Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Golden Wastes stretched out before the sky child, the dark sand turning green under the eerie glow of the sky. The horizon seemed both impossibly close and painfully far, with only a handful of clouds drifting aimlessly across the expanse. The sun itself was absent, as though it had forsaken this barren plane, reluctant to shed its light on a land so empty. The little sky child flitted above the dunes, their wings almost complete, each delicate flap sending a ripple of energy through the thick, heavy air. They were searching for the last of their Winged Light—the final spark needed to complete their transformation.

With every beat of their wings, the energy felt as though it were fraying at the edges, a song sung too loudly, too desperately, in the green sky above.

This was their final Winged Light. Once their wings were complete, they would travel to the Eye of Eden, the sacred place where all sky children were meant to be reborn. But that future felt distant, even unreachable. There was no time to revel in the thought. Not now.

They had to focus. ‘Just one more piece. One more piece and then I’ll be ready.’

The child’s eyes swept over the desolate wasteland below, a void of dark sand stretching endlessly in every direction. It was the kind of place where, if they tried to land, it would swallow them whole. A place that gave no promise of stability or safety. They couldn’t stop, not yet, not while they were so close.

But something felt wrong. A subtle disturbance in the air made the child’s skin prickle, their senses sharpen. The very dust beneath them seemed to shift, tremble.

And then, they felt it.

A coldness. Not a physical chill, but something deeper. A darkness that made their bones ache. A weight pressing in from all sides.

It was the Krill.

A Dark Dragon.

The child’s heart thudded, an instinctive throb of panic. ‘No… not here. How did I not even notice it?’

The presence was undeniable, looming like a shadow stretching across the landscape. The horizon darkened as the Krill appeared, spreading across the sky in a wave of ink. Its massive form rose from the sands, a smudge against the sickly green glow of the sky. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if the world were waiting for what would come next.

The child had seen Krill before—monstrous dragons who roamed the Golden Wastes, their presence enough to turn serene landscapes into nightmares. But this one… this one felt different.

The beast rose higher, vast and suffocating, a smear of darkness against the sickly sky. Its light burned not the pale blue they knew, but a pulsing green that reeked of poison. This Krill was wrong. This Krill was worse.

Its screech ripped the air apart. Cracking. Splintering. Like broken glass driven into their chest.

‘Run.’

The sound reverberated through their bones, unnatural and merciless. Panic surged sharp and cold. ‘No, not yet. I can’t get caught now. Not when I’m so close!’

With a sudden burst of energy, the sky child surged forward, a gust of wind pushing them into motion. The air shimmered around them, the last of their winged energy rippling out like a forgotten song. They felt weightless, free—just for a moment.

But the chase had begun.

The child glanced back over their shoulder and saw it. The Krill was relentless. Its shadow swallowed every twist, every frantic climb. The darkness pressed closer, jaws snapping.

The sound of its call became deafening. The light from the dragon’s form bathed the wasteland in a sickening green glow, turning the world into something otherworldly. ‘I have to get away,’ the child thought, the words hammering through their mind. ‘Please let me get to the Temple. Please!’

Their wings beat faster, harder, as if willing the air beneath them to push them higher, farther. But the Krill did not falter. Every turn, every twist they made was met with the dragon’s unyielding pursuit. The darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating, its massive jaws snapping, the air thick with its malignant presence.

The child could hear the wind screaming around them, tearing at their cape. Their energy was draining fast. They could feel it—an exhaustion seeping into their bones.

Then it happened.

With a sickening jolt, the last thread of their Winged Light faded. It was like crashing into a wall—one moment soaring, the next plummeting toward the sand below. The world tilted violently, and for a brief, terrifying moment, they lost all sense of direction.

They hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, the wind knocked from their lungs. Vision spun, dizziness flooding their mind. The world wavered like a mirage. But there was no time for disorientation. No time to think. They couldn’t afford to stay down—not now.

With trembling legs, the child scrambled upright, gasping, heart racing. The Krill’s roar echoed behind them, a low, guttural sound that made the very ground shake. It was close now, too close. The child could feel its cold breath—like ice—on the back of their neck, crawling under their skin.

‘No, no, no…’

Their eyes darted around, searching desperately. They saw it—a flicker of light on the horizon. The Temple. The place of safety. A place where they could finally rest, where they could escape the Krill.

They ran, feet burning with each step, but the ground seemed to drag at them, slowing them down, pulling them back. The Krill’s call echoed in their ears, reverberating like a terrible drumbeat. The sickly green light bled across the dunes, crawling closer with relentless hunger. The child could feel it in their bones—the weight, the coldness closing in. They didn’t know how much longer they could run.

Their lungs burned. Their legs ached. Each step felt heavier than the last, but still they ran. Each footfall was a prayer. A plea for mercy.

And then, through the haze of fear and exhaustion, they heard it.

The voices.

The calls of the other children.

Hope surged in their chest, lifting them. Laughter, songs, the shouts of children from the shared space. They could hear them now. They were so close. The warmth of that place beckoned, but the Krill was closing in—its light overwhelming, its roar deafening. The child’s heart pounded as they pushed forward, feet moving faster, the weight of the dragon’s gaze crushing them. The green light was suffocating, burning into their skin. Too close.

Then, through the crushing darkness, a new light appeared.

A light unlike the Temple’s glow. Sudden, searing, alive.

A portal.

It burst into existence, a shimmer of energy cutting through the green haze. The edges crackled with strange power, bending the air around it. The child’s eyes widened, disbelief washing over them. Impossible, yet real. For one heartbeat they hesitated. Was this salvation—or another trick of the dragon’s poison?

The Krill screamed. The choice was made.

Without thinking, the child bolted toward the portal, heart racing. Every ounce of will poured into their legs as they sprinted, feet barely touching the ground. The Krill’s breath was on them—cold, foul, crushing. The green light was almost upon them. It crawled across their skin, scorching with venomous touch.

They leapt.

Just as the shadow of the Dark Dragon loomed over them, swallowing the world in darkness, the child shot through the portal. The last vestiges of their energy flickered out, fading into the unknown, and with them, the portal sealed behind, leaving only silence in its wake.

Chapter Text

The chains had dug so deep into Tim’s wrists that he couldn’t tell where the metal ended and his skin began. His arms throbbed with every heartbeat, the ache in his shoulders sharp enough to blur his thoughts. He forced himself to breathe, in and out, though each inhale carried the stench of damp stone and incense.

She was watching him.

Ra’s al Ghul’s sister.

Her eyes traced him the way a vulture studies carrion, patient, inevitable. She circled slowly, her steps deliberate, savoring his helplessness. When her hand slid across his chest, Tim’s body jolted against the chains, instinct screaming. Her fingers lingered, stroking over the fabric of his uniform, nails grazing his neck.

He wanted to bite, to spit, to make her recoil. Instead, all he could do was hang there and endure. His stomach rolled, bile rising. He hated the way she touched him. Hated the way her lips brushed his ear as she whispered about heirs and destiny.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Isn't this how we ended up with Damien?'

But as the chains rattled, and she smiled.

She stepped back at last, unfastening the clasps of her robe. Silk slipped to the floor, pooling around her feet. Her intent was written in every movement, predatory and deliberate.

Tim’s pulse thundered in his ears. He pulled against the chains until fire shot through his shoulders, the raw skin at his wrists tearing wider. He wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything but wait. ‘No. Not like this.’

Then the cave filled with light.

A white-gold brilliance flared so suddenly that Tim had to twist his head away, teeth clenched against the sting in his eyes. Shadows fled, replaced by radiance that burned brighter than torches, than sunlight itself.

When the glare dimmed enough for him to see, Ra’s sister lay crumpled on the ground, her silhouette sharp against the rock.

Tim’s chest heaved. He dragged his gaze upward, toward the source.

Tim blinked against the fading brightness, his eyes struggling to focus. At first, the figure before him was nothing more than a silhouette carved out of light, but as his vision sharpened, details began to emerge—and each one only deepened his confusion.

For a moment, Tim thought it was a hallucination born of exhaustion.

Tim blinked hard. He wasn’t dreaming.

The child wore a wide bonnet, the brim glowing faintly as though it carried the first rays of dawn itself. Beneath it, strands of hair spilled freely, shifting and glimmering like northern lights caught in motion. A mask concealed most of their face, smooth and dreamlike, lending them an almost solemn expression—familiar yet alien, as if they were a vision pulled straight from the edge of sleep.

A necklace hung against their chest, its pendant pulsing with a faint inner glow, steady and rhythmic, like the beat of a heart. Draped over their small shoulders was a woven cape, its threads alive with sunlight, shimmering even in the cavern’s dim shadows. The fabric stirred faintly with every movement, as though it carried a breeze from some other world.

Their legs were bare, simple shorts covering just enough, their feet unshod and dusted with grit from the stone floor. It was a strange contrast—their attire shifted between ethereal and earthly, a child both divine and utterly human.

But what caught Tim most off guard wasn’t the glowing fabric or the shifting hair. It was the small, worn plush the child clutched in one arm. A little toy, patterned black and white like a cookie. Something soft. Comforting.

That single detail grounded the impossible vision before him. Whoever—or whatever—this child was, they weren’t just light and mystery. They were still, at their core, a kid clutching the one thing that made them feel safe.

And somehow, that was what made Tim’s chest ache the most.

The child pressed their hands over their chest as if checking their own existence, then chirped—a bright, melodic sound so strange it cut through the haze of fear.

Tim could only stare as the child threw the plush on to their back and tumble into cartwheels and flips, ending with a one-handed handstand. For a fleeting moment, the cave looked like a stage, and the chains felt like part of some grotesque performance.

Then the child noticed him.

Their glow dimmed. They froze, eyes widening, and scrambled backward until their shoulders struck the wall. High-pitched chirps spilled from them, this time sharp with panic.

Tim swallowed hard. His throat was raw, but he forced out, “It’s okay. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.”

His voice cracked, more plea than reassurance. He didn’t even know who he was speaking to.

The child tilted their head, gaze flicking from his face to the chains above him. Their eyes lingered on the blood smeared down his arms, red drops spattering the floor like wax.

Inside that glowing head, thoughts tumbled fast. ‘Is this a Dark Dragon in disguise? Its skin doesn’t glow like an Elder’s. Its hair is black as a shadow. But those chains… the red wax. Does it hurt? Dark Dragons don’t bleed like this, do they?’

They narrowed their gaze. ‘Maybe if I free it, it’ll leave me alone. Or—hah! Maybe I can keep it as a pet. Everyone back at the Shared Spaces will be so jealous when they see my pet Dark Dragon.’

A giggle slipped out.

Tim flinched at the sound. He shifted against the chains, trying to show he wasn’t dangerous, but the movement tugged at his wounds. Pain flared, and he hissed.

The child crept forward, each step cautious. Their chirps softened, though their glow still flickered uncertainly.

They reached for his wrist.

“Wait—what are you—” Tim bit off the rest as their hand closed over the shackle.

Heat flared. The iron glowed, turned red, then sagged into molten droplets that spattered onto the stone. Tim braced for searing pain, for skin blistering under the heat.

But he felt nothing.

The metal melted away as if it passed straight through him, leaving behind only clean, unburned flesh.

Tim pulled his hand back on instinct, clutching it to his chest. The chains clattered with the motion, sharp in the silence.

The child squeaked and bolted back to the wall, chirping frantically.

“No, no, hey—” Tim lifted both hands, palms open in surrender. His voice softened to the calmest tone he could manage. “You didn’t hurt me. Look.”

He turned his wrist outward. No burns. No scars. No trace of heat.

The child blinked, their fear ebbing.

Tim bowed his head in thanks, exaggerating the motion like a clumsy mime. The child’s glow brightened, and they let out a delighted trill, bouncing lightly on their toes.

Tim almost laughed in relief. ‘Okay, charades it is.’

The child approached again, slower this time. Their tiny hand pressed to the second shackle, and once more the metal melted harmlessly away.

The moment his other arm fell free, Tim’s strength buckled. His knees threatened to give out, but before he could collapse, small glowing arms steadied him. The contact was warm—not hot like the chains had been, but gentle, soothing.

“Easy,” he murmured, letting them lower him to the floor.

For a moment, the two simply stared at each other: the battered detective and the glowing child.

Then the child reached into their own chest. Their hand emerged holding a red candle, flame flickering though no wax melted. They knelt before him, presenting it with both hands.

Tim blinked. “That’s… new.”

Still, he took it.

The instant his fingers closed around the candle, it shattered into sparks. Tiny embers whirled and sank into his chest. His body tensed—then warmth surged through him, knitting his torn flesh, erasing the ache in his arms. His breath came easier. His strength returned in waves, as if he’d slept a week.

He glanced down. His wrists were smooth. The wounds were gone.

The child chirped in triumph, spinning in circles before landing in another cartwheel and continuing this routine of celebration.

Tim rose to his feet, steadier now than he had any right to be. His body felt lighter, almost renewed—but his mind was still heavy, still tethered to the chains that only minutes ago had held him helpless.

He glanced back.

Ra’s sister hadn’t moved. Her body lay sprawled where the light had first struck her, the silk of her discarded robe tangled beneath her limbs.

Every instinct in Tim urged him to walk away, to not look, to let the dark keep her. But something colder, sharper, pulled him forward. He crouched beside her, two fingers pressed to the hollow of her throat.

No pulse.
No breath.
Nothing.

Her skin was already cooled.

Tim stared at her face, expecting guilt to rise like bile. She had been a person, flesh and blood, bound by the same mortal threads as anyone else. He should feel something. Horror. Regret. Pity.

But there was only emptiness.

After what she had tried to do—after the way she had touched him, stripped him of dignity, tried to chain him in a way far worse than iron—there was nothing left inside him to mourn her.

He pulled back his hand, rubbing his thumb against his own fingertips as if he could scrape away the memory of her skin.

“I should care,” he whispered under his breath. His voice echoed softly against the cavern walls. “But I don’t.”

The glow caught his eye.

The child had been watching from a few steps away, their expression curious but unjudging. As Tim turned toward them, they moved closer, small arm rising.

They offered him their hand.

For a moment, Tim just stared at it. The gesture was so simple, so human—and yet he couldn’t remember the last time someone had reached out to him like this. Not with an order. Not with expectation. Just an open hand, steady and waiting.

His chest tightened, breath catching.

Slowly, he reached out and took it.

The child’s fingers curled around his, warm and certain, and for the first time in what felt like years, Tim felt anchored. Not to chains. Not to obligation. But to another being who had chosen to stand beside him.

He gave their hand a gentle squeeze.

And together, they turned toward the mouth of the cave.

For once, Tim wasn’t leaving in silence. He was leaving with someone who had offered him a hand.

And he realized—he needed that more than he’d ever admit.

Chapter Text

The tunnels beneath the fortress were colder than Tim expected. The air carried the damp mineral tang of stone and the faint iron sting of blood from old battles. Shadows clung to every corner, flickering as he moved with the small, glowing child at his side. The child’s light cast long, soft shapes along the walls, giving the impression that the catacombs themselves were breathing.

Tim’s body ached with each step, his wrists still raw where the shackles had dug deep, though they bore no marks thanks to the strange healing flame the child had gifted him. His mind, however, had not been granted such a reprieve. Images of Ra’s sister, her hands, her lips—every touch he hadn’t asked for—clung to him like filth he couldn’t wash away. He shook his head sharply, trying to focus on the present: survival, escape, protecting the strange child who seemed to trust him.

Beside him, the child chirped. The sound was melodic but alien, like a bird call warped through an echo chamber. Tim frowned. He’d spent his life cataloging things—criminal patterns, bird migrations in Gotham’s parks, even different dialects of thieves’ cant—but this? He couldn’t place it. No robin, no starling, no crow. Just… other.

“Where did you come from?” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

The child tilted their head, chirped again, then twirled once as though mocking his confusion. Tim huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, but curiosity nagged. He slowed, then stopped, turning toward the child.

He raised his arms and mimed cradling an infant. Then, standing taller, he gestured to an imaginary adult beside the small figure of the child, before pointing at them again. “Parents?” he asked aloud, voice tentative.

The child blinked. Their mask tilted as if they were trying to decipher a puzzle. Inside, their thoughts spun: ‘What is this strange Krill doing now? Is he mocking me? Waving his arms like a lost manta?’

Tim sighed, shoulders sagging. He hadn’t expected much, but the wall of incomprehension still stung. He let his arms drop, muttering, “Forget it.”

The child saw the slump of his posture, the heaviness in his breath. They didn’t understand the words, but they understood defeat. With small steps, they approached and patted his shoulder with a chirrup meant to reassure.

Tim blinked at the gesture. He couldn’t help but smile faintly. “Thanks, kid.”

A thought struck him. Maybe words weren’t impossible. Maybe names were easier. He pointed to his chest. “Tim,” he said slowly. “T—I—M. Tim.” Then he pointed at the child expectantly. “You?”

The child tilted their head again, their bright form shimmering faintly. Inside, confusion buzzed: ‘The Krill makes strange sounds at himself, then points at me. A name? Do Krills have names? Is he not a Krill? His eyes… they’re not cold like theirs. They’re warm.’

‘Tim’ they tried to echo but all that came out was a chirp laced with curiosity.

“Yeah.” He nodded, encouraging. “Tim.”

“*Chirp*” The sound was hesitant, then firmer the second time.

Tim chuckled. “Close enough.”

Delighted, the child spun in circles around him, their light trailing like comet-fire. Tim raised a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Easy. Don’t get too wound up.” When they slowed, he pointed back at them. “Now you.”

The child froze. ‘My name?’ Their light dimmed slightly as a weight pressed into their chest. They searched their memory—faces that passed by, voices that had never called them anything, empty silences where names should have been. Their shoulders slumped. Tears welled beneath their mask. ‘I… I don’t have one.’

Tim’s heart clenched. He recognized that loneliness too well. He knelt, meeting the child’s gaze. “Hey,” he said gently, “that’s okay. If you don’t have one, we’ll figure it out.” He made gestures again, pointing to himself with “Tim,” then at them. “Name.”

The first word that popped into his head slipped out. “Calum?”

The child recoiled, chirping indignantly, their glow flaring in disgust.

Tim laughed despite himself, raising his hands. “Alright, alright. No Calum. We’ll… workshop it. Later.” Under his breath he added, “Can’t blame you. Not my best idea.”

Before either of them could continue, a whisper of motion cut through the silence. Tim’s instincts screamed. He shoved the child behind him just as assassins emerged from the shadows, blades glinting.

“Of course,” Tim muttered. “Can’t ever be simple.”

The clang of steel rang sharp in the catacombs, bouncing off wet stone like the walls themselves were fighting. Tim’s muscles screamed as he pivoted, barely twisting aside before a blade carved sparks against the rock where his ribs had been an instant before. He didn’t have his staff. No utility belt. Just instincts and training and the stubborn refusal to die here.

The child pressed against the wall behind him, glowing faintly in the dark. Their chirps were thin, distressed. Tim wanted to tell them to stay quiet, but his throat burned from the effort of breathing. Instead, he let the noise fuel him. He had to keep them alive.

Another assassin lunged. Tim ducked, slammed an elbow into the man’s wrist, and twisted hard until bone gave in. The sword clattered to the ground. Tim grabbed it, momentum carrying him into a wide, desperate arc that forced the next attacker back. He wasn’t as strong as Bruce. Not as fast as Cass. But he was sharp, and he fought with his mind as much as his body.

