this time. Carefully. And looked down at the tiny boy on Tim’s chest. Connor blinked. Then smiled.
“He smiled at me,” Kon breathed, stunned.
Tim nodded, voice cracking. “He does that sometimes.”
Kon reached out like he was touching light—fingertips brushing Connor’s hand. The baby latched on, chubby fingers closing over his finger like it was the only thing he trusted in the world.
And Kon fell to his knees.
He laughed—wet, breathless, overwhelmed. “He’s real,” he whispered. “He’s mine.”
Tim dropped beside him, sobbing. “Ours.”
Connor gurgled. Content. Whole.
Kon pulled them both into a shaking hug, pressing his forehead to Tim’s, one hand cradling his son’s back.
“I missed so much,” Kon said, voice cracked raw. “But I’m here now. I’m here.”
And as his son cooed between them, Tim finally, finally let himself believe that maybe he didn’t have to do this alone anymore.

Chapter Text

Kon had faced mind control, death, alien warlords, and Lex Luthor.
Nothing could’ve prepared him for the Wayne family’s shovel talk.
He was ushered into the Manor’s formal living room with military precision. Alfred stood by the door, a tray of tea balanced in one hand like a weapon of social warfare. Kon hadn’t been back on Earth a full twenty-four hours, but the summons had been immediate.
Tim had whispered, “I’ll stall them if I can,” before vanishing like a coward.
Kon stood awkwardly in the center of the room. One by one, they entered.
Bruce, first. Silent. Towering. Radiating dad rage at an ambient level.
Dick followed, arms crossed, smile too easy.
Jason came next, flipping a butterfly knife and scowling for the drama.
Then Damian, who sat on the couch like a mafia boss with a juice box.
Alfred closed the door behind them with an ominous click.
Kon cleared his throat. “So… this is happening.”
“Sit,” Bruce said.
He did.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Dick leaned forward. “So. You came back from the dead. Surprise twist. Love that for you.”
“Thanks?” Kon said warily.
Jason’s knife clicked shut. “And somehow, you come back and bam, you’ve got a baby. Our baby. Meaning this kid belongs to all of us now.”
“I’m not—look, I didn’t plan any of this—”
“We know,” Bruce cut in, voice sharp. “Tim explained the… experiment. And your part was unintentional.”
“Still,” Damian added, sipping juice like a judge at a sentencing hearing, “a genetic contribution to my nephew makes you partially responsible for his wellbeing. Permanently.”
Jason cracked his knuckles. “And if you disappear again? If you so much as make Tim cry the wrong way?”
Dick grinned. “We bury you.”
“In the garden,” Jason added.
“Where no one will ever find you,” Damian said pleasantly.
Bruce didn’t blink. “I have contingencies.”
Alfred finally spoke, voice mild: “Though I suspect Mister Kent is well aware of the physical and psychological dangers of disappointing this family. Still, a reminder never hurts.”
Kon blinked. “So this is like… a team-up and a threat?”
“Correct,” Bruce said.
“Connor is ours,” Dick said. “That makes you ours, too. But screw this up, and we’re back to threats.”
“I love Tim,” Kon said suddenly, voice breaking through the noise. “I didn’t get to tell him that before I died. And I didn’t think I’d ever get a second chance. But I’m not running. Not from him. Not from Connor.”
That finally seemed to give them pause.
Bruce studied him for a long moment. “Do you want to be his father?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “I want to be his dad. Whatever Tim lets me be.”
Jason grunted. “Okay. That’s a good start.”
Damian stood, straightening his shirt. “Then welcome to the family. We’ll be watching you.”
Dick slung an arm around Kon’s shoulders. “You survive the shovel talk, you’re one of us. Congrats.”
Alfred smiled faintly and handed Kon a cup of tea. “You did rather well, Master Kon. Though I am quite serious about the family garden. It’s very spacious.”
Kon laughed, nerves unraveling just slightly. “Thanks. I think.”
And as the family filtered out—Bruce last, leaving a quiet “take care of them” as he passed—Kon let himself breathe.
He wasn’t just back.
He was part of something now.

Chapter Text

The Manor was still.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees and rattled the autumn leaves against the windows, but inside, everything was soft and warm and safe.
In the guest room—the one that Tim had quietly made into a nursery without ever calling it that—Kon sat against the headboard of a wide bed, legs stretched out in front of him, cradling his entire world.
Connor was asleep on his chest, tiny fingers curled against the fabric of Kon’s shirt, his breathing slow and even. His face was relaxed, his nose squished slightly where it pressed into his father’s collarbone. His dark lashes fluttered occasionally, dreaming baby dreams—of colors and warmth and voices he trusted more than the world itself.
And Tim, equally exhausted, had fallen asleep beside them, his head resting in the crook of Kon’s arm, one hand still resting on their son’s back like a silent vow.
Kon hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
He wasn’t sure he could.
His heart ached with the weight of everything he felt—gratitude, joy, grief, disbelief. Awe. The kind of awe that only happened when you came back from the dead and found yourself holding something new and perfect and utterly irreplaceable.
His son.
Connor Kent-Drake-Wayne. His heartbeat against Kon’s chest was steady and real.
My son.
He still didn’t know how to process it.
He hadn’t been there for the first cry. Or the first bottle. Or the sleepless nights when Tim had paced the floor with him in the crook of his arm, whispering lullabies and apologies in equal measure.
But he was here now.
He tightened his arm just slightly around Tim’s sleeping form. The other man didn’t stir—he was exhausted in a way Kon could see right through to his bones. Still healing. Still holding together something fragile and precious with everything he had.
Kon pressed a kiss to his temple.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Both of you.”
The room smelled like baby shampoo and laundry detergent and home. Soft nightlight stars rotated on the ceiling—Tim’s doing—and somewhere down the hall, Alfred was humming a lullaby to himself as he made tea for no one.
Connor shifted a little, gave a sigh like a kitten, and went still again.
Kon looked down at him, eyes burning.
“You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmured. “How much I didn’t even know I could love someone until I saw your face.”
The baby didn’t stir. But Tim did—just slightly. He murmured something half-coherent against Kon’s arm, then went still again, fingers tightening for a moment on Connor’s back.
Kon smiled.
It was a small, crooked thing. Unsteady and honest.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
This was it.
This moment—quiet and unremarkable by any cosmic standard—was the single most important one of his life.
A sleeping baby on his chest.
Tim, trusting him enough to fall asleep at his side.
Peace, at last.
And a future he never thought he’d get, gently breathing in his arms.