Three more shadows advanced from the corridor, eyes gleaming under their hoods. Tim’s vision swam from blood loss, but he dropped low, kicked out a knee, rolled to avoid a descending blade. Every move cost him, but muscle memory carried him further than pain should allow.

A hand grazed his side — steel bit shallow into scar tissue where his spleen used to be. Fire seared through him. He staggered, teeth gritted, refusing the scream clawing its way up. He’d survived this wound once. He could do it again.

The assassins pressed harder, forcing him to retreat step by step. He stole glances at the child — still there, still wide-eyed. Every clang of steel drew another frightened chirp. They mimicked his defensive stance once, tiny arms raised in a parody of a guard, before dropping them when the fight grew too fierce.

Tim’s focus split between blade and child. And that’s when it happened.

A fourth assassin slipped in from the shadows, swift as a striking snake, and seized the child from behind. Their glow flared in sudden panic as the man’s blade pressed to their small chest.

Tim froze. His own sword hovered mid-guard, breath ragged. ‘No. No, no, no.’ He couldn’t gamble with their life. He couldn’t—

But before words could leave his mouth, the child burned. Their glow exploded outward, fierce and white-hot. The assassin cried out, smoke curling from his hands where he touched them. The blade fell from his grip, clattering uselessly.

Tim moved before thought, surging forward with what little strength he had left. He slammed the pommel of his stolen sword into the man’s temple. The assassin collapsed in a heap at the child’s feet.

Silence rang louder than the fight had. Tim’s chest heaved. His arms shook with the aftershocks of combat. The stink of iron and smoke hung in the air.

He looked down — the child was trembling, eyes fixed on the fallen man like he might rise again at any moment.

Tim dropped to a knee, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. He’s not getting up again.” He swallowed, tasting copper. His voice softened. “Would you like me to carry you?”

The child blinked at him, confused. Then, as if some small dam inside them had broken, they folded into his arms. Their body tremble beyond control. They were clutching him as though he were the last stable thing in the world. Tim held them close, remembering a time he’d been small, terrified of thunder, only to find no comfort at home. He swore then he’d be different—for anyone who needed him.

They made it to the mouth of the cave before his strength failed. He set the child down gently, only to notice his blood staining their light. His body was failing; he could feel it. The child saw it too. Panic lit their thoughts. ‘No! I just found my friend. I’m not losing him!’

The child’s hands trembled as they pressed against their chest. Their glow flickered erratically, dimming in and out like a candle in the wind. Tim, slumped against the stone entrance, could barely keep his eyes open through the haze of blood loss, but even in that state he could see something was wrong.

The child gritted their teeth—if such a small creature could even have teeth behind that mask—and reached deeper into themselves. Their light rippled across their form, gathering at their chest until it looked as though their very core was unraveling.

Tim forced himself upright, panic slicing through the fog. “Hey—stop. Don’t do that. Whatever you’re doing, you don’t have to—”

But the child ignored him. A choked chirp escaped them, pained and trembling. Their small hands shook as they tugged, pulling something from within. Light bled out around their fingers, bright enough that Tim had to shield his eyes.

It wasn’t a candle this time. It was heavier, more profound. The symbol that emerged glowed like living flame: a sphere of sapphire fire with two wings stretched wide, its brilliance threaded with streaks of white like lightning. And with every inch the child pulled it free, their own glow dulled further, their body trembling violently.

Tim’s heart hammered. He crawled toward them, clutching at his side, every breath burning his lungs. “You’re hurting yourself! Stop—please, stop!”

The child’s knees buckled, but they held on, clutching the glowing symbol as though it were their very soul. Their body jerked as the last threads tore free. When it finally left them, they let out a sharp, broken chirp that sounded too much like a sob. Their light dimmed so much that for a terrifying second, Tim thought it might go out entirely.

“No, no, no—damn it!” Tim caught them before they fell, their body frighteningly light in his arms. He could feel how cold they were now, how their warmth was vanishing with every second.

The child looked up at him weakly, their hands shaking as they pressed the burning symbol against his chest. Their movements were clumsy, desperate, but determined.

Tim tried to push it away, voice breaking. “Don’t give it to me—don’t you dare—”

But the symbol surged forward, sinking into him. Fire flooded his veins, filling him with strength that wasn’t his own. His torn flesh knit together. The ache in his chest vanished. He gasped as though he’d been drowning and suddenly broke the surface.

And then his panic returned tenfold. Because the child in his arms was fading.

The child’s glow dimmed to a fragile shimmer, like the last embers of a dying fire. Tim could feel them growing colder in his arms, and every second of it was unbearable.

“No—stay with me. You hear me?” His voice cracked. “Don’t you dare leave me, kid. Not after you saved me.”

The child’s body slackened against him, their hand slipping from his shirt. Their head tilted back slightly, mask catching the faint light. Tim shook them gently, desperate. “Don’t close your eyes! You’re going to be okay—you’re going to—”

The child nestled weakly against him, their breathing shallow, their thoughts already drifting. ‘It hurts… but he’s safe. That’s all that matters.’

And then everything was still.

A warmth unlike any other filled the cavern, soft and golden, washing over the stone walls. Tim blinked, startled, as a presence pressed against his senses—not harsh or invasive, but vast. Ancient. Beautiful. It wasn’t a sound, not really, but a voice that spoke both around him and within him.

“Little star,” the voice sang, gentle as the first note of dawn. “Your light flickers, yet you burn so brightly still. Tell me—would you like to remain with your friend?”

The child stirred faintly, though their body barely moved. Their consciousness—something deeper, something Tim couldn’t see—was drawn toward the voice.

‘Remain… with Tim?’

Aurora’s laughter was soft, like chimes in the wind. “Yes. If that is what your heart desires, I can weave it so. But know this, little one: to stay is to change. You will no longer soar the skies of your kin. The realms above will be closed to you forever.”

The child hesitated, their thoughts slow and heavy, but clear. ‘I… I’ll never go back? No Eye of Eden? No Shared Spaces?’

“You will always be of the stars,” Aurora assured them, her tone a mixture of sorrow and pride. “But here, you will be bound to earth, walking among mortals. You will live not as a sky child, but as something new. Still luminous, still beloved, but forever different.”

The child’s fading glow flickered, like a heartbeat. ‘If I stay… will I still be me?’

Aurora’s voice softened further, touched with a tenderness even Tim could somehow sense in the hush of the cavern. “Yes, little one. You will still be you. But you will no longer be alone in the ways you have known. This boy—this human—you have chosen him. And he, though he does not yet see it, has chosen you.”

The child’s chest ached, but in a different way than before. A warmth spread inside them at the thought of Tim’s icy-blue eyes, not cold like the Krill’s light, but warm and alive. They remembered his arms around them, his frantic voice begging them to stay, and their tiny hands clinging to his shirt because they didn’t want to let go.

‘Yes,’ they thought, their voice breaking into something both brave and small. ‘I want to stay with Tim. I want to stay.’

Aurora’s light grew brighter, her voice rising like a crescendo of song. “Then so it shall be. You will walk this earth as one of its children. You will laugh and cry, stumble and grow, and though your form will shift, the starlight within you shall never fade. This is my gift… and my farewell.”

The cavern filled with warmth, wrapping around the child like a mother’s embrace. Tim held them tighter, not understanding what was happening but refusing to let go.

Aurora’s final words echoed softly, a whisper that faded like the last notes of a lullaby:

“Shine bright, little one. And may your new dawn be a gentle one.”

Chapter Text

The cave was silent except for the faint sound of the child’s breath. My blood, smeared across their glowing body, seemed to shimmer and then… vanish. It sank into them like water soaking into parched ground. I blinked, disbelieving, and then it began.

The transformation.

At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. The shape of their jaw, the angle of their nose—it was subtle, but I knew those lines. I knew that face. They weren’t just turning human… they were turning into a child-sized version of me.

A smaller, fragile version of myself stared back at me through the shifting haze of light. My stomach twisted. 'What the hell is Bruce going to think if he sees this?'

The weight of that thought pressed down on me, sharp and suffocating, but I shoved it into the back of my mind before it could spiral. Not now. The kid was still changing, still vulnerable, and we were still stuck in enemy territory. One crisis at a time.

My stomach twisted. Was this Aurora’s idea of blending them into the world? Copying me, down to the smallest detail? Or was it the blood—my blood—fusing into them that caused this? I didn’t have the answers. All I knew was that with every flicker of change, the resemblance grew stronger.

Black seeped into their hair strand by strand until the shine was gone, replaced with something coarse, something familiar. Their skin, once smooth and unreal, rippled and flushed with color. Pale flesh. Human flesh. The waxen mask of other worldliness faded, replaced by cheeks, lips, brows that mirrored mine in miniature.

I wanted to say something. Ask if they were alright. Ask what in the hell just happened. But they were already asleep, curled into themselves, as if the transformation had drained whatever strength they had left.

And I wasn’t imagining things. I’d heard something. Not in the cave. Not from them. A whisper, echoing faint and far away, threading through the cracks in my thoughts. Pieces of words, fragments of a conversation not meant for me.

“…stay with your new friend…”

“…you will still be of the stars…”

“…blend into this realm…”

Aurora. The name lingered in the back of my mind like an ember refusing to go out. Whoever—or whatever—that was, they’d spoken to the child. They’d chosen for them. And now here I was, left with the result: a sleeping, newly human child at my feet.

I forced myself to look away from the kid—from the little version of me—and take in my surroundings. It was easier to focus on stone and shadows than the questions clawing at my chest.

The air was damp and stale, laced with the sharp, metallic tang of blood and the faint, acrid bite of oil from old torches. The walls were rough-hewn limestone, scored by claw marks and chisels alike. Not natural. This was carved with intent. Purpose.

I shifted against the rock and listened. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, a slow, steady rhythm echoing through the tunnels. No voices. No footsteps. Either the assassins had fled or they were regrouping. Both possibilities were bad.

The pattern of the masonry confirmed it—League of Assassins work. Their style was distinct: utilitarian, but layered with hidden passages and kill points. My pulse picked up when I spotted the faint brand scorched into the wall—an ancient glyph Ra’s used to mark safe houses. That meant I wasn’t in Paris, or Cairo, or anywhere halfway across the world.

The shape of the tunnels clicked. I’d run ops in similar systems before. Gotham. This was Gotham. Underground, but not connected to the Batcave. Which meant Ra’s had been operating under our noses, setting up shop right here in the city.

My jaw clenched. I’d walked into this trap blind.

The memory unfolded whether I wanted it to or not. A warehouse in the Narrows, rain soaking through my cape as I tracked the missing shipment. The intel had been solid—blood on the pavement, dragged footprints, even the sound of muffled cries from inside. Every detail screamed urgency, screamed victim. It was a textbook setup.

And I fell for it.

Inside, the signs of a struggle were laid out like breadcrumbs. A crate smashed open, weapons scattered just so, a blade slick with fresh blood leaning against the wall. My instincts had whispered *too easy*, but I pushed it aside. People don’t always have time for perfect realism in their suffering. I’d thought if there was even a chance someone was alive in there, I couldn’t ignore it.

The sound of sobbing drew me deeper. I tightened my grip on my staff, swept the corners, checked the rafters. Nothing. Then—movement. A shadow dropping down fast.

The first assassin came at me silent and precise, blade flashing. I countered, staff up, cracked their ribs, pivoted to strike another from the flank. They kept coming. Two, then three, then five. Their rhythm was predictable, their formations drilled. I could read them like a book—strike high, sweep low, use momentum, keep moving.

For a moment, I was winning. The clang of steel against bo echoed in the rafters, my body moving on instinct. I dropped one with a spin kick, another with a clean crack to the jaw. Adrenaline made me sure I could fight my way out.

Then came the sting.

At first, I thought it was just a scratch on my neck. Then the burn spread. My vision wavered, muscles tightening as if my body was turning to lead. I spun, lashed out at the nearest shadow, but my arm felt sluggish. My knees buckled.

A dart. Poison, concentrated and fast-acting. My pulse slowed, each beat echoing in my skull like a countdown clock.

I remember trying to push through it, trying to squeeze out every last drop of fight. I swung wide, staff crashing into one more assassin, but my body was slipping away from me, each movement harder than the last. The world tilted.

I went down on one knee, then both. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me afraid, but the darkness was already closing in. The insignia on their chest—a red fang, Ra’s personal mark—was the last thing I saw before my world went black.

And then I woke up. In chains. In the dark.

I ground my teeth, dragging myself back to the present. Thinking about it was a waste of time. Still, the guilt lingered, sour and heavy in my chest. I’d been outmaneuvered, and I hated it. Bruce always said a detective never let himself get caught off guard. But I had.

And it nearly cost me my life.

I looked down at the child again. They looked so small now, human in a way that twisted my chest. Vulnerable. Too vulnerable. I crouched, slid one arm under their knees, the other around their back, and lifted. I’d seen this in movies, in shows—an inward carry, careful, protective. My ribs screamed with protest but I ignored it. They curled instinctively against me, their head falling against my chest.

I adjusted the kid in my arms, careful not to jostle them. They were heavier than I expected—solid, real. No longer glowing wax, no longer a star. Just… a kid. My kid? No. Don’t go there.

Their head rested against my shoulder, breath slow and steady, as if sleep had claimed them the second the transformation was done. I tightened my grip. The inward carry was awkward, something I’d only ever seen on TV, but it felt right. Like I had to shield them from the world.

The cave stretched on, a labyrinth of stone and shadow. My boots splashed through shallow puddles, every step echoing back at me in the silence. I tracked the slope of the ground, the air currents, the faint traces of old torches. Navigation came back to me piece by piece—this tunnel fed into the old storm drains, and those would eventually bleed into the sewers.

I kept one hand on my comm as I walked, even though I knew it was useless. Jammed of course. Ra’s didn’t take chances.

The kid stirred once, letting out a small, questioning chirp in their sleep. Instinctively, I hushed them, the way I imagined someone would hush a baby. It worked. They went still again.

I pushed through the stone passages until the air shifted. Less stagnant, cooler. That meant I was close. I found the seam in the wall where rock gave way to brick, and beyond it, the tunnels widened. Gotham’s sewers. Home turf.

My pace quickened, but I forced myself to stay quiet. The League didn’t give up easily. For all I knew, assassins were still shadowing me, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The path wound on for what felt like forever until finally, I spotted the faint gleam of moonlight spilling down through a storm grate. I tilted my head back, breathing in the taste of the night air, sharp and metallic, laced with the city’s grime. I’d never been so glad to smell Gotham.

I found the nearest ladder, tested its rusted rungs with one boot, then started climbing with the kid balanced against me. Every movement was deliberate, slow. My muscles screamed for rest, but I pushed through until we surfaced in a forgotten alleyway near the Narrows.

And there she was. My bike. Right where I left it, tucked under a broken fire escape and a ratty tarp. The sight nearly buckled me with relief.

I set the kid carefully against the wall and pulled the tarp back, running a hand over the familiar frame. My backup comms were still stashed in the compartment. Perfect. I slipped the cowl back over my head, the world shifting as the HUD flickered alive again.

Then I looked back at the kid. They were blinking awake, confusion clouding their new human eyes. Still silent, but watching me. Waiting.

I crouched down, held out a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

They slipped their small hand into mine without hesitation. For a second, the simplicity of it—of someone choosing to trust me, to hold onto me—hit harder than I wanted to admit. I swallowed past it and scooped them back into my arms, settling them against me before swinging onto the bike.

The engine roared to life with a low growl, vibrating under us. The kid clutched at my chest, their tiny fists curling into my suit. I revved the throttle once, then shot out of the alley and into Gotham’s night.

The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, the wind tearing through my hair where the cowl left it exposed. For once, I didn’t focus on the patrol routes, the rooftop shadows, or the endless problems of this city. My focus was on the steady heartbeat against my chest.

It felt strange. Wrong and right at the same time.

By the time the Red Robin Nest came into view—its nondescript facade blending perfectly into the skyline—I was exhausted. But I was alive. And I wasn’t alone.

I killed the engine, let the silence settle for a heartbeat, then whispered, mostly to myself:

“Home.”

Chapter Text

Warmth. That was the first thing the child noticed. No longer stone against their back or chains at their wrists, but something steady, protective, alive. Their eyes fluttered open, and for a moment they forgot what had happened in the cave, the goddess’s voice like a song still lingering in their memory. “Little star, even far from the Sky, you will never stop shining.”

They lifted their hands slowly into the dim light, bracing themselves to see smooth, waxen skin—the fragile, breakable shell that had trapped them for so long. But what stared back were hands like Tim’s. Flesh and bone. Pale ridges tracing their palms. Faint lines that bent and stretched when they curled their fingers into a trembling fist.

A breath caught in their throat. The hands moved because they willed it. They lifted them higher, twisting them, watching the way knuckles bent, how shadows stretched across their skin. They pressed their palms together, then apart, marveling at the warmth radiating off their own body.

Their fingertips brushed their face next—cheeks soft and sensitive to touch. They felt their eyelashes flutter, their own breath whisper against their palm, the faint thud of a heartbeat drumming deep within their chest. Everything was strange and impossibly alive.

They wiggled their toes beneath them and gasped softly when they felt rough pavement scrape against skin. Not smooth, molded stone but small, uneven digits that twitched and shifted when commanded. The sensation was overwhelming, like the whole world had expanded in a single breath.

For the first time, they weren’t just seeing a body. They were inside one.

The child hugged their arms close, overwhelmed, both giddy and frightened by the miracle of it. What if it vanished? What if they blinked and went back to being wax and silence and cold? Their lip trembled, and they pressed their new hands flat against the ground, anchoring themself to the moment.

That was when Tim’s shadow fell across them. He knelt, setting them gently against the wall of an alley. They lowered their hands quickly, though their heart still raced with awe.

Tim tugged his cowl back into place, brushing debris from a tarp that covered his bike. The child tilted their head, watching him with eyes that felt brand-new, drinking in every small detail. His bruises, the smear of blood at his temple, the tired way he moved—and yet, the certainty with which he carried himself.

When Tim turned back and held out his hand, something stranger still happened. His words slipped into meaning. “Come on,” he said softly.

The child blinked, startled all over again—understanding. They had a voice of their own now, a body of their own, and they could understand. It was too much to hold all at once. Too much, and yet… exactly what they wanted.

Exhaustion pressed heavy on them, but their chest swelled with fragile joy. Slowly, they reached out and placed their smaller hand in his. Warm, steady fingers closed around theirs, grounding them once more.

Tim guided them to the strange metal beast crouched against the wall—sleek, black, humming with restrained power. “It’s a bike,” he murmured, lifting the child onto the seat before climbing on behind.

The child sat stiffly, legs dangling too short to reach the foot pegs, eyes wide at the cold metal beneath him. They tilted their head like a bird, chirping softly, testing the vibration that thrummed faintly through the frame.

Then the machine roared to life.

The child startled, the sudden growl rattling up through their bones. Their whole body jerked forward and without thinking he clutched at Tim’s arm, pressing their face hard against his chest. The rumble of the engine echoed in his ribs, terrifying and thrilling all at once.

Tim huffed a low laugh despite himself, the sound roughened by exhaustion. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

The words reverberated through the child’s cheek where it rested against Tim’s chest, warm and grounding. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked up again.

The bike surged forward.

Air whipped at their hair, tugging at strands that were too soft, too light compared to the heavy stone they once knew. It tickled their face, stung at their eyes, moved them in a way they’d never been moved before. They tightened their grip on Tim but forced themselves to keep looking, wide-eyed.

The world rushed past—streets bursting with strange wagons that belched smoke, towers rising like giants carved from glass and steel, their windows glowing in colors that reminded them of captured starlight. Neon signs buzzed like fireflies, every flicker a marvel. Even the shadows between streetlights seemed alive, slipping and shifting as the bike sped through.

The smells were dizzying. Hot oil, metal, smoke, and food—so many kinds of food—rushing by in dizzying layers. They breathed deep, chest filling in a way that almost hurt, because this was living.

And through it all, the child’s grip on Tim never loosened.

Tim felt it. The small arms locked tight around him, the fragile weight pressed close. It was disarming, how natural it felt.

He tried to focus on the road, on the blur of headlights and tail lights, on the cold bite of wind through his cowl. But the warmth at his back kept dragging him out of focus. It was too familiar—something he’d been told he’d never get to have.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening under the mask. ‘It’s temporary. Just a kid who needs a place to crash until you figure out what the hell happened. Don’t make it more than that.’

But then the child shifted, pressing their cheek firmer against Tim’s back with a soft, involuntary sound—a chirp, content and trusting.

And the knot in Tim’s throat nearly unraveled.

The child tilted their head just enough to see Tim’s profile in the passing glow of street lamps. Strong lines, eyes fixed forward, lips pressed thin with determination. The child marveled at him—not just the machine, not just the world flying past—but at him.

This was safe. This was what “protective” felt like. Their small heart thumped in rhythm with the engine and with Tim’s pulse beneath the armor. They clung tighter, not out of fear now, but out of wonder, as if holding onto Tim could anchor them in this strange, rushing, dazzling world.

The city thundered around them, alive with light and sound. But in the middle of it all, the child found themselves thinking: ‘I’m human. And I’m not alone.’

And Tim, though he kept his eyes forward, felt that trust like a weight pressing against the cracks in his armor. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe steady, to keep moving. ‘Don’t let this get under your skin.’

But no matter how hard he tried, the child’s quiet presence seeped in. The city roared around them.

They wound deeper into the city until the skyline gave way to shadowed corners only someone like him would know. A disguised entrance in an apartment building yawned open, and Tim guided the bike down a hidden ramp. The hum of the engine echoed against concrete until it opened into a cavernous chamber lit by cold fluorescent strips.

The child’s head swiveled, eyes wide at the sight—more metal beasts lined in rows, racks of strange tools, a sparring area marked by scuffed mats, and what looked like a kitchen but oddly bare of food. Their voice came out as a series of questioning chirps.

Tim parked and dismounted, tugging off his gloves. “Home,” he said simply, then hesitated. He’d barely started putting this place together—no warmth, no comfort, just walls and function. ‘Some home,’ he thought bitterly. Still, the child looked around as though it were a treasure hall.

He led them toward the stairs but paused by the bathroom to change, scrubbing the worst of the blood away before pulling on loose, softer clothes. When he returned, the child was still waiting by the steps, patient in a way most kids never were. Their small hand slipped into his again without hesitation as they climbed to the living space above.

It wasn’t much. Barren walls, mismatched furniture, a bed that looked unused. Tim winced. “Sorry. Still moving in. Haven’t really… made it welcoming yet.”

The child only tilted their head, unconcerned, and wandered toward the counters as Tim opened a cabinet. He frowned at the slim pickings—protein bars, instant noodles—then spotted a familiar blue box. Macaroni and cheese. Before he could decide, the child let out an excited flurry of chirps, pointing insistently.

Tim raised a brow. “This?” The chirping intensified until he pulled the box free, earning a victorious little trill. He shook his head, amused despite himself. “Mac and cheese it is.”

While water boiled and pasta simmered, Tim leaned back against the counter. “You understand me now, don’t you?” he said carefully. The child blinked, then chirped once, firmly, nodding along. Tim exhaled slowly. Progress. “Guess we can skip charades for once.”

He tried, gently, to ask whether they wanted to stay here, whether they had somewhere else to go. The response was immediate: indignant chirps, arms crossed, and a glare so fierce Tim had to bite back a laugh. “Okay, okay. You’re staying. Got it.”

Dinner was simple but warm. They ate side by side, and Tim, for the first time in days, felt something like peace. Still, the list in his mind grew long—food, clothes, security checks, and most of all… “You’ll need a name.”

At that, the child froze mid-bite, expression sharpening with an almost comical seriousness. Tim smirked. “Now? Alright.”

Tim set aside their plates and walked over to the computer. Aiden trailed after him like a shadow, chirping curiously at the glowing monitor.

“Alright,” Tim muttered, pulling up a baby name site. “Let’s see if we can make this official. You can’t go around without a name forever. People are going to ask questions.” He cast a sideways glance at the child. “And ‘chirp’ isn’t going to cut it.”

Aiden tilted their head, confused, but perked up when the strange symbols appeared on the screen. They scrambled onto his lap again, limbs light and quick. Tim stilled, then carefully adjusted them so they didn’t fall. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had climbed onto him without hesitation.

He scrolled through the list. “Okay, here we go. Names with meanings.”

“Ember.”

Aiden scrunched their nose, chirping low in clear disapproval.

“Alright, no Ember. How about Blaze?”

Aiden stuck out their tongue and made a dramatic gagging sound.

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Okay, tough critic. Cole?”

The child tilted their head back and forth, then gave a noncommittal chirp.

“That’s a maybe.” Tim sighed and scrolled. “Tyson?”

The child yawned.

“Wow. Brutal honesty. Love that.” He shook his head, lips twitching again despite himself. “Cyrus?”

The child flapped their arms as if weighing the sound, then crossed them with a firm chirp.

“Not Cyrus. Got it. Okay, what about Aiden?”

The reaction was immediate. The child practically bounced in his lap, pointing at the screen with both hands and chirping so loudly Tim winced.

“Aiden?” he repeated, testing it. The child nodded vigorously, their whole face lighting up.

Tim blinked, surprised at their certainty. “…Alright. Aiden.” He clicked the name and pulled up the meaning. “Little and fiery. Well. That’s… ridiculously accurate.”

Aiden chirped in delight, but their attention caught on the little blue icon beside the word. They tapped it with a questioning trill.

“That’s gender,” Tim explained. “This name is usually given to boys. I’m a boy, my full name is Timothy Jackson Drake.”

The child blinked, then pointed furiously at themselves, chirping.

“You want a full name too?” Tim asked, eyebrows rising. The eager nod answered for him.

“Okay, okay. Middle name, then. How about Phoenix?”

Aiden chirped rapidly, shaking their head.

“Alright, not Phoenix. What about Leo?”

The child made an exaggerated snore.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tougher than naming a Wayne Enterprises project. Fine. Skyler?”

The giggle that followed was so sudden, so bright, that Tim blinked at them. The child nodded rapidly, chirping approval.

“Skyler it is,” he muttered, typing it in. “Aiden Skyler…” He paused when he got to the next name on the list. The child started pointing at it then at themselves, they didn’t know what the symbols mean but they felt this name would be perfect.

 “Not Drake.”

But Aiden immediately started pointing at him, then themselves. Over and over, chirping insistently. They wanted the same name as their new friend.

“No. You can’t just… names mean connections. Responsibilities. You don’t just give someone your family name.”

More chirps. More pointing. A stubborn glare that reminded Tim all too much of Damian.

He dropped his head into his hands. “God, you’re relentless.” A pause. Then a long exhale. “…Fine. Aiden Skyler Drake. But you’re not telling Bruce. Ever.”

Aiden squeaked happily, nearly vibrating with pride at their new name.

Tim watched them for a moment, and though he tried to keep his expression neutral, something warm settled in his chest. Aiden Skyler Drake. It felt… right.

Aiden nodded proudly at the full name glowing back at them from the screen: Aiden Skyler Drake. Their little chest puffed up with satisfaction, as though they’d just been knighted. Tim couldn’t help but smile at the seriousness with which the kid treated it all.

Then Aiden’s gaze slid back to the corner of the screen, where the tiny blue symbol still hovered. Their small finger jabbed toward it, then back at them. Their chirp was questioning, but also oddly certain, like they already knew what they wanted the answer to be.

Inside, Aiden’s thoughts tumbled over one another. ‘Tim is strong, brave, and smart. Tim has a name. Tim is a boy. I want to be like him. I want to be a boy too.’ They tugged on their beach shorts tight in their hand, heart beating fast, hoping their strange new friend would understand.

“You want to know if you’re… a boy?” Tim tilted his head, realizing

Aiden nodded once, sharply, and then looked at Tim again, as if waiting for confirmation.

Tim studied him for a long moment—the determination in those wide, bright eyes, the way their little hands clutched their swim-shorts tight. He wasn’t confused, or tentative, just quietly resolute.

“…Yeah,” Tim said finally, voice softer than he meant it to be. “You’re a boy.”

Aiden chirped once, high and clear, then broke into a grin, bouncing a little on his lap like this was the best gift in the world.

Tim huffed out a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Huh. Guess that’s our gender reveal party, then.”

By the time the dishes were done and the Nest had grown quiet, Tim decided it was time to get the kid into something more comfortable. The waxy remnants of the cape were long gone; now it was just a small boy sitting cross-legged on the couch, still proudly wearing those ridiculous beach shorts.

“Alright, kiddo,” Tim said, pulling one of his soft cotton shirts from a drawer. “Bedtime. You can’t sleep in that. This’ll work as pajamas.”

Aiden chirped and clutched at his shorts like Tim had just threatened to take away his entire identity. He shook his head fiercely, glaring with wide, watery eyes.

Tim sighed. “You can’t be serious.”

Another chirp—high, sharp, almost offended.

“Look, I’m not trying to take your clothes away. But you’ll be more comfortable if you change for the night.”

Arms crossed. Low, stubborn chirp. His swim trunks were sacred.

Tim crouched down so they were eye to eye, softening his voice. “Hey. Listen. You love those shorts, right?”

Aiden nodded immediately.

“Okay. How about this: you can wear them again in the morning. Promise. But tonight, let’s give them a rest. Clothes need breaks too.”

Aiden’s lips pursed, still unconvinced.

Tim sighed again, letting a tired smile slip through. “You have my word. First thing in the morning, those trunks go right back on. Deal?”

A pause. A grumble of chirps like muttered complaints. Then, finally, a nod.

“Good.”

Tim handed him the shirt, but Aiden immediately tangled himself in it, the collar catching over his head. He let out a frustrated chirp, muffled in cotton.

“Okay, okay, hold still.” Tim carefully untangled the mess, guiding the boy’s arms through the too-long sleeves until the shirt finally draped down like a dress. Aiden blinked out from the neckline, hair sticking up every which way, and gave a soft, pleased chirp once he was free.

“There,” Tim said, stepping back to look at him. “Not so bad, right?”

Aiden tugged at the hem, then nodded, his expression softening.

Tim led him over to the bed, tucking the over sized shirt around him. Just as Tim was about to pull the blankets up, Aiden let out a startled chirp and scrambled upright.

Tim braced for another shorts-related rebellion—

—but instead, Aiden dug into the pile of discarded clothes by the couch and triumphantly pulled out a small, worn plush dog. Its fur was patched black and white like an Oreo cookie—though faded now with age. One ear flopped lower than the other, the stitching loose, and a button eye was scratched, but none of that mattered.

Aiden hugged it tight to his chest like a long-lost friend, rubbing his cheek against its faded fur before settling back into bed. With a sigh of relief, he tucked the plush under his chin, making sure it was safe beside him.

Tim’s chest squeezed, something warm tugging at him. “Glad you remembered him,” he murmured softly, though Aiden probably didn’t understand.

The boy curled onto his side, Oreo pup squished securely in the crook of his arm. He was just about to drift when small fingers shot out, wrapping tight around Tim’s wrist.

“Aiden,” Tim said gently. “I need to get some work done—”

The grip only tightened. Big, bright eyes stared up at him, tired but pleading.

Tim froze, a memory sparking—himself, small, standing at the edge of a massive bed, asking for comfort only to be turned away. He swallowed, the ache of that old rejection pressing heavy in his chest.

“…Fine,” he murmured. He toed off his boots, slid onto the mattress, and let the boy shuffle closer until he was tucked snug against Tim’s side.

Aiden sighed in contentment, chirping once before nestling into the crook of his arm. Within moments, his breathing evened out into sleep, plush Oreo pup squished between them.

Tim stared at the ceiling, still stiff with disbelief at how his night had gone. But then he glanced down at the small weight curled into him.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Tim Drake slept soundly.

Chapter Text

The phone buzzed angrily against the nightstand until Tim fumbled for it, voice still rough with sleep. “Hello?”

“Dumbass,” Steph’s voice snapped immediately, bright and cutting. “You’re on *FaceTime*. Put your face in frame.”

Tim sighed, tilting the phone up just enough for them to see him, but carefully angling it so the kid curled into his side was hidden. Not ready for that yet.

The screen filled with the Batcave’s main console and—of course—half the family crammed together in front of it. Dick’s smile was already too wide, Cass gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgement, Damian looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, Jason leaned in half out of frame just to be obnoxious, and Bruce and Alfred stood like sentinels in the back.

“Tim,” Bruce’s voice cut in almost immediately, sharp as a blade. “You missed check-in.”

There it was. No good morning, no glad you’re alive. Just another mark against him.

Dick stepped in with his usual bright diplomacy. “What he means is—we were worried. You went dark last night.”

Cass’s gaze flicked over the camera, unreadable, but she gave the smallest of nods. That almost meant more than Dick’s whole speech.

Alfred, of course, went for gentler guilt. “It is nearly noon, Master Timothy. You’ve overslept, and I dare say you’ll miss family lunch.”

Tim winced. “Yeah, about that—I’ve got a busy day, so—”

“Family lunch isn’t optional,” Jason barked from his corner, grinning like he lived to antagonize. “If I have to go, Boy Wonder 3.0 has to go too.”

“Your caffeine addiction must’ve finally collapsed your lungs,” Damian muttered, leaning in with disdain. “Or is it your brain failing from lack of sleep?”

Steph’s voice cut through before Tim could even roll his eyes. “Wait. Wait! Do my eyes deceive me? Timothy Drake-Bat actually looks like he got sleep? No dark circles? No zombie face? Someone call the papers!”

A chorus of chuckles rippled through the group, and Tim’s jaw clenched. They meant it as banter, he knew they did. But all it did was highlight the fact that every one of them thought he was broken, overworked, always one breath away from collapse.

He kept his tone flat. “I’ll have to skip. I’ve got too much to handle.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, suspicion written in every line of his face. “What case?”

“Just… Gotham being Gotham,” Tim deflected quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aiden stir. Panic surged.

“Tim—” Dick started, but Tim was already lowering the phone.

“Gotta go. Talk later.” He hung up before anyone else could press.

The silence that followed was a relief and a weight. He set the phone back on the charger, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The echoes of his family’s voices—Steph’s teasing, Jason’s yelling, Bruce’s stern reprimand—still clung to his ears like static. He shut his eyes for a second, inhaled, then turned his attention to the small weight curled up against him.

Aiden stirred, the faintest hum in his throat as he burrowed closer. Tim reached down, brushing his knuckles lightly against the boy’s dark hair. The world could wait. His family could wait. Right now, this was what mattered.

“Morning,” Tim murmured, voice still low. Aiden blinked awake slowly, then smiled sleepily up at him before wriggling free and sitting up on the bed.

The first order of business: clothes. Getting a kid ready was nothing like gearing up for patrol. Aiden made a beeline for the pile Tim had laid out—except he ignored most of it in favor of yanking on his beloved swim shorts, tugging his little cape around his shoulders, and plopping the jellyfish hat on top of his head. Tim raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Pick your battles.

Tim crouched so they were eye to eye. “Listen. This place is new, right? Feels kind of empty? Somebody’s gotta keep watch while we’re gone. Who better than Doggy?” He tapped the plush’s head. “Best guard in Gotham.”

Aiden hugged the plush tighter, chirping in protest. His little brow furrowed, stubborn and serious.

Tim softened his tone. “I know. But if Doggy stays here, he can keep this place safe for you. That way, when we come back, it’ll be just the way we left it.”

The boy hesitated. His eyes—icy blue, uncannily like Tim’s own—searched Tim’s face, gauging his sincerity. Then, slowly, Aiden shuffled back toward the bed. He set the Oreo-colored plush down with great care, pressing its floppy ear into place as if giving it instructions. A final chirp—resolute this time—sealed the deal.

When he turned back, his small chest puffed out with determination, Tim gave him a short nod. “Good call, buddy. Ready?”

Aiden trilled brightly and bounced on his toes.

Tim smiled faintly, straightening. “Alright then. Here’s the plan for today.” He held up fingers one by one as he listed it off. “Batburger for lunch, then we hit the store for clothes and food. And after that—back home to order furniture."

At the last word, Aiden tilted his head, puzzled, chirping a questioning note.

Tim led him into the spare bedroom next to his own, flicking on the light to reveal bare walls and an empty floor. “This one’s yours. It was supposed to be a guest room, but… I think it suits you better.”

For a moment, Aiden just stood there, silent. Then he burst into motion—spins, flips, even a one-handed handstand, his free hand flapping excited little gestures toward the room as if declaring victory.

Tim leaned against the doorway, arms folded, unable to fight a grin. Yeah. The kid liked it.

When they reached the garage, Aiden was already tugging eagerly at the passenger-side door of Tim’s Toyota. Tim chuckled, scooping him up before he could hurt himself.

“Not yet, kiddo. First, the seatbelt.” He settled Aiden into the passenger seat, carefully guiding the straps over his shoulders and clicking the buckle in place. Aiden squirmed, chirping with irritation, tugging at the belt like it was a trap.

“Yeah, I know,” Tim said, pulling his own belt across. “But rules are rules. Safety first.”

Aiden chirped again, softer this time, eyes flicking curiously between Tim’s belt and his own. He tugged on it once more, testing, then let out a resigned trill that sounded almost like a sigh.

Tim started the car, the low rumble vibrating through the seats. Aiden’s eyes widened, hands flattening against the dashboard like he could feel the engine’s heartbeat. The boy chirped in awe, kicking his heels against the seat.

As they pulled out of the garage, they pulled onto the street, weaving through Gotham’s usual midday traffic. It wasn’t a long drive—fifteen minutes, maybe—but long enough to keep Aiden occupied. Tim figured now was as good a time as any to start building on last night’s breakthrough.

“Let’s work on our communication, first word—‘yes.’”

Aiden’s mouth worked like he was chewing on the word. “...Yehhh… sshhh.”

“Close. Yes.”

“Yehhh… eshh.”

“Better,” Tim said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Now, ‘no.’”

Aiden scrunched his nose. “Nuhhh… ohhh.”

“Exactly. No.”

“...Yehhh!” Aiden chirped with a proud grin.

Tim groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face. “Great. I can already tell you’re going to mix those up just to mess with me.”

Aiden giggled at that, the sound bubbling like carbonated water.

“Alright,” Tim sighed, but he couldn’t keep the fondness from his tone. “Next one—my name. Tim.”

The boy’s brow furrowed with effort. “...Tihhh… mm.”

Tim blinked. That was fast. “Yeah. Tim.”

“Tihhm.”

“That’s me,” Tim said, feeling an unexpected warmth in his chest. He kept his eyes on the road, but the corners of his mouth curved up.

Aiden pointed at his own chest then, eager.

“Your turn,” Tim said, already bracing himself. “Aiden.”

“Aahh… din.”

“Close. Aiden.”

“Ai… den.”

Tim nodded, voice softer now. “Yeah. That’s you.”

The boy repeated it under his breath like a secret he was practicing to keep—“Ai…den… Ai…den”—and Tim let the sound settle in the car.

It was only a short drive across Gotham, but by the time the Batburger sign came into view, Aiden was stringing “yes,” “no,” “Tim,” and “Aiden” together in proud, halting attempts, tripping over his tongue but always grinning when he caught the sound right.

Tim realized, with a pang he tried to ignore, that he hadn’t smiled this much in weeks.

Tim pulled the Toyota into Batburger’s parking lot, finding a spot tucked between a minivan and a beat-up sedan. The engine cut off, leaving only the hum of traffic.

In the passenger seat, Aiden pressed his face to the window, wide-eyed. Neon signs flickered in the afternoon haze, the bright cartoon mascots grinning down from the walls. A giant inflatable Batburger cow loomed above the roof, its cape flapping lazily in the breeze.

“Food,” Aiden whispered, testing the word like it was new.

“Yeah,” Tim said, amused despite himself. “Food.”

Aiden wriggled with excitement, cape slipping sideways as he tried to tug the door open with his small hands. Tim reached over before he could tumble out and scooped him up, settling the boy against his side. “Not so fast, partner. Gotham sidewalks are disgusting. Shoes first, remember?”

Aiden scowled but didn’t argue, clinging to Tim’s shoulder as they crossed the lot. The crowd was thick, parents corralling kids, college students shouting over each other, the smell of burgers and grease growing stronger with every step. Aiden buried his face against Tim’s neck for a moment before peeking out again, eyes shining at the sight of the oversized Batburger sign hanging above the glass doors.

Tim adjusted his grip on the boy, pushing inside. The restaurant buzzed with noise, every booth packed, the air heavy with fryer oil and chatter. Aiden sat up straighter in his arms, pointing at the bright menu boards lit up with cartoon villains advertising meals. His voice was soft but insistent. “Tim. Food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim murmured, shifting into line. “We’re getting there.”

The Batburger was already buzzing when they walked in, families with kids in plastic Batman masks and teenagers trying to one-up each other with who could order the spiciest “Two-Face Double Burn” meal. Aiden stuck out immediately—barefoot, swim trunks, jellyfish hat—and Tim knew people were staring. He forced himself not to care.

By the time they sat down, Aiden was already pulling his Bat-Mite meal apart with the intensity of someone cracking a safe. When the Red Robin figure popped free, he gasped so loudly that half the restaurant turned their heads.

He pointed at the toy, then at Tim. “Tihhm!”

Tim froze, his coffee halfway to his lips. “Not so loud,” he hissed, leaning in. “That’s a secret.”

Aiden blinked, tilting his head. “Se…cret?” The syllables wobbled off his tongue.

“Exactly. A secret means you don’t tell anyone. You keep it here.” Tim tapped his temple.

The boy’s eyes widened in solemn awe. He raised a finger to his lips and whispered, “Yesss,” before doing the biggest, loudest “Shhhhhh!” imaginable.

A few teenagers at the next table snickered. Tim groaned.

Still, Aiden seemed thrilled, hugging the toy like it was made of gold. He opened his fries next, holding one up proudly. “Fr-eye.”

“Yeah. Fry.”

“Fr-eye!” He popped it into his mouth, cheeks puffing. “Mmmm. Gooood.”

Tim smirked. “Careful, you’ll eat the tray too.”

Aiden immediately peered down at the tray, suspicious, like he was considering the dare. “Nooo,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.

“That one you got right,” Tim muttered, chuckling despite himself.

The worker who had taken their order drifted by with a rag, pausing at their table. “He’s adorable,” she said, grinning at Aiden. “First Batburger trip?”

“Something like that,” Tim said smoothly, steering the conversation away.

Aiden pointed at her name tag, struggling. “Sah…rah?”

The worker blinked, impressed. “Close enough, little man.”

“Man,” Aiden repeated proudly, smacking his chest.

Tim fought back a smile. “You’re teaching yourself titles now, huh?”

They dug into their food again, though Tim could feel eyes on them from every direction. Aiden didn’t notice. He was too busy marveling at everything: the toy, the fries, even Tim’s coffee.

“Wah-ter?” he asked, pointing at the cup.

Tim shook his head. “No. Coffee.”

“Caw…fee.”

“Exactly. But you’re not touching it.”

“Caw-fee, Tim,” Aiden repeated, grinning.

Tim sighed, taking another sip. “You're my problem child…”

Still, as Aiden devoured his meal, the background noise of chatter and the weight of curious glances blurred out. For a few minutes, it was just the two of them—Tim and the kid who was learning how to be human, one french fry and mispronounced word at a time.

By the time they finished eating, Tim was amazed Aiden hadn’t fallen face-first into his Bat-Mite meal from sheer determination alone. The kid had demolished the food, every fry and crumb gone, sitting back in his chair with his jellyfish hat a little lopsided and his cape streaked with grease.

Tim wiped at his mouth with a napkin, ignoring the faint glare he got for it. “Okay, partner,” he said, stacking their trays. “Next stop—Shoes.”

Aiden perked up, still clutching the Red Robin toy from his meal. He pointed to it, then to himself, then made a big show of puffing out his chest.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “What, you want to dress like me?”

Aiden nodded furiously, nearly knocking his hat off.

“Great,” Tim muttered, but he couldn’t quite hide the chuckle. “Guess we’ll see what we can do.”

They left Batburger behind, stepping out into the Gotham afternoon. The sun had already started to dip, throwing long shadows over the lot. Tim buckled Aiden into the passenger seat again, the boy fighting the straps just long enough to “help” before giving up and letting Tim do it.

The drive to the mall wasn’t long, but it was loud. Aiden practiced the handful of words Tim had drilled into him on the way over—“yes,” “no,” “Tim,” “food”—mixing them up in ways that made Tim bite back laughter. By the time they pulled into the parking garage, Aiden had worked “Aiden” into the mix, pointing proudly at himself every time he got it right.

Tim carried him out of the car, weaving through the rows until the bright entrance of Gotham Mall opened up before them. The glass doors reflected neon signs, shoppers bustling in and out with bags on their arms. Aiden’s eyes grew round, soaking it all in—the towering ceilings, the noise, the sheer size of the place. His little hand tightened in Tim’s jacket as though afraid he might get lost in it all.

“Relax,” Tim said softly, adjusting his hold. “You stick with me, and you’ll be fine. Shoes first, then clothes.”

Aiden’s eyes darted to the toy clutched in his other hand, then back to the building. He gave a small, determined nod.

The Gotham Mall was already buzzing when they arrived. The parking lot was full, the glass-fronted atrium gleaming in the late morning light. Tim killed the engine and glanced at Aiden, still clutching the Red Robin action figure like it was his lifeline.

“Alright,” Tim muttered, sliding out of the car. He unbuckled Aiden carefully, then hoisted him onto his hip. No shoes meant no walking in this place—not with floors this filthy. “You’re stuck with me until we fix the footwear situation.”

Aiden chirped in mild protest, wriggling to see better as Tim carried him through the sliding doors. The moment they stepped inside, the kid went perfectly still. His mouth fell open, icy-blue eyes wide as he stared up at the glass ceiling and glowing skylights.

“Woaaahhh,” he breathed, voice full of awe. He pointed suddenly toward a huge fountain in the center atrium, water leaping into the air and crashing down into a wide pool. “Shiny!”

“Yeah,” Tim said softly, adjusting his grip when Aiden leaned toward the sight. “Don’t worry, we’ll check it out. First things first, though—shoes.”

But even as he said it, his stomach was tightening. The mall wasn’t exactly the safest choice. Already he could feel eyes sliding toward him. Not Red Robin—no, worse. Tim Drake. The Wayne kid. The reclusive one who ducked photos, who dodged company meetings whenever possible. The one who definitely shouldn’t be carrying around a little boy with the same pale skin and the same icy-blue eyes.

'If one person with a camera puts this together…'

He forced himself to breathe, to keep walking like nothing was wrong. He shifted Aiden against his chest, tucking the boy’s face against his shoulder.

“Shiny!” Aiden insisted again, twisting to point at a candy shop window lined with oversized lollipops. “Want!”

Tim huffed, shaking his head. “Shoes first. Candy after. Non-negotiable.”

That earned him a tiny groan of defeat, but Aiden didn’t fight much as Tim carried him into the sneaker store. The relief was immediate—at least here, surrounded by rows of shoes, people would assume he was just another young parent doing errands.

Until Aiden decided otherwise.

The moment Tim crouched to try a simple pair of sneakers on him, the kid stiffened. His nose wrinkled, and before Tim could even slip the second shoe on, Aiden flopped onto the floor with a dramatic wail.

“Noooo!” he cried, arms crossed, kicking his bare heels against the tile. “No shoes! No shoes!”

Tim sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as a wave of pitying looks came from the nearby mothers browsing sandals. Perfect. Just what he needed—an audience.

“Aiden,” Tim said firmly, crouching down again. “Listen to me. Gotham floors are gross. You don’t want to walk around barefoot here, trust me. It’s… it’s bad.”

Aiden gave him the full wide-eyed glare, tears starting to gather. His little arms wrapped protectively around his action figure. He shook his head, resolute.

Tim dropped to one knee, lowering his voice. “Hey. I get it. But shoes keep your feet safe. Okay? Just for here. Just for the mall. Then you can go back to your shorts-and-no-shoes thing at home.”

The boy sniffled, considering, icy-blue eyes darting between Tim and the sneakers. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he let Tim slide one on.

And then, as if fate was rewarding him for his cooperation, Aiden spotted them—the sneakers with a Red Robin logo stitched on the side. His whole face lit up, his tiny hand shooting out to grab them.

“Mine!” he declared, hugging the shoebox to his chest.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

By the time they left the store, Aiden was proudly clomping around in the logo sneakers, clutching two more boxes with the same design. Tim carried the rest—sandals, winter boots, flip flops. His kid apparently had a wardrobe now, and it was all on theme.

They made a quick drop at the car before heading back inside for clothes. 

After the shoe store tantrum, Tim half expected Aiden to be tired out, but the boy only grew more animated. He clomped proudly in his new sneakers, tugging Tim’s sleeve as they passed the clothing section of the mall.

“Alright, clothes next,” Tim muttered, steering them inside. “You can’t live in a borrowed t-shirt forever.”

Aiden darted from rack to rack, eyes wide, fingers brushing across every colorful shirt he could reach. Tim trailed after him, carefully pulling down options in smaller sizes. It was chaos, but a strangely gentle chaos—Aiden stubbornly refusing to put down a hoodie with Red Robin symbols, Tim trying to calculate how many outfits they actually needed, the quiet warmth of the boy holding up swim trunks like they were treasure.

Eventually, their arms were full of shirts, socks, pajamas, and a jacket Aiden had insisted on. Tim swiped his card at checkout without a thought, not even glancing at the total. The only number that mattered was the one hoodie Aiden hugged to his chest like armor. For that smile, Tim would have bought the whole store.

The clothing store haul was already ridiculous, and Tim had the faintest ache in his arms from carrying everything. But as they stepped out into the mall’s wide halls, he slowed, his gaze catching on a personal care store.

He almost kept walking. Clothes were enough for one day. But then he looked at Aiden—messy hair sticking every which way, faint grime still clinging to his hands, and his teeth a little yellow.

Yeah. Clothes weren’t enough.

“Come on, detour,” Tim murmured, steering them toward the store.

Aiden blinked up at the rows of shelves stacked with bottles, brushes, and boxes. His eyes lit up as if they’d stumbled into some secret cave of treasures.

Tim crouched to his level, pulling two brushes off the shelf. “Soft bristles or firm?” he asked, holding them out.

Aiden reached instantly for the soft one, clutching it like a prize. He ran his fingers through the bristles, marveling at the way they bent and sprang back.

“Good choice,” Tim said, tossing it into the basket. “Less likely to yank half your hair out.”

They moved slowly down the aisle, Tim grabbing practical items—shampoo, conditioner, mild body wash—while Aiden kept tugging at his sleeve to point things out.

At a row of brightly colored bottles, Aiden carefully lifted one, popped the cap, and sniffed so hard his nose wrinkled. He sneezed, eyes going wide, then shoved it toward Tim like the thing had personally offended him.

“Yeah, no lavender for you,” Tim muttered, sliding it back and opting for something unscented.

Aiden soon found a simple pack of blue hair ties, one with a little silver star charm dangling off it. He hugged it to his chest, gaze pleading.

Tim sighed. “Accessories already?”

Aiden’s lower lip stuck out.

“Fine,” Tim relented, slipping the pack into the basket. “You win. But you’re not wearing all of them at once.”

Further down, Aiden stopped dead in front of a wall of kid vitamins. The gummy bear shapes had him enraptured. He pointed furiously at the dinosaur-shaped ones, chirping excitedly.

“Dinosaurs, huh?” Tim asked, already pulling the box down. “Alright, we’ll go with the T-Rex gummies. But don’t think you’re getting them as candy.”

“Yes.” Aiden said while nodding furiously, though Tim suspected he only caught half the words.

The cart slowly filled—soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, a set of soft towels, the vitamins. And every step of the way, Aiden’s delight turned it from routine supply run into something more alive. Tim found himself pointing things out too, explaining the difference between shampoo and body wash, why they needed two towels instead of one.

They left the mall with bags stacked awkwardly in Tim’s arms, Aiden skipping beside him clutching his Red Robin while making it fly as they walk back to the car. By the time they reached the car and stashed everything away, Aiden was already humming to himself, still making the little Red Robin fly.

The drive to the supermarket was quieter, Aiden pressed against the window, wide eyes following every billboard, every stoplight. Tim found himself slowing just slightly at each intersection, giving him more time to look.

When they stepped into the grocery store, it was like Aiden had walked into a palace. Bright lights gleamed overhead, carts rattled on tiled floors, and endless aisles stretched out like corridors of color. Aiden froze just inside the entrance, blinking, jaw slack.

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, steering him toward a cart. “First time’s overwhelming. You’ll get used to it.”

Aiden tugged at his sleeve, wide eyes fixed on the fruit section. “Shiny,” he whispered, the word uneven and soft on his tongue.

Tim blinked—half proud, half wary—and let him guide them to the produce. Aiden pressed both hands to the clear dome over the grapes, chirping and repeating, “Shiny, shiny!” before Tim scooped him up.

“Not toys. Food,” Tim corrected, dropping a bag of grapes into the cart.

The cereal aisle nearly broke him. Aiden’s hands stretched toward the boxes covered in cartoon mascots, his chirps growing louder and more insistent until he grabbed one with a grinning bird plastered on the front. “Want! Tim—want!”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not living off sugar.”

Aiden’s lip quivered. 

Tim groaned and dropped the box into the cart. “Fine. But real breakfast food too.”

Aiden giggled, hugging the box tight. “Tim… good.”

The produce aisle was trickier. Aiden crept toward the leafy greens as though they might bite, poking at spinach before jerking back with a loud “Bleh!” He wrinkled his nose at carrots, though shiny red peppers got a curious tilt of his head.

“Not everything’s gross,” Tim said dryly, tossing essentials into the cart.

The bakery section stopped Aiden in his tracks. He pressed his palms flat to the glass case of pastries, fogging it up with his breath. “Cake?” he asked, voice small but hopeful.

“One treat,” Tim said, signaling the worker. “Pick.”

Aiden jabbed his finger at the cupcake with the most sprinkles, bouncing on his toes. “This! This one!”

When it was finally placed in a little paper bag, he hugged it close like a crown jewel, whispering to himself, “Mine.”

By checkout, their cart was a mix of Tim’s carefully chosen staples and Aiden’s impulsive treasures—boxes of pasta, cartons of eggs, simple spices, and Aiden’s rainbow cereal, dinosaur gummies, and sprinkle-covered cupcake.

As Tim buckled him into the car, he paused just long enough to meet the boy’s icy-blue eyes—so much like his own.

“You’re trouble,” Tim muttered with a huff of laughter.

Aiden grinned wide, cupcake bag crinkling in his lap. “Trouble… Tim.”

The back seat was piled high with bags, shoes stacked against clothes, and grocery sacks tucked carefully on the floor. Tim wasn’t sure if it looked more like he’d raided half the mall or fled it, but Aiden was content, strapped into the seat beside the chaos with his cape still fluttering and the Red Robin toy clutched proudly in his lap.

The boy hummed softly to himself—off-key, but happy—kicking his heels against the seat with every bounce of the car. The city lights flickered across Aiden’s face, catching in his icy-blue eyes. Eyes that looked so much like his own.

Tim swallowed, focusing back on the road. He didn’t have the luxury of sorting out what that meant right now. He flicked on the turn signal, heading back toward the Nest. Home.

Chapter Text

Tim kicked the apartment door shut with his heel, arms full of shopping bags. Aiden trailed behind him, dragging a smaller bag across the floor with both hands, determined to help even if the weight made him wobble like a penguin. They dumped everything in a pile near the couch, and Tim scrubbed a hand through his hair with a sigh.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Step one: room furniture. Because you’re not living out of plastic bags.”

Aiden tilted his head, curious, then immediately scrambled onto Tim’s lap when the laptop opened. His wide eyes reflected the glowing screen, pupils darting over the neat rows of images like it was a gallery of treasures.

Tim scrolled to the children’s section. “We’ll start with a bed. See anything you like?”

Aiden gasped when a dark pine frame appeared, pointing so hard Tim worried he might poke a hole through the screen. His little hands flapped with excitement.

“Alright, dark pine it is,” Tim said, clicking it into the cart.

Next came sheets. Aiden was enraptured by a set patterned with puffy clouds, then insisted—via an enthusiastic string of chirps—that the blankets had to be dinosaurs. By the time they got to lamps, he was bouncing on Tim’s lap, choosing a tall one crowned with a shade shaped like a cloud, and then squeaking in delight at rainbow-shaped nightlights.

Tim paid for overnight shipping without a second thought. “Furniture crisis: solved.”

While Tim ordered a pepperoni pizza for dinner because he didn’t want to cook, Aiden discovered a stack of printer paper and crayons by the desk. He dragged them over to the floor and flopped onto his stomach, tongue poking out in concentration.

Tim crouched down onto the floor beside him, curious to see what had kept Aiden so intent. He expected messy scribbles, maybe a stick figure or two. Instead, the drawing stopped him cold.

There was Tim, drawn with a cape flowing behind him, a long staff clutched in his hand. It wasn’t perfect, but it was him. And beside him, hovering in the same stance, was Aiden—not as the boy curled up on Tim’s couch now, but in the strange, glowing form Tim had first seen in that cave. His limbs were traced in white and blue, his hair almost like fire drawn in streaks of yellow crayon. Bright eyes shone out from the page. He’d drawn himself the way he still thought of himself: a child made of light, not flesh.

Tim’s gaze flicked to the swarm of jagged shapes surrounding them. Black crayon monsters with too many teeth and fins, their mouths open wide. Something about them twisted in his stomach. He tapped one.

“What are these?” he asked.

Aiden’s hand clutched the paper tighter, his head ducking. His voice was small, halting. “Bad.” The word cracked on his tongue, heavy enough to make Tim’s chest tighten.

Tim thought about pressing—what they were, where they came from—but Aiden’s knuckles had gone white. Better to let it rest. He shifted his finger instead, pointing toward the towering figure above them all.

At first, Tim thought it was just more scribbles. But no—the lines curved with purpose. A woman floated there, her hair flowing in arcs like ribbons of starlight, her body outlined in pale gold. Even in crayon she seemed to glow. She watched over the scene, bigger than the monsters, bigger than them.

“And who’s this?” Tim asked softly.

Aiden brightened like someone had flipped a switch. His finger jabbed at her again and again. “Good,” he said with certainty. His face glowed with pride as he pointed to himself, then Tim, then her again. His mouth stumbled over the name, trying, failing, giggling as he tried once more. “Au…roa. Au-roh. Au-roa…”

Tim repeated it carefully. “Aurora.”

The name clicked like a puzzle piece sliding into place. The voice from the cave—that low, steady whisper—suddenly had a face. A face only Aiden had seen. Until now.

“Good,” Aiden echoed, nodding hard, pleased that Tim had gotten it right. Then he pressed his little hand to his chest. “Aiden… stay.”

Tim froze. The kid had said it with such conviction, as if he wasn’t describing the drawing anymore but his own wish. He wanted to stay here. With him.

Tim swallowed, forcing the lump in his throat down. He ruffled Aiden’s messy hair with a crooked smile. “You did a really good job with this. Really.”

Aiden puffed up with pride. He scampered after Tim as he carried the page to the fridge. The boy stretched for a magnet but came up short, thrusting it into Tim’s hand instead. “Want help, Tim.”

Aiden placed his small hand over Tim’s, guiding the magnet as they pressed the drawing against the fridge door. When it held fast, Aiden jumped back with a triumphant squeak, spinning in delighted little circles.

It sat slightly crooked on the otherwise spotless fridge, glaringly bright against the blank surface. His chest ached in a way that felt strangely good. The fridge door had never looked so full.

For a long moment, he just looked at it—the glowing child, the monsters, the woman, himself standing right in the middle of it all. He didn’t know what Aurora really was, or what those “bad” things meant. But Aiden did. And Tim… he couldn’t shake the feeling that this mattered..

The picture was still fresh in Tim’s mind when the doorbell rang. He blinked, realizing how long they’d been at it—Aiden was still bouncing in circles, humming proudly at the sight of his masterpiece hanging on the fridge.

“Stay here,” Tim said gently, heading for the door.

He grabbed his wallet from the counter and opened it to find the delivery guy holding a large box, steam curling from the edges. Tim signed the receipt, tipped well enough to avoid small talk, and shut the door before Aiden’s curiosity could drag him over.

The moment Tim set the box on the table, Aiden perked up. His head tilted back, nose twitching, eyes wide as he padded barefoot across the floor. “What—?” he asked, the word clumsy and new on his tongue.

“Pizza,” Tim said, flipping the lid open. Gooey cheese stretched between golden crust and circles of pepperoni, steam rising like an invitation.

Aiden gasped like Tim had revealed treasure. He scrambled into the seat Tim pulled out—not across from him, but tucked right at his side. Tim slid a slice onto a plate and set it in front of him.

The boy poked at the cheese first, testing the heat, then lifted it with both hands. His first bite was comically large, sauce streaking his chin, molten cheese dangling dangerously.

“Careful,” Tim murmured, already reaching for a napkin. He caught the worst of the mess with one hand, dabbing gently at Aiden’s mouth. The boy blinked up at him, still chewing, cheeks round and full.

“Good,” Aiden managed around the bite, muffled but earnest.

Tim’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Glad you like it.” He nudged the box closer. “Plenty more where that came from.”

And Aiden did not hold back. He hummed happily between bites, sauce and crumbs scattering down his oversized shirt, feet swinging under the chair. Every time he leaned a little too far over his plate, Tim was there with another napkin, catching stray drips before they hit the floor.

It reminded Tim, unbidden, of Wayne family lunches. Long tables groaning under Alfred’s cooking, arguments layered over one another like static. Damian insulting Jason’s table manners, Jason chewing louder just to annoy him, Steph fanning the flames, Cass stealing food in silence. Dick trying to referee, Bruce sitting there like he could hold it all together, Alfred eventually stepping in to keep the chaos from tipping into actual combat.

That was family, yes. But loud. Combative. A battlefield dressed in silverware.

This—Tim glanced at the boy beside him, cheeks smeared with sauce, humming happily as he devoured another slice—this was different. Chaotic in its own way, but smaller. Quieter. A mess that felt… warm. Like it belonged to him.

Aiden finished with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. He gave a little chirp, then managed a tired but clear, “Good.”

Tim smiled faintly, sliding a fresh napkin into his hand. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Good.”

By the time the last slice of pizza was gone and the table cleared, Aiden’s endless energy was beginning to dim. He still bounced from chair to chair and hummed little tunes under his breath, but his eyes were drooping, and he rubbed at them with the back of his hand.

“Bedtime,” Tim said gently.

Aiden froze mid-bounce, clutching his cape tighter around his shoulders. His jellyfish hat slid down over one eye as he shook his head.

Tim crouched down so they were eye to eye. “Not a fan of bedtime?”

Aiden crossed his arms, holding himself protectively.

Tim’s gaze softened. “You like these clothes, don’t you?”

Aiden nodded quickly, clutching the hem of his tank top.

“I get it,” Tim said. “They’re special. You’ve had them since… before.” He let the weight of that linger, then added softly, “But clothes need to be washed sometimes. And you’ve got new ones waiting. How about this—you wear your pajamas tonight, and first thing tomorrow, when these are clean, you can put them back on. Deal?”

Aiden hesitated, then glanced toward the folded set Tim had laid out: navy-blue pajamas dotted with silver music notes. He chewed his lip, clearly torn.

Tim held out his pinky. “Promise.”

After a long pause, Aiden hooked his tiny pinky around Tim’s. “Pro-missse.” he mumbled, the word wobbly but determined.

Changing took a little coaxing, but Aiden finally allowed Tim to ease him out of his tank top and shorts. He hugged the cape close until Tim carefully folded it, placing it on top of the neat pile with his jellyfish hat. Only once everything was set aside safely did Aiden let Tim guide him into the pajamas.

The fit was perfect, and once the buttons were done, Aiden looked down at himself with wide eyes. He ran his fingers over the embroidered music notes like they were starlight stitched into fabric, a faint smile curling at his lips.

Before climbing into bed, he gasped and hurried to the couch. He returned clutching his Oreo-colored plush dog, hugging it to his chest.

“Couldn’t forget him, huh?” Tim said with a faint smile.

Aiden shook his head, crawling under the blankets with the plush tucked under his chin. His breathing slowed, his eyes slipped shut, and within minutes, he was asleep.

Tim lingered at the bedside, glancing at the folded cape and hat waiting on the dresser. They looked fragile, sacred even. He made a silent promise to keep them safe.

And as he looked back at the small boy curled up in music-note pajamas, Tim felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest. This wasn’t temporary. Not anymore.

Aiden was here to stay.

After the kitchen was tidied, Tim settled at the dinner table with his laptop. The glow of the screen flickered across his face as he pulled up case files—old leads, fragments of reports, the kind of mental clutter he always buried himself in when the world felt too loud. His fingers hovered over the keys, mind already shifting back to Gotham’s shadows.

A soft sound cut through the quiet.

“Tim?”

Tim froze, head snapping up. It wasn’t loud, but the word was fragile—more of a chirp than a voice, filled with sleep-heavy need.

He stood immediately, closing the laptop with a decisive click. Work could wait. Aiden couldn’t.

When Tim stepped back into the bedroom, he found Aiden curled under the dinosaur blanket, Oreo plush clutched tight, his eyes peeking open in the dim light. He reached out without words.

Tim sat on the edge of the bed, laptop tucked under one arm. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Aiden shook his head, then scooted closer until his side pressed against Tim’s. It wasn’t a request, it was instinct—and Tim didn’t hesitate. He shifted, set the laptop across his lap, and let the boy lean into him.

He opened the files again, but this time his focus kept slipping. Every soft breath from Aiden tugged his thoughts back. Every twitch of small fingers gripping the plush dog reminded him of the impossible weight of responsibility—and the unexpected warmth of it too.

This wasn’t the kind of vigil he was used to. There were no rooftops, no alarms crackling through the comms. Just the steady rhythm of a child’s breathing, syncing with the rise and fall of his own chest.

Tim tried to dive into reports, but instead his mind replayed the day: Aiden’s wonder at the mall lights, the tantrum in the shoe store, his fierce grip on a crayon while sketching Aurora. Every moment had been chaotic, messy, unpredictable. And somehow… it felt right.

The Wayne family's “domestic chaos” had always left him slightly adrift, as though he were orbiting around their center but never inside it. Today had been different. Aiden’s chaos didn’t push him out—it pulled him closer.

Tim glanced down. Aiden had drifted fully asleep, his cheek pressed against Tim’s arm, breath warm and steady. For a moment, Tim just studied him, his chest tightening.

The boy’s eyes had been open only moments before—icy blue, sharp and clear, the exact same shade Tim saw in the mirror every morning.

Tim glanced down. Aiden had drifted fully asleep, his cheek pressed against Tim’s arm, breath warm and steady. For a moment, Tim just studied him, his chest tightening.

It had rattled him when he first noticed it that morning, enough that he buried it in the back of his mind. But now, with Aiden curled trustingly against him, there was no avoiding it. The resemblance was undeniable, almost haunting.

Tim’s throat went dry. He wasn’t ready to think about what it meant—whether it was coincidence, fate, or something far stranger. Not tonight.

Carefully, he tugged the dinosaur blanket higher over Aiden’s small shoulders, tucking it around him like a promise.

Tim lingered, standing at the edge of his own bed. Aiden was curled up in the center of it, small hands clutching the blanket as if it were a lifeline, breaths deep and even in the kind of sleep Tim hadn’t seen him allow himself before. Peaceful. Safe.

That safety was now Tim’s responsibility.

Tim stood in the half-light of his bedroom, armor half-donned, gloves hanging loose at his sides. On the bed, Aiden was curled in a small knot of blankets, music note pajamas bunched at the knees, one small hand still wrapped around the edge of the sheet like he thought it might vanish if he let go.

Tim should’ve been moving faster—he knew the routine by heart. Suit up. Arm the security system. Patrol. But his feet wouldn’t move. Not when his eyes kept drifting back to the rise and fall of that small chest, to the quiet proof that someone trusted him enough to fall asleep here, in his space.

That was new. That was his.

He swallowed, throat tight, and forced himself into motion. Piece by piece the armor went on, each click and tug of a strap feeling heavier than it should. When he lowered the cowl into place, he caught his reflection in the darkened window: Red Robin, detached, mission-ready. But in the corner of that reflection was Aiden, soft and defenseless in the middle of the bed, and suddenly the armor felt more like distance than protection.

Tim crossed to his desk and dug out a spare comm unit. His hands worked automatically, rewiring it into a crude baby monitor. He tested it once, and the quiet static shifted into the sound of Aiden’s soft breaths. He let it play for a long moment, just listening, until some of the tightness in his chest eased.

The Nest’s security is armed with a quiet chime. Still, he lingered. He tugged the blanket higher over Aiden’s shoulders, careful not to wake him, and brushed a stray curl of hair out of the boy’s face. Aiden stirred only slightly, mumbling something incoherent before tucking closer into the warmth.

Tim’s hand hesitated on the door handle. For once, he didn’t want to leave.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, voice almost breaking under the weight of the words. He wasn’t sure if he was promising Aiden—or himself.

Only when the comm in his ear carried the steady rhythm of the boy’s breathing did Tim finally step out into the Gotham night, each footfall carrying the echo of a home he didn’t want to walk away from.

Chapter Text

Tim skimmed over Gotham’s rooftops, the city stretched beneath him like a restless beast. Even at this hour, the streets pulsed with neon and danger, the kind of hum that made most people lock their doors but made the Bats restless. His boots landed lightly on the edge of a rooftop, cape tugged by the wind. He adjusted the comm in his ear, the one he’d modified before leaving the apartment. A faint background hiss confirmed it was still feeding him the sound of Aiden’s quiet breathing.

Good. Still asleep.

Movement below pulled him back. Four men, shadows hunched in the narrow choke of a grimy alleyway. A figure was pinned against the wall. At first glance, Tim saw a child—small shoulders, wide eyes, terrified. His pulse spiked. Aiden. It looked like—

He blinked, and the image warped. A man, not a child. A man in his twenties, pale with fear. Then it flickered again. Child. Man. Child.

Tim’s stomach twisted. Whatever it was, he couldn’t waste time staring.

He dropped from the rooftop like a shadow with teeth. Smoke pellets cracked at his boots, white haze rolling through the alley. His bo-staff extended with a snap, and in three practiced sweeps, the fight was over. The first thug went down clutching his ribs, the second dropped after a precise strike to the knee, the third’s knife clattered uselessly as Tim disarmed him and sent him sprawling. The fourth thought to run, but Tim vaulted forward, slamming the staff into his chest with enough force to drop him breathless.

Silence fell in less than a minute, broken only by the wheezing of the men as they writhed against their bonds.

Tim turned back—just a man now, no trace of the child. Shaken, wide-eyed, but unhurt.

“Go,” Tim said evenly, jerking his head toward the street. “Don’t look back.”

The man bolted, shoes slapping against the pavement.

As Tim zip-tied the thugs, scraps of their muttering drifted to him through clenched teeth and pain:

“—shoulda stayed by the docks, man. Those glowing freakin’ marks—”

“—bad luck hanging near ‘em… Ricky touched one, ain’t been lookin right since—”

Tim’s grip tightened on the last tie. Glowing marks. His mind flickered, unbidden, to the sigil pressed into his palm at the cave entrance. Alien, strange, warm with power he couldn’t explain.

Coincidence? Or connected?

He closed the staff with a flick of his wrist, tucking it into his belt. He didn’t have answers. Just suspicions that scraped like grit under his skin.

And in Gotham, suspicions had a way of turning into trouble.

Tim vaulted back up the fire escape, leaving the groaning men zip-tied in the alley below. He crouched on the roofline, letting the cold night air bite his lungs. The city never slept, and neither did his thoughts. His gloved hand drifted to his side, where Aiden’s glowing touch had once burned bright, replacing what his spleen used to be. It was gone, long dissolved—but the way the victim had flickered between child and man gnawed at him. 

His comm crackled.

“Red Robin,” Oracle’s voice cut in, calm but clipped. “You missed your scheduled check-in. Again.”

“I was busy,” Tim answered, too fast.

“Busy,” Oracle echoed. “Tim, you can’t keep running solo like this. Especially now.”

Another voice slid onto the channel—warm, too familiar, and grating. “Occupied with what, Baby Bird?” Nightwing asked.

Tim’s jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that.”

He scanned the roofline—and froze.

Two shadows waited for him against the glow of a neon sign. Nightwing’s broad silhouette and Blackbat’s sharp, deliberate stance. They’d been following him.

“Red Robin,” Blackbat said, her tone edged with concern.

He felt cornered.

“You’ve been dodging us,” Nightwing said, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Too quick. Too defensive.

“We’re worried,” Nightwing pressed, moving forward to meet him.

“I don’t need you to worry.” Tim shifted back, instinctive retreat. The rooftop tilted, the air thickening. A flash: stone walls, cold chains, the dart. Dick’s hand reached toward him and Tim flinched like it was fire.

Blackbat’s gaze sharpened, concern cutting through her mask. “Red Robin.”

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t let them in. If they dug too deep, they’d find everything—Aiden, the cave, that night. Bruce and the Justice League would take Aiden from him, and the others… they’d look at him differently if they knew the truth of how Aiden was found. If they knew the shame he still carried.

“I’ve got patrol,” Tim muttered, pulling the cowl tighter around his face. “Find someone else to babysit.”

“Baby Bird—”

But he was already moving. He vaulted off the edge, the city rushing up to meet him. Wind roared in his ears, drowning their voices. His chest burned as he landed, then pushed forward, sprinting rooftop to rooftop.

‘They can’t know. Not about Aiden. Not about me.’

Every leap felt heavier, his legs carrying more than his body. If they found out, it wouldn’t just be him who suffered—it would be Aiden. The League wouldn’t care about a scared little boy with a cape and a jellyfish hat. They’d see an anomaly. A threat. Something to send back.

And if they pressed about how he’d met Aiden? About the League of Assassins, the dart, the cave? He’d have to tell them. Admit what almost happened. Let them see how broken he really was.

If Ra’s found out about Aiden.

‘No. Don't think about it, not yet.’

The thought was steel in his chest. Aiden was his. His responsibility, his choice, his to protect. Even from them.

Especially from them.

So he ran harder, leaving Nightwing’s call of “Baby Bird!” echoing faintly behind him, swallowed by the Gotham skyline.

Tim slowed his pace only when the city around him blurred into a steady rhythm of lights and shadows. He muted Oracle’s channel, blocked out Dick’s voice still chasing after him, and forced his mind into the cold precision of work. He had to—because if he let himself think about why he’d run, the walls he kept built inside would start to crack.

And tonight, he couldn’t afford cracks.

The whispers he’d picked up earlier from the downed gang members was taking him to the docks, where buildings leaned into each other like tired drunks and alleyways stank of mildew and old oil. He cut across a rooftop, boots landing soft, then froze.

A mark glowed faintly against the brick of an abandoned tenement, carved like fire from the inside out. Its lines were sharp, curling back on themselves in an almost deliberate symmetry, as though someone—or something—had placed it there with intent.

The sight tugged something low in his chest, a memory he didn’t want to touch. He pressed a hand to his side, just under his ribs. The same spot Aiden had once touched him, small glowing fingers leaving a mark where his spleen used to be. That memory still burned if he let it.

He shook his head. Coincidence. Maybe. But his instincts screamed otherwise.

Tim crouched, pulling a collapsible flask from his belt. If it was paint or chemicals, his lab could analyze it. He reached out with a swab, but the moment the metal came close, the light rippled like water disturbed. Then, in a sudden inhale, the glow collapsed inward—vanishing into the flask with a faint hiss.

Tim rocked back on his heels, staring. The wall was bare now, charred faintly, but empty. Like the symbol had never been there.

He clipped the flask back onto his belt, unsettled by its unnatural weight. This wasn’t evidence anymore—it felt like carrying a secret.

His eyes lingered on the bricks one last time. The memory of Aiden’s small hand pressing to his side refused to leave him, the memory of Aiden almost dying before he got to know him, no matter how hard he tried to shove it away.

Tim tightened his jaw, launched his grapple, and disappeared into the skyline.

He had no proof. No connections. Just suspicions. But if Gotham was starting to bleed with the same symbols that had appeared the night he met Aiden, then it wasn’t just coincidence.

And he wasn’t sure if that terrified him more for Gotham’s sake—or for Aiden’s.

The docks smelled of rust, diesel, and rotting salt. Gotham’s veins spilled into the river here, and in return, the river choked the city with fumes and toxins.

Tim landed on a container stack, crouched low, scanning. The faint hum of cranes loomed above. Metal groaned, water slapped against concrete pylons, and somewhere, a bottle shattered against the deck.

But under the familiar noise was something else.

A thrum. Low, steady, pulsing against his ribs like a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

Tim followed it, steps careful, body taut with readiness. He passed crates stenciled with false company names, tarps stiff with mold. Every shadow seemed to flicker.

The glow revealed itself at the far end of the pier, painted across the weather-worn planks like it had grown from the wood itself. This one was larger than the alleyway’s—sprawling, intricate, every line precise as though carved by unseen hands.

Tim crouched near it, flask ready. The glow was the same golden warmth, dim enough not to blind but bright enough to outshine the lamps overhead.

“Let’s see what you are,” he muttered, and moved the flask closer.

The mark responded. The air warped, heat rippling through the space. The glow lifted from the wood, spiraled upward—and again, it formed a child-shape.

No features. Just a silhouette of light, fragile and pure. It tilted its head at him, the way Aiden sometimes did when he didn’t quite understand a word but wanted to. Then, like the one before, it bowed.

Tim’s chest tightened.

The figure dissolved, streaming into the flask with a faint, melodic hum. The glass warmed in his palm, vibrating with something that wasn’t science, wasn’t tech. Something more.

Two flasks now. One from the alley. One from the docks.

He clipped it back onto his belt, unsettled. His instincts told him he should call Oracle, log the anomaly, and flag it for Bruce. But the thought of Bruce knowing—of Bruce deciding what Aiden was, what he should or shouldn’t be—made his throat close.

‘No. This stays with me.’

The docks yielded nothing else, though he searched every shadow, scaled every stack. But Gotham was wide, and the thugs’ whispers had suggested these symbols were spreading.

So he hunted.

He combed the city from Narrows rooftops to midtown alleys, moving with the relentless precision only Robin-training could breed. Every time he caught the faintest glimmer—like moonlight where none should be—he dropped down, flask ready.

Each symbol was different. One etched across brick like veins of fire. Another spiraling across a cracked sidewalk, filling every fracture with light. One pulsed faintly inside an abandoned bus, windows glowing like lanterns.

Each time, the same process. The glow peeled away, reshaped into a child made of light, faceless but present. Each one bowed, almost reverent, before dissolving into the flask.

And each time, Tim’s chest ached.

By the tenth, his belt felt heavy with glass. By the thirteenth, his hands trembled from the constant vibration of warmth seeping into his gloves.

Fifteen in total.

Fifteen little suns corked and silent, each one humming faintly like a heartbeat in the dark.

He perched on a rooftop at the city’s edge, dawn bleeding pale gray over the skyline. His chest heaved, cape tattered at the edges from too many rapid grapples, legs burning from hours of movement without pause.

But it wasn’t the exhaustion of patrol. It was something deeper, pressing into him with every flask’s weight.

Fifteen.

He hadn’t told anyone. No logs. No reports. Just him, carrying the evidence of something Gotham had never seen before. Something that belonged to Aiden’s world.

Tim’s gaze flicked toward the faint outline of his apartment building far off in the sprawl. Aiden would be stirring soon. Maybe rubbing his eyes, blinking at the morning light, or tugging absently at his too-long pajamas.

And Tim would be there. He had to be.

He stood, every joint aching, and grappled his way back across the thinning night.

When he finally slipped into his apartment window, the sun had crested the horizon, soft gold slanting through the curtains. He set the belt down gently, the flasks clinking together like muffled bells. Each one vibrated faintly, a chorus of secrets waiting to be opened.

For now, they would wait.

Tim pulled his cowl back, raked a hand through sweat-damp hair, and let himself breathe. One step closer to the bedroom door, he tilted his head, listening—

From the comm still resting on the counter came the softest sound. Steady breathing. A small sigh.

Aiden.

Safe.

Tim’s shoulders eased, just slightly. The night’s weight was still there—fifteen flasks heavy—but for the moment, it was enough.

Tomorrow, he’d start untangling what it all meant.

This morning, he let himself believe that keeping the secret was the only way to protect what was his.

Chapter Text

The smell of toasted bread still lingered faintly in the air, the kind of warm, homely smell that clung to the kitchen long after breakfast was technically over. Tim had only half-eaten his plate; his mind kept wandering in a dozen directions, never really settling. But Aiden was still perched at the table, legs swinging, his chin resting on one hand while the other poked idly at the last of his scrambled eggs. He looked peaceful in his music-note pajamas and cape, hair sticking up stubbornly in different directions, like sleep hadn’t quite let go of him yet.

Tim forced himself to relax a little. This was good. Normal. Something ordinary that belonged in the daylight, not shadows and rooftops.

It was when Tim got up to rinse his plate that he noticed Aiden had stopped fiddling with his eggs. The boy’s gaze had drifted away from his food, drawn instead to the far counter. Tim followed his line of sight and immediately cursed himself under his breath.

He hadn’t put the flasks away.

The collection of slim glass vials gleamed faintly under the kitchen light, a cluster of small, sealed containers lined up near the sink. Fifteen in total— what now looks like liquid light gathered from alleyways, rooftops, and the dock. He had meant to store them in the lab as soon as he came home, but exhaustion had pulled him under before he could manage it.

Now Aiden was staring at them like they were speaking to him.

Tim dried his hands on a towel, trying for calm. “They’re nothing,” he said quickly. “Just something I picked up while I was out.”

Aiden slid down from the chair, bare feet padding softly across the tile. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a strange kind of recognition. He reached out toward the nearest flask, fingertips hovering just above the glass, like there was an invisible pull.

“No touching,” Tim said sharply, stepping forward before Aiden could grab one. His voice came out harsher than he intended, and he saw the boy flinch slightly. Tim crouched down, softening his tone. “They’re not toys, okay? They could be dangerous.”

Aiden’s brows knitted together. He pointed at the flask, then at his own chest. His mouth opened, fumbling with words. “Good,” he managed. “They… good. Make Aiden strong.”

Tim’s stomach tightened. How would Aiden know that?

Before he could ask, Aiden darted forward. His small hands were faster than Tim expected, fingers curling around one of the vials. “Aiden show Tim!”

“Aiden—!” Tim lunged, but the boy had already twisted off the cap with surprising ease.

The liquid light within pulsed once, spilling upward in a sudden flare that caught the edges of the kitchen in a ghostly shimmer. Aiden tilted his head back and inhaled, and the glow poured into him like breath, flooding through his chest, sinking beneath his skin.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

Then light burst outward.

It wasn’t fire, not really—it was radiance. Blinding and pure, blooming across the kitchen in a wave that forced Tim to throw up an arm against the glare. He felt the energy ripple in the air, like standing too close to a live wire. And when his eyes adjusted, Aiden was no longer just Aiden.

The boy stood in the middle of the room, a smaller frame swallowed by a brilliance that clung to him like living armor. His pajamas were still there, but his cape now had three bright, white stars lined up on the back of Aiden’s cape. His face was hidden behind a smooth mask of white light, featureless except for two glowing eyes that pulsed gently in time with his breaths. Aiden’s hair turned from its messy, silky black to white hair that looks like dripping wax. 

Tim’s mouth went dry. He had seen a lot of impossible things in Gotham, but this was different. This wasn’t magic he’d studied, or tech he could disassemble. This was something different.

“Aiden?” His voice cracked before he could stop it.

The boy turned toward him, and instead of words came a sound—a soft, birdlike chirp that resonated in the air. The chirp wasn’t loud, but Tim felt it echo in his chest, reverberating inside his ribcage. Around Aiden’s head, faint ripples of light pulsed outward in time with the sound.

Tim’s mind told him he shouldn’t understand it. But somehow, he did.

“Look how cool I am Tim!” Aiden chirped.

Tim exhaled, lowering his arm. “You… you look very cool?”

Aiden chirped again, his chest puffing up as he preened at the praise.

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face, already feeling the migraine forming. He couldn’t deal with this in the middle of the kitchen. If the light spilled out the window, neighbors could see. The last thing he needed was someone calling in a mysterious light sighting that ended with the Justice League knocking on his door.

“Alright,” he said quietly, forcing his voice steady. “We need to go downstairs. Somewhere safe.”

He held out a hand. For a moment, he wasn’t sure the boy would take it, but then Aiden’s glowing waxy fingers slipped into his. The warmth that bled into Tim’s palm wasn’t just heat—it was vitality, buzzing energy that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time.

Tim led him down the hall, through the hidden door that opened onto the staircase. The lights flickered faintly as they descended, reacting to the hum radiating off Aiden’s body.

The lab opened up before them, cold and clinical, machines humming quietly. Tim guided Aiden to the center of the room, then released his hand reluctantly.

The boy looked around curiously, his cape brushing softly against the floor. Another chirp, curious and questioning, rolled through the space, filling the sterile lab with something musical.

“Yes,” Tim said, already pulling a tablet closer, his voice distant with focus. “This is where we can… test things.”

He paused, watching Aiden tilt his head, mask glowing faintly as though he were smiling behind it. “Think of it like a game. I need to see how your powers work, how this—” he gestured vaguely, “—form functions.”

Another chirp. The ripple of light carried an unmistakable meaning.

“Game?”

Tim nodded, a little of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Yeah. A game.”

He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring more—Aiden, or himself.

Tim adjusted the tablet in his hands, eyes flicking between the boy glowing in the middle of his lab and the readouts he was already pulling up. He needed data. Any data. Because if he didn’t start organizing this, the sheer impossibility of it all might crack him open.

“Aiden,” Tim said carefully, setting the tablet on a workbench. “Can you… flap your cape for me?”

The boy tilted his head at him, then reached back to tug at the fabric. The cape glowed as though it were half-solid, with the three stars on the back glowing even brighter. Then, with a little hop, Aiden flared the cape outward and flapped it.

The effect was immediate.

A burst of light radiated outward, and Aiden shot a foot off the ground with a startled chirp. His mask tilted down toward Tim to flaunt his cape before he flapped again, harder this time, and another surge of energy launched him higher.

Tim’s eyes widened. He hadn’t been expecting thrust—at least, not on that scale. He scrambled for his notes, already scribbling. “Okay. Okay, so propulsion… stored charges?”

Aiden flapped once more, and this time the burst sputtered halfway, leaving him suspended awkwardly before drifting down into a glide. He landed with a wobbly step, cape settling around his small frame like nothing had happened.

“Three,” Tim muttered to himself. “Three bursts, then glide.” He circled the boy, cataloging every flicker of energy, every ripple in the air. “That’s… that’s a limit. Built-in. Interesting.”

Aiden, apparently emboldened by the ‘game,’ flapped again, trying to lift off the ground, but nothing happened. He chirped in frustration, forgetting to check his stars, stamping a glowing foot against the floor.

Tim held up a hand quickly. “No, that’s good. That’s information. It means you can’t just—” He caught himself before the lecture spilled out too far. “It means I can measure recovery time. Let’s rest a minute, and we’ll see if it comes back.”

The boy gave a softer chirp, and Tim understood the shape of it without thinking.

“No.”

“Yes,” Tim confirmed, throat tight. “Again later.”

He turned back toward the tablet, jotting notes with more force than necessary. Energy bursts. Flight capability. Glide functionality. He had barely begun to map it out when a faint flicker caught the edge of his vision.

Aiden had wandered away.

“Aiden—” Tim started, then froze.

The boy was standing by the far counter, one small hand digging into his glowing chest. And when it came out again, he wasn’t empty-handed.

Tim blinked. A candle. A waxy, red candle that was lit but unmistakably real, sat in Aiden’s palm, as though it had been drawn out of his very body. 

Tim’s pen stilled in his grip. “What the—”

Before he could finish, Aiden padded over to the stove built into the lab’s secondary counter. He reached up on tiptoes, fumbling for the knob.

Tim’s heart lurched. “Wait—don’t—”

A click, and the burner hissed alive with blue flame. Aiden grinned beneath his mask, holding the candle close to the heat. At first, nothing happened. The flame licked against the wax, Aiden leaned in, impatient, tapping his foot as though waiting.

Then, with a frustrated chirp, he clambered up onto the counter, planting himself directly above the burner.

Tim swore violently and lunged forward.

But before he could grab him, Aiden bent low,and inhaled, the glow shuddering around his form, brighter, stronger.

Tim froze halfway, horrified, because the boy wasn’t burning. He was absorbing it.

The energy rippled through him like fuel into an engine, and Aiden’s chirp echoed through the lab in pure delight.

Tim’s pulse spiked. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—”

He snatched the boy off the counter, heart pounding, twisting the stove off with his other hand. Aiden wriggled indignantly in his arms, chirping sharp bursts that Tim understood all too clearly.

“More! More, more!”

“No!” Tim snapped, setting him firmly on the floor. “Absolutely not! You can’t—god, you can’t just sit on a burner like that!”

The boy’s mask tilted, confused. He chirped again, softer this time.

“But it makes Aiden strong.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling years older than he was. “Yeah. Strong. And reckless.” He grabbed his notes again, scribbling furiously. Fire absorption. Energy intake. Risk factor: catastrophic.

He needed a control. He needed baselines. He needed—

Water.

He glanced toward the side sink, then back at the boy, who was still glowing faintly brighter than before. If fire gave energy, maybe water—

“Okay,” Tim said aloud, forcing his voice to calm. “We’re going to try something different.” He grabbed a beaker, filled it with water, and crouched down to Aiden’s height. “Hand out.”

The boy extended his glowing hand without hesitation. Tim dribbled a thin stream of water across it.

The effect was instant. The light dimmed where the water touched, and Aiden jerked his hand back with a startled chirp. The glow sputtered faintly, like a candle flickering against wind.

Tim scribbled again. “Water… drains energy. Weakens exterior form. Not fatal, but significant.” He then pauses from righting, looking up with concern. “How are you feeling Aiden? Does it hurt?”

Aiden stamped his foot, chirping irritably.

“Aiden doesn’t like it. Make Aiden weak.”

“I know,” Tim soothed quickly. “I know, but I need to see something.”

He filled another beaker, this time offering it to him. “Drink.”

The boy tilted his head, hesitating. Then, carefully, he lifted the beaker to his mask and sipped.

The transformation was immediate. The light flickered violently, then collapsed inward, sucking into his chest until only the pajamas and his small human frame remained. His face, now shown with the mask disappearing, was flushed. His hair plastered slightly damp against his forehead, and he looked startled but unharmed.

Tim blew out a slow breath. “So… only drinking it forces full reversion.” He jotted furiously, pacing. “External contact drains, internal reverts. That’s—” He cut himself off with a laugh that had no humor in it. “That’s… very specific.”

Aiden blinked up at him, then grinned. Before Tim could stop him, he gave Tim a mischiefs grin.

Tim froze. “Don’t you dare—”

“Aiden dares!” Aiden yelled, and before Tim could grab him, he was already back at the stove. He lit it with clumsy eagerness, pressing his hand close, letting the energy seep back in. The glow swallowed him again, and within moments the mask was back, the cape glowing faintly with the three stars.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t even finished writing the last set of notes.

He started to lunge forward, but the boy beat him to it. Another chirp, bright and smug, pulsed in the lab.

“See? Aiden is strong again.”

Tim dragged a hand down his face. He was going to have a heart attack before this was over.

“Enough,” he said firmly, shutting off the stove and pulling the boy gently but decisively back toward the center of the lab. “That’s enough testing for now.”

Aiden tilted his glowing mask up at him, chirping something softer.

“Game done?”

Tim exhaled, setting his notes aside. “Game done. For now.”

The boy brightened—or seemed to, literally. He plopped himself onto one of the lab stools, swinging glowing legs back and forth like he hadn’t nearly given Tim a coronary.

Tim sat across from him, his hands trembling faintly as the adrenaline caught up. He should stop here. He should shelve it, focus on the flasks later, pretend for just one day that his life wasn’t spiraling into sci-fi territory.

But then his eyes drifted to the boy, who had started humming tunelessly, his cape fluttering faintly as though it had its own rhythm. And a thought crept in, unbidden, unwelcome.

The blood.

Tim’s chest tightened. He had seen it with his own eyes—that first night, when Aiden had been more stone than boy, when he had poured his own blood into him. And Aiden had absorbed it, pulsed with it, lived because of it.

Tim’s hands clenched into fists against the tabletop.

Was it possible? Could the connection be that literal?

He stood abruptly, moving to the supply cabinet. Aiden looked up, chirping curiously.

Tim turned, a syringe in his hand. “I need to test something.”

The boy’s glow dimmed faintly, his cape wrapping tighter around his small frame. His mask tilted, and for the first time that day, Tim read the chirp not as curiosity or delight—but fear.

“Needles are bad.”

Tim’s heart twisted. Of course he’d be afraid. He was just a kid.

Tim sighed and rolled up his own sleeve. “It’s not bad,” he said gently, holding the syringe where Aiden could see it. He slid the needle into his own arm with practiced ease, drawing a tiny amount of his own blood into the vial. He capped it and set it aside, then looked back at the boy. “See? It doesn’t hurt much. I promise.”

Aiden hesitated, mask pulsing faintly. Another chirp, wavering as he held out his pinky.

“Promise?”

Tim crouched in front of him, placing his pinky to Aiden’s. “Promise.”

Tim picked him up and placed him in his lap, handing Aiden the glass of water to drink. Aiden drank the water, turned back into a human, then slowly, the boy extended his arm. His face twisted faintly as Tim swabbed the skin, then slid the needle in with careful precision. Aiden winced, chirping a small, pained note, but he didn’t pull away.

Tim withdrew the blood, quick and efficient, then capped it. “Done. That’s it. You did amazing.”

The boy slumped in relief, chirping something soft and tired. “Now you get to choose a bandaid,” Tim said, showing three bandaids. Each one was Batman, Superman, and Wonderwoman. “You can only choose one Aiden, you can’t have all three.”

“Batmen Tim’s friend?” Aiden asked.

“Batman, but I guess.”

“Then Aiden wants Batmen–Batman!” Aiden said, messing up slightly on Bruce’s vigilante name.

Tim placed a bandaid onto Aiden’s little booboo, ruffling his already messy black hair, before turning to his DNA analyzer.

Tim’s throat tightened again, but he forced his voice steady. “I’ll run this through the analyzer. Just… to be sure.”

He slipped the vial into the DNA tester, the machine humming to life with a low whir. Then he turned back to Aiden, who was already tugging his cape closer, eyes dropping a little.

“C’mon,” Tim murmured, scooping him up carefully. The boy was warm in his arms, it anchored him from what the DNA result could be. Tim carried him up the stairs, through the hidden door, and back into the kitchen.

“Let’s finish breakfast, then TV,” he promised quietly. “And eat your cupcake that you forgot to eat yesterday.” 

This seemed to push Aiden’s fatigue away as he started bouncing in his arms, excited to eat his cupcake.

____________________________________________________________________________

The cave was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that carried tension instead of peace. The monitors cast their pale glow across the stone walls, Oracle’s face framed on the largest screen, steady and sharp-eyed despite the late hour. The family was scattered around the central platform: Bruce in his usual chair, Damian perched stiffly at his side, Jason leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, and Dick standing with his hands on his hips. Cass sat on the edge of the platform, silent, eyes flicking between everyone. Alfred moved quietly in the background, though even his steps carried weight.

“Tim’s slipping,” Barbara said first, her voice crisp but not unkind. “He missed three check-ins this week. Tonight makes four.”

Jason snorted, pushing off the railing. “Slipping? More like actively avoiding. He hasn’t been answering me for days.”

“Not just you,” Dick said, his tone softer. “He’s pulling away from all of us.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck, frowning. “It feels like before… back when he thought he had to handle everything himself.”

Cass tilted her head, studying the floor before she spoke in her careful rhythm. “Not same. Different. He runs… but scared.”

Jason scoffed. “Everyone in this family’s scared of something. Doesn’t mean we ghost each other in the middle of patrol.”

Barbara cut in before the tension could spark. “It’s more than avoiding calls. I’ve been tracking his routes. He’s breaking patterns, taking solo patrols in high-risk areas without backup. That’s not strategy—it’s isolation.”

Alfred stepped forward, setting a tray down on the console with deliberate calm. “Master Timothy has always been diligent to a fault. But repression, emotional or otherwise, is no foundation to stand on.” His gaze slid sideways toward Bruce, lingering just long enough to sting. “I’ve seen what it does to a man.”

Bruce didn’t rise to the comment, though his jaw tightened. “He’s hiding something.” His voice was low, certain.

“That’s what I was getting to,” Barbara said. She tapped a few keys, and the feed shifted. A grainy video filled the screen—security cam footage from a rooftop. Tim—Red Robin—fought through a half dozen Black Mask gang members with brutal efficiency. When the last body hit the ground, he turned toward the wall behind them.

A mark glowed there. Strange, curling lines lit from within, etched like fire into the bricks.

Cass leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

On the screen, Tim approached cautiously. The symbol pulsed once, then unspooled into light. Threads twisted together into the shape of a child, faceless and featureless, glowing just dim enough to watch. The child bowed to Tim before dissolving into a stream of brilliance and disappearing into the small glass flask he pulled from his belt.

The room was silent.

“…What the hell did I just watch?” Jason said first, pushing away from the railing. His voice was rougher than usual, almost defensive. “And why the hell was he in my territory without telling me?”

Barbara ignored his bite, voice steady. “This isn’t an isolated case. There have been reports all over Gotham—these symbols appearing, then vanishing before most people can even photograph them.” Another video replaced the first: a man in a ragged hoodie, hand outstretched toward one of the glowing marks. The moment his fingers brushed it, his entire body erupted in fire. His scream echoed even through the poor audio. When the flames burned out, a charred husk remained on the ground.

Jason grimaced but then narrowed his eyes. “I know that guy. Thomas Fredrick. Goes by Ricky. Lifelong junkie. In and out of rehab more times than I can count. He was pumping Joker toxin straight into his veins last I heard. If he lit himself up like a torch, odds are he pushed it too far.”

Barbara shook her head. “I thought the same. But the hospital report says something different.” Another window opened: medical scans, reports scrolling by. “The burned skin fell away naturally within hours, revealing healthy tissue underneath. Blood work showed no trace of Joker toxin or narcotics. Clean. Like he hadn’t touched drugs in his life.”

That drew silence again. Even Jason didn’t have a quick retort.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “If these symbols can burn a man alive and then rebuild him, we’re dealing with something more dangerous than street magic. No one goes near them. Not until we understand what they are.”

“Tim already did,” Jason said quietly, gaze fixed on the paused image of the child of light bowing to Tim. “He didn’t report it.”

“Maybe he forgot,” Dick added quickly, though his voice lacked conviction.

Steph, who had been quiet until now, let out a sharp laugh without humor. “Forgot? Tim? He’s the one who lectures us about submitting mission reports immediately after patrol. And it’s been two hours since that footage was taken.”

Damian crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “So Drake finds glowing graffiti that transforms into some spectral whelp and decides to keep it for himself? Typical.”

“Enough,” Bruce said sharply, cutting through before the bickering could spark further. He looked to Barbara. “Anything else?”

“One more thing,” Barbara said. “The symbols are spreading. We’ve marked sixteen separate appearances in the last forty-eight hours. No pattern yet, but if they’re tied to whatever Tim’s carrying in those flasks…”

Her voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy.

Alfred cleared his throat delicately, drawing all eyes for a moment. “Whatever Master Timothy is concealing, I should remind you all—he has his reasons. Pushing him harder will only drive him further away. What he needs is not interrogation, but support.” His gaze flicked again to Bruce, softer this time, but no less pointed. “Do remember what comes of silence, sir.”

Bruce’s mouth pressed into a thin line, unreadable.

Finally, he stood. “We’ll give Duke the daylight shift. He’ll patrol, mark any new symbols, and report back. Until we know more, none of you engage with them. Understood?”

Grudging nods circled the group. Jason muttered something under his breath, Damian scowled, Dick sighed through his nose. Cass only tilted her head, her concern unspoken but clear.

Barbara lingered on the screen. “I’ll keep digging. But Bruce…” She hesitated, rare for her. “Tim’s hiding more than just this. If we want him to trust us with it, we can’t treat him like a suspect.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with everything none of them wanted to say.

Alfred finally broke it, setting a fresh pot of tea down on the table with quiet finality. “Perhaps, then, the wisest course of action for this evening is rest. Master Duke has the watch. The rest of you will do little good half-asleep at your posts.”

It wasn’t a request.

One by one, they relented. Jason stalked off first, muttering. Dick lingered, reluctant, before following. Cass disappeared without a word. Damian left only after a pointed look at Bruce.

The cave emptied slowly, but the weight of the unanswered questions lingered. Bruce stood alone for a long moment, staring at the frozen image of Tim on the screen, flask in hand, the faceless child of light bowing before him.

He didn’t look away, even as the monitors dimmed.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the TV filled the apartment, a steady backdrop to the glow flickering across the living room. Morning light filtered in through the blinds, cutting the space into stripes of gold and shadow. Tim sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on the cushion beside him, his fingers absently scrolling through a paused video tutorial. On the screen, a cheerful woman explained—step by step—how to do bubble braids for kids.

It was absurd, honestly. Red Robin could track a moving car across the city in pitch-black night, break down complex chemical signatures in minutes, and calculate the probability of gang turf wars in his head. But sitting here with a brush in hand, facing a six-year-old with messy, uneven tufts of black hair… Tim was out of his depth.

Aiden didn’t seem to care. He was curled up on the floor, sitting squarely between Tim’s knees like it was the most natural spot in the world, his tiny body leaning forward toward the TV. On screen, a dragon soared across, flashing as it twisted in flight. Aiden’s wide eyes reflected the colors, his mouth hanging open in awe—except where it was smeared with chocolate frosting.

Tim sighed softly, comb poised above the boy’s head. “You’re going to need a bath after this.”

Aiden didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. The dragon on the screen let out a roar, fire splashing across the frame, and Aiden giggled, frosting-covered lips spreading into a grin. He kicked his pajama-clad feet against the rug, cape forgotten somewhere on the couch arm.

Tim glanced down at the mess. Frosting around his mouth. Sticky fingers leaving faint prints on his knees. He really should’ve made him sit at the table for the cupcake. But then Aiden had asked—no, insisted—that they watch “the moving pictures” while eating his cupcake. And after everything, Tim didn’t have the heart to argue.

The comb caught a knot and tugged. Aiden winced, his shoulders hunching.

“Sorry,” Tim murmured quickly, easing it free. “Almost got it.”

He worked slowly, carefully dividing the two long pieces of hair from the rest of his head as the woman on the tutorial demonstrated. The boy’s hair was soft, surprisingly so, with a strand falling longer at each side of Aiden’s ears. The beginnings of the bubble braid started to take shape, little hair ties creating gentle puffs.

Tim couldn’t help but let his mind wander while his hands moved. He remembered brushing Damian’s hair once—an ill-fated mission to “make it neat” before Alfred swooped in to do it properly. Damian had glared at him like he’d committed treason. Aiden, though, tilted his head trustingly with every tug, humming tunelessly to the TV’s soundtrack.

On screen, Hiccup was running for his life, a Monstrous Nightmare on his heels. Aiden gasped, leaning back suddenly against Tim’s knees as if seeking protection. Tim steadied him with a hand, his other one still holding the comb.

The boy twisted around, big eyes searching Tim’s face. “What happen? Hic-cup okay?”

Tim shook his head, lips twitching. “Yes. He’ll be fine. Just watch.”

Satisfied, Aiden turned back just in time to see Hiccup narrowly escape. His little shoulders sagged in relief. Tim’s hand was still resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

He should’ve pulled it away. He didn’t.

Aiden shifted again, this time spinning around fully to face him. Before Tim could ask what he was doing, the boy squinted up at him with that open, guileless smile—frosting still smeared across his lips.

“What, Dad?” Aiden asked cheerfully.

The comb froze in Tim’s hand. His chest tightened, the breath sticking in his throat.

Dad.

The word landed like a weight and a spark all at once. He hadn’t been ready for it—not from this child, not from anyone. His heart skipped and stuttered, and for a moment all he could hear was the echo of Aiden’s voice in the quiet apartment.

Dad.

He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t even know how to move. His mind was already building the walls, calculating the consequences: what it meant, what it didn’t mean, what it couldn’t mean.

So instead, he grasped at distraction. Anything to shift the focus.

“You’ve got frosting all over your face,” Tim said, a little too quickly.

Before Aiden could reply, Tim grabbed the hand towel he’d set aside for exactly this moment and gently wiped the boy’s mouth. The soft fabric brushed over his skin, and Aiden immediately burst into giggles, squirming.

“Tickle!” he laughed, wiggling against Tim’s knees. “Tim tickle!”

Tim rolled his eyes but kept dabbing, trying to ignore the way his chest still burned from that single word. “Hold still, messy monster.”

Aiden laughed harder, batting at his hand, but finally let him finish. His grin lingered, wide and bright, as he looked back up. “Tim? Aiden think Stoh-ick name was Stoh-ick.”

Tim blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “Stoick?”

“Mm-hm!” Aiden nodded enthusiastically, repeating it carefully. “Stoh-ick. Funny name.”

Tim let out a short breath, almost a laugh, grateful for the opening. But the relief was shallow—because the word “Dad” still echoed at the back of his skull, demanding attention he wasn’t ready to give.

He wasn’t ready for any of this.

Tim set the towel aside, still trying to tamp down the word echoing in his head. Dad. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like Aiden had just asked why the sky was blue.

And then, because Aiden never let quiet linger for long, he tilted his head and asked with all the bluntness of a child: “Tim, know how Aiden made?”

The question hit almost as hard. Tim’s breath stalled, his grip tightening slightly on the comb.

Made.

It was the kind of question he might’ve expected years down the line if—if this were a normal situation. If Aiden had been born in a hospital, if Tim had been handed a set of adoption papers, if there were any logical boxes to put this kid into. But there wasn’t. There was only a cave, a stone body, a glowing hand, and a child who shouldn’t exist.

So Tim fell back on instinct: redirect. “Why don’t you tell me?” he said carefully.

Aiden’s eyes brightened instantly. He scrambled to his feet, wobbling a little as he found his balance, then puffed out his chest like he was about to perform.

“Okay!” he said, grinning. He lifted his arms, voice sing-song as his feet shuffled into an impromptu dance. “Elders sad, Eden cry, so Aiden fall from sky— like star!” His hands swooped dramatically downward, mimicking a streak through the heavens.

Tim blinked. “You… fell from the sky?”

Aiden nodded so hard his hair bounced. “Yes! Then Aiden help! Aiden find light to help Eden. But—” His voice dropped, his dance slowing. “Can’t do that anymore.”

Tim frowned, leaning forward on the couch. “Why not?”

Aiden bit his lip, thinking hard, then waved his arms again. “Eden dark. Need light. Other stars—” He stumbled over the words, frustration flashing across his face. “Other stars need light. So Aiden gives. We all give. But then—then Aiden get cold. Then Aiden…” His little hands clenched into fists. “Tim, what word?”

Something in Tim’s chest sank. He already knew where this was going, it almost happened back at the cave–in his arms. Still, his voice came out rough when he asked, “Die?”

Aiden’s whole face lit up like Tim had handed him the right puzzle piece. “Yes! Aiden die, then fall aga-in!” He spun in a little circle, arms wide, as if demonstrating the cycle.

Tim’s stomach dropped. He swallowed hard, but his throat felt dry. “You… died?”

“Mm-hm!” Aiden chirped. He repeated the dance, this time smoother, the story practiced in his little bones. “Aiden die. Fall. Aiden die. Fall. Again, again!”

Tim forced air into his lungs, but each inhale felt too shallow. He was used to grim stories. He’d read case files of children who’d suffered, seen kids pulled from terrible situations. But hearing Aiden explain death—his own death—as if it were just another bedtime story… it cut deeper than any report.

“How many times?” Tim asked quietly, though part of him didn’t want the answer.

Aiden paused mid-spin. He scrunched his face in concentration, holding up one finger, then two, then more. “One… two… three…” He counted carefully, then stretched out his whole hand, five small fingers wiggling in the air. “Aiden die five! So Aiden five!”

The words were too bright, too cheerful, and then suddenly not. His grin faded. His little shoulders slumped. “It scary,” Aiden admitted softly. “Aiden need go by…” He stumbled again, brow furrowing. “Umm…”

His eyes flicked around the room, searching. Then he pointed, small finger stabbing toward the fridge. “Bad. K-k-r-ri-i-llll.”

Tim blinked, caught off guard. “Krill?”

Aiden nodded, lips pressing tight. “Yes. Krill.” His voice was a whisper now. He shuffled back toward Tim, climbing into his lap as if the single word had drained all the bravado from him. He curled up small, pressing his forehead into Tim’s chest.

Tim’s arms went around him automatically, protective. “What are krill?” he asked, softer this time.

Aiden just shook his head, clinging tighter. “Bad.”

The word was final.

Tim closed his eyes, his jaw clenched against the burn in his throat. This was too much for any child. Too much for him, even. But Aiden wasn’t a case file. He wasn’t some strange anomaly to study. He was a boy sitting in his lap, trembling at a memory Tim couldn’t begin to imagine.

And he needed reassurance. Not analysis.

Tim smoothed a hand down his back, voice steady even as it scraped raw. “No krill are ever going to touch you again,” he promised. “Not here. Not ever. And you’ll never have to go to Eden again, either. I promise.”

Aiden tipped his head back just enough to see Tim’s face. His wide eyes searched, uncertain. “Promise?”

Tim hooked his pinky finger out. “Promise.”

Aiden’s face broke into a smile, small but trusting. He looped his own pinky around Tim’s. The vow sealed, his body relaxed, tension melting into quiet comfort.

Tim tightened his hold, resting his chin lightly on the boy’s head. His hair smelled faintly of cupcake frosting and shampoo, and Tim let himself breathe it in. He would keep that promise, no matter what it took.

The movie resumed, though Tim hardly absorbed it. His hands worked on autopilot, fingers threading through Aiden’s hair as he tried to remember the steps from the tutorial playing on his laptop. Bubble braids. Neat little sections tied off one by one. Something mindless, something to focus on—anything to keep from drowning in the weight of what Aiden had just told him.

Aiden, for his part, seemed perfectly content. He leaned back against Tim’s chest, giggling now and then at the screen.His laughter rang out loudest when Toothless and Hiccup disconnected and started to fall to their deaths. By the time Hiccup, Toothless, and Astrid ran for their lives, Aiden was on the edge of his seat.

Aiden was gone the moment Tim tied off the last bubble braid, the little boy’s sock feet padding quickly down the hallway. Tim barely had time to hit pause on the TV before curiosity dragged him up after him.

He found Aiden in the bathroom, standing on tiptoe at the sink, twisting his head this way and that to admire the two little sections of hair tied up next to his ears. The mirror showed a tiny boy in music note pajamas, his two dark hair tails now sectioned into neat little bubbles that bounced when he moved. Aiden struck a pose like a model, chin tilted up, then another with his arms wide like a superhero cape was really behind him.

Tim leaned against the doorway, watching. A laugh tugged out of him, short and unguarded, the kind he hadn’t realized he was holding in until it escaped. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, still grinning.

Aiden perked up instantly. His eyes lit and his voice echoed Tim’s word, clear and triumphant: “Shit!”

Tim froze, then buried his face in his hand. “…Great. First curse word and it had to be that one.” He crouched down to Aiden’s level, shaking his head. “That’s a bad word, okay? Not one you say.”

“Bad word,” Aiden repeated solemnly—then broke into a mischievous giggles.

Tim groaned. “Yeah, this is going to come back to haunt me.”

Aiden tilted his head, curiosity cutting through his giggles. “Tim… what dad?”

Tim stiffened. The question again, clearer this time, and in the bright bathroom light it weighed heavier. He couldn’t dodge forever. Tim exhaled slowly, crouching so he was eye-level with Aiden, choosing his words carefully–if not clumsily.

“Dad is kinda like a title. People usually call someone a dad… well, it’s supposed to mean the person who protects you. The one who teaches you things, and keeps the scary stuff away. Doesn’t matter if you came from their blood or not. If they choose you, if they fight for you—that’s a dad.”

Aiden’s brow furrowed, his little hands twisting in the air as he tried to fit the pieces together. Before he could ask more, Tim’s phone chimed sharply in his pocket. The alert made his stomach flip—he knew that sound.

The DNA results.

He moved fast, “Stay close,” Tim muttered, already moving down the hall, phone in hand. Aiden trailed after him like a shadow, quick on his heels as Tim rushed back into the lab.

Back in the lab, Tim dropped into his chair and pulled the monitor awake. Aiden clambered onto his lap, watching the screen light up.

The results glowed back at him:

**Probability of Parental Match: 99.999%**

**Match to Tim Drake: 50%**

For a long moment Tim just stared. The blood drained from his face, his chest hollow.

“What say, Tim?” Aiden asked softly, voice tipped with curiosity.

Tim swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “It says… your DNA matches mine.” His voice was rough. “You remember, when you… when you absorbed my blood, after you came back from—” He stopped, unwilling to say the word. “That must have changed you. It combined my DNA with yours.”

Aiden’s eyes widened. He sat up straighter in Tim’s lap, his little bubble braids bouncing. “So… Tim Aiden’s dad?”

The words landed like a hammer. Tim felt his breath hitch, everything in him caving and tightening all at once. He couldn’t speak—only stared at the boy in front of him, this impossible child, looking at him like the answer mattered more than anything else in the world.

“Yes.”

Aiden’s eyes lit up the moment the meaning of the DNA results sank in for him. He bounced in Tim’s lap, frosting-sticky fingers clapping together.

“Dad Tim! Tim Dad! We party!” he announced, as if it were already a law written into the universe.

Tim’s throat worked, but no words came. He was still staring at the monitor, at the lines of text confirming what he’d suspected but never dared to voice. His DNA. A match. Aiden’s joy was blazing and absolute, but Tim felt unmoored, like the floor had shifted under his boots.

Aiden tugged on his sleeve, impatient with Tim’s stunned silence. “Go toy make! Buy toy! Now!”

Tim blinked, dragged back to the present by the small, determined hands tugging at him. “…You need to change first,” he said numbly, voice low and quiet.

Aiden blinked at him, then gave a sharp nod like a soldier given orders. “Okay!” He scrambled off Tim’s lap and tore up the stairs, his little feet thundering across the floor.

Tim stayed seated for a moment, staring blankly at the screen. Then, with a sigh that trembled more than he liked, he reached for his car keys. His fingers tightened around the familiar metal, grounding himself in the simple, mechanical act. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. For any of it. But Aiden’s joy was too bright to dim.

“Tim Dad! Look!”

Tim looked up just as Aiden bounded back down the stairs. His outfit was… eclectic, to say the least. Shark-patterned swim shorts, a plain black long-sleeve shirt—clearly chosen to match Tim’s black long sleeve he was wearing—and the Red Robin logo sneakers that squeaked faintly on the wooden steps. His jellyfish hat wobbled precariously as he jumped the last three stairs and landed with both arms spread wide, his cape draped over his shoulders, like he was presenting a grand reveal.

Tim just stared at him for a moment, numb and overwhelmed, before the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

Aiden grinned, proud of himself, and darted forward to grab Tim’s hand. “Toy make time! Come, Dad!”

Tim let himself be pulled toward the door, keys clutched loosely in his free hand, still dazed but unable to resist the sheer force of Aiden’s joy.

Chapter Text

The drive through Gotham was oddly quiet, traffic low for once, and Tim found himself glancing at Aiden more than the road. The boy had pressed his face against the passenger window, leaving little smudges on the glass as he stared at the city with wide-eyed wonder. Gotham wasn’t exactly a place for wonder—not the kind Aiden deserved, anyway—but there was something in the boy’s expression that softened the sharp edges of the skyline.

It reminded Tim of being younger, back when the Wayne limo had first carted him past neon billboards and the dizzying blur of rooftops. Except he’d learned too quickly that Gotham’s sparkle always came with shadows. Aiden, though… Aiden didn’t seem to notice the shadows yet.

“Are you excited?” Tim asked after too much silence.

“Yes!” Aiden bounced in his seat. “Tim says toy maker! Toys for Aiden!”

Tim smirked despite himself. “Toy store. Not a toy maker.”

“Toy… sto-or,” Aiden repeated carefully, mouth puckering. Then he shook his head stubbornly. “No. Maker better.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maker makes toys. Store just… store.” He huffed. “Toy maker!”

Tim shook his head, a laugh slipping out before he could stop it. “Fine. Toy maker it is.”

The way Aiden grinned like he’d won a great battle made the small concession worth it.

When they arrived, Aiden struggled with the seat belt until Tim leaned across and clicked it free for him. The boy immediately hopped out when Tim came over and opened his door, he then latched onto Tim’s hand, tugging insistently toward the glowing sign of Gotham’s largest toy shop.

The bell above the door chimed when they stepped inside, and Aiden froze. His entire body went still, jaw dropping, eyes going huge. Row after row of toys stretched in both directions—stuffed animals, board games, action figures, playsets, puzzles, bright plastic stacked high as the ceiling.

Aiden whispered, awestruck, “Toy hea-ven.”

Then he bolted forward, arms spread as though he could scoop up the whole store.

Tim snagged him by the collar before he got more than two steps. “Hold it.”

Aiden twisted around, blinking up innocently. “What?”

“We’re not buying out the whole place. You can pick a few toys.”

Aiden tilted his head, already scheming. “How many?”

“Two,” Tim said firmly.

“Five,” Aiden countered instantly, holding up his hand with all five fingers stretched wide.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Five? Why five?”

“Aiden five.”

“…You’re five?” Tim repeated slowly, the memory of their earlier talk about Eden pressing sharp in his chest. He remembered Aiden’s little dance, his soft voice counting deaths like birthdays.

“Mm-hm.” Aiden nodded proudly. “Tim forget? Aiden die, fall down. Five times. So Aiden five.”

Tim crouched, meeting Aiden’s gaze. “…You mean you’re five because you’ve—” He stopped himself before saying the word aloud. Instead, softer: “…because you’ve fallen five times?”

Aiden grinned triumphantly. “So five toys.”

Tim sighed, shoulders slumping. “…Fine. Five toys. But only this once. Next time, we’re sticking to two.”

Aiden squealed and darted into the aisles like a comet, shark-pattern shorts and too-big sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

The first thing he grabbed was a stuffed mole with enormous googly eyes. He shook it, then collapsed into a fit of giggles when the eyes wobbled around. Next came a platypus plush, its ridiculous tail making him laugh so hard he nearly dropped the mole.

For his third, he froze in front of the dragon display, hands clasped reverently around a bright orange plush. “Toothless,” he declared.

Tim squinted. “That’s… not toothless. That’s an orange dragon.”

“Aiden’s Toothless,” he said with all the finality of a court ruling, hugging it tight.

Then, serious all of a sudden, Aiden scanned the shelves again. “Need one like Dad.”

Tim raised a brow. “Like me?”

“Yes.” Aiden tugged him toward another aisle with surprising determination. He stopped in front of the science kits—rows of boxes with kid-safe microscopes, plastic beakers, volcano molds. Aiden’s gaze landed on a beginner’s chemistry set. He picked it up carefully, almost reverently.

“Want this. Like Dad’s.”

Something heavy caught in Tim’s chest. “…Good choice,” he managed.

Aiden beamed and piled it on top of his plushies. “Four!”

“You still get one more,” Tim reminded him.

Aiden nodded gravely and marched onward. The fifth choice was harder. He paced up and down three aisles, muttering, “One more… one more…” His eyes kept darting back to Tim as if searching for permission. Finally, he skidded to a stop in front of the puzzles.

He pulled down a box with a glowing galaxy scene spread across it. “Puzzle. Aiden do with Tim.”

Tim glanced at the box—three hundred pieces, ambitious for a little kid—but the way Aiden hugged it to his chest made his protest die in his throat. “…Alright. Puzzle it is.”

By the time they reached the counter, Aiden’s arms were overflowing. The clerk, a purple-haired teen with a beanie and an unimpressed slouch, raised a brow.

“Big haul for a little guy,” she said, scanning the items.

Aiden puffed his chest. “Aiden five, five toys.”

Tim groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

The clerk smirked. But as she handed over the bag, Aiden leaned forward with a stage whisper: “Tim best Dad.”

Tim froze, heat climbing his neck. The clerk’s eyebrows shot up before she broke into a grin.

“Best dad, huh? Lucky kid.”

Tim practically shoved the receipt in his pocket and herded Aiden out, vowing never to set foot in this store again.

On the drive home, Aiden clutched the shopping bag tight against his chest, peeking inside every few minutes to count aloud. “One, two, three, four, five. Five toys. Aiden five.”

Tim kept his eyes on the road, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. For all the chaos, the kid was happy—and maybe that was enough.

When they reached the apartment, the elevator doors opened to reveal several cardboard boxes stacked outside their door. Tim’s new furniture delivery.

“Well,” Tim sighed, sliding his key into the lock. “Guess we’ve got some work to do.”

Aiden’s eyes lit up. “Boxes huge! Aiden help?”

“You can help,” Tim said slowly, already imagining disaster. “But carefully.”

They dragged the boxes inside, ripping into cardboard like it was Christmas morning. Soon, pieces of bed frame, dresser panels, screws, and instructions littered Aiden’s room. Tim crouched with his multi-tool, spreading parts into organized piles, while Aiden crouched beside him like a tiny apprentice.

“Tim boss?” Aiden asked.

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, scanning the diagrams. “I’m the boss on this one.”

“Aiden helper!”

That enthusiasm lasted about three minutes.

What followed was hours of chaos. Aiden “helpfully” tore open instruction booklets, flipped them upside down, and declared himself “box ghost” with a pillowcase over his head. He fetched screws but picked the wrong sizes half the time. He wandered off mid-task only to return with the mole plush wearing a drawer as a hat.

But then—sometimes—he focused. Kneeling seriously, tongue poking out, carefully holding a bolt steady while Tim tightened it down.

When the bed finally stood upright, Aiden immediately scrambled onto it, bouncing once, twice—

“Not until the mattress is on,” Tim warned, grabbing him mid-bounce. “Or you’ll break it before you even use it.”

Aiden giggled and hopped down.

The dresser was next. Aiden tried to assign drawers based on “big clothes heavy, socks light.” He attempted to stash the instruction manual inside one as a “secret book place,” requiring careful negotiations to retrieve it.

Then came the lamp. Aiden insisted it belonged in the corner “because mole safe,” placing the plush on top like a test subject.

By the time they finished, hours had passed. The room looked like an actual room now—a bed neatly made, a dresser against the wall, a rug spread out beneath a little nightstand. Tim leaned against the doorway, exhaustion creeping into his bones.

Aiden, meanwhile, immediately claimed it, sprinting in circles between the bed and dresser before flopping belly-first onto the mattress. He carefully tucked the mole, platypus, dragon, and doggy onto his pillow, then sat cross-legged on the rug. The unopened science kit rested neatly on the nightstand.

“Science now?” he asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” Tim said firmly. “That’s a supervised toy.”

Aiden groaned but nodded. “Okay. But Tim promise?”

“I promise.”

Satisfied, Aiden launched himself onto the bed, humming happily. Tim left him to it, retreating to the kitchen to make dinner. The apartment felt different now—not just a crash pad, but something closer to a home.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In a cramped newsroom across Gotham, a very different energy simmered.

“Tell me again.” Elliot Caldwell’s voice cut sharp through the hum of typewriters and chatter. He leaned over his cluttered desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie askew. His reputation as the Gotham Gazette’s most ruthless investigative reporter preceded him—dogged, relentless, and never above digging through the city’s darkest muck.

The junior reporter across from him fidgeted, shifting in his chair. “I told you already. I saw it. The kid was in the toy store with Tim Drake.”

Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, Wayne heir, resident ghost, with a child? Now that’s a story we can tell! Did you get proof?”

The younger man winced. “No. The clerk caught me before I could. Said I was making the parents uncomfortable.”

Elliot drummed his fingers against the desk, irritation crackling in the air. “Convenient.”

“It’s real,” the kid said quickly. “I swear. The boy even called him ‘best dad.’ Right there in front of everyone.”

That made Elliot pause. A slow smirk curled across his mouth. “Best dad, huh? Tell me—did the kid look like him?”

“Yeah. Creepily, honestly. Dark hair, blue eyes. Young—five, maybe. But… weird. Talked funny. Like he wasn’t from around here.”

Elliot leaned back, filing that detail away. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

He turned toward the window, Gotham’s skyline a jagged silhouette against the night. Somewhere out there, Tim Drake-Wayne was hiding something.

“Get me proof,” Elliot said finally, voice steel. “Pictures. Names. Anything. If Drake’s hiding a kid, Gotham deserves to know. And if he’s hiding something bigger…” His smirk sharpened. “We’ll drag it into the light.”

The younger reporter swallowed but nodded. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell.”

As the door shut behind him, Elliot let himself savor a rare moment of satisfaction. He didn’t know what the boy was—or why Tim Drake was hiding him—but he knew one thing for certain.

This was going to make headlines.

And in Gotham, headlines could change everything.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The apartment was quiet, Gotham’s city noise dulled to a distant hum beyond the windows. Tim sat at his desk, the faint glow of the Batcomputer clone he’d tucked into his office casting blue across his face. Patrol time. He slid his mask into place, tugged the suit’s cowl up, movements practiced, efficiently. His domino mask sealed against his skin with that soft, magnetic click that always brought him back into the Red Robin mindset.

He pushed back from the chair and rose, cape draping neatly across his shoulders, weighted and purposeful. Tonight would be a simple route, nothing heavy, just keeping watch. Still, he hesitated before leaving, glancing toward the crack of light spilling from beneath Aiden’s door.

He should check on him, just once more—make sure he was sleeping soundly.

Tim turned—only to find Aiden standing barefoot in the hallway behind him.

The boy’s hair stuck out in different directions with his bubble braids becoming fuzzy, his pajama shirt slightly askew. He blinked up at Tim with wide, owlish eyes, as if catching him in the act of sneaking cookies at midnight.

“Aiden,” Tim whispered, startled. “What are you doing up?”

Aiden ignored the question entirely. Instead, his gaze locked on the cape draped behind Tim, and his lips parted in awe.

“Dad has cape too?”

Tim sighed softly, crouching down so they were eye-level. “Yeah. But not like yours.” He gave the fabric a tug, letting it ripple slightly. “I can’t fly with mine.”

Aiden frowned, confused. “Why not? Cape make fly.”

“I used to have one that worked that way,” Tim admitted quietly, a little pang of nostalgia cutting through his chest. “But it’s broken now.”

Aiden puffed out his chest, determination lighting his eyes. “Aiden fix it.”

The corner of Tim’s mouth curled upward despite himself. He let out a small huff of laughter. 

“Maybe later. Right now I need to go.”

“Why?” Aiden tilted his head.

“Because I have to help people.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my… secret job.”

“Why?”

Tim gave him a look. “…I’m not playing that game with you.”

Aiden broke into a fit of giggles, clutching his belly as if the exchange had been the funniest thing in the world. When he finally caught his breath, he peered up at Tim, eyes gleaming.

“Dad gonna collect more Aiden light?”

The question stopped him cold. Tim exhaled slowly, considering. “...Yeah. Something like that.” He reached forward and ruffled Aiden’s hair. “But you’re not allowed to use it until tomorrow, okay?”

Satisfied, Aiden nodded firmly. Then, stretching his arms up expectantly, he said, “Pick up? Bedtime now.”

Tim shook his head in disbelief at how effortlessly this kid had him wrapped around his finger. Still, he scooped Aiden up, feeling the boy’s arms loop around his neck. Aiden rested his head against Tim’s shoulder, humming softly as Tim carried him back into his room.

He set him gently down on the bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and tucked it in. Aiden snuggled deeper, clutching the mole and platypus plushies close to his chest.

Tim turned to leave, easing the door shut—

“Dad?”

He paused, hand on the knob. “Yeah?”

Aiden’s eyes peeked open just a sliver, his voice soft but clear.

“Love you.”

The words landed with the force of a battering ram against Tim’s chest. He froze, warmth swelling through him so fast it left his throat tight.

For a moment, the Red Robin mask didn’t matter. Patrol didn’t matter. All that mattered was this tiny boy in shark shorts, with a heart so open it made the darkness feel less suffocating.

Tim’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “...Love you too, Aiden.”

He lingered only a second longer before stepping into the hall, pulling the door softly shut behind him. Then, with the weight of Gotham’s night pressing down, he melted into the shadows—his cape trailing after him like a whisper.

Chapter Text

Life with Aiden had quickly settled into a rhythm—strange, chaotic, and utterly unlike anything Tim had expected, but a rhythm nonetheless.

In just two weeks, Tim counted forty-three Winged Light absorbed into the boy. Every day, without fail, another one seemed to find its way into their orbit, no matter where they went. Tim had long since stopped believing in coincidence. Something was drawing the Lights to Aiden, the way moths chased a flame. Each time, Aiden brightened, skin glowing faintly as if the energy wove itself into him, and every time Tim felt the knot in his chest twist tighter. He couldn’t help but notice that more seemed to turn up every day, as if Gotham itself was trying to feed the little Star Child.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he was keeping score. He was cataloging. Because one day, he might have to explain to someone else—Bruce, the League, hell, maybe even Aiden himself—what this all meant.

But for now, Aiden just giggled and reached for his hand every time the light faded into him, as though nothing in the world could be safer than standing next to Tim Drake.

Tim still had to juggle Wayne Enterprises. That first week, he spent long hours in his office at home, forcing himself through project management updates, trying to make sure his name stayed on the paperwork without anyone suspecting how checked out he truly was. Aiden, meanwhile, occupied the tiny corner of his office with coloring books, perched on an old leather chair with his legs swinging. Whenever Tim glanced over, Aiden looked up and grinned like he’d just been caught doing something mischievous. Sometimes he’d march over and shove a messy crayon masterpiece into Tim’s lap, declaring, “Tim Dad, look! Bird!”

It never looked like a bird. But Tim kept every single one.

But it wasn’t all work. Tim made a point to take Aiden out during that first week, letting him explore the world outside the walls of their apartment.

The zoo had been the obvious first choice. Aiden had pressed up against every railing, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, pointing with both hands like he couldn’t possibly gesture hard enough to convey what he was seeing. The monkeys made him laugh so hard he fell backward onto the grass. The snakes scared him enough that he buried his face in Tim’s leg until they moved on. But nothing compared to the elephants.

“Big! BIG!” he shouted, tugging at Tim’s sleeve. “Daddy, big ears! Long nose! It go *braaaap*!” He mimicked the trumpet call, surprisingly good, so loudly nearby parents gave Tim dirty looks.

Tim couldn’t stop smiling.

That night, Aiden scribbled three more “elephants” in his coloring book, each looking suspiciously like a potato with sticks for legs. They ended up on the fridge doors anyway.

The park outing came a few days later. Tim thought it would be good—fresh air, open space—but he hadn’t expected the small landmine of Aiden watching another boy ride on his dad’s shoulders.

The look Aiden gave him was almost heartbreaking. Jealousy, longing, confusion all wrapped up in a furrowed brow. The kid didn’t say anything at first, just stared. Tim tried to ignore it, until Aiden finally asked, voice wobbling:

“Dad… Aiden go up? Like that papa?”

Tim didn’t even hesitate. He hoisted him onto his shoulders, steady hands locking around the boy’s legs. Aiden squealed so loud Tim thought he might go deaf, bouncing with delight, little hands tugging Tim’s hair for balance.

After that, it became a routine. Grocery store? Shoulders. Walk down to the mailbox? Shoulders. Brushing teeth? Somehow, shoulders. Aiden learned every word he could for father—dad, papa, baba, abba—but “daddy” stuck. He said it constantly, proudly, like claiming territory.

It didn’t make sense to Tim. But it didn’t have to.

The pool trip was even better. Aiden, cautious at first, clung to Tim like a barnacle. Then something shifted, and suddenly he was splashing, shrieking, kicking his legs furiously as though determined to out swim Olympic athletes. Tim kept one hand under him the whole time, laughing until his sides ached.

“Daddy, daddy, look! Fish! Aiden fish!”

“You’re a fish, huh?” Tim said, lifting him high above the water.

“Aiden BEST fish!”

The lifeguards weren’t amused. Tim didn’t care.

At home, they worked on the wing glider. Aiden hovered at his elbow, spouting endless nonsense theories about how to “make it go whoosh-whoosh” faster, or insisting they needed to “add star juice.” He had no idea what he was talking about, but the enthusiasm was infectious.

And then came the cape.

Tim had thought it would be a simple thing—a scrap of fabric to keep Aiden entertained. But Aiden took it seriously, sitting on the floor with tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, cutting patterns with careful hands.

“Daddy have cape. Aiden have cape. We match!”

Tim swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, kiddo. We’ll match.”

When they finally finished, Aiden whirled in circles until he collapsed in a dizzy heap, the unfinished cape fanning out around him.

Work eventually shifted back home. Zoom meetings became his new battlefield, Aiden clambering into his lap mid-call to show off his coloring pages. Tim muted his mic so more than one board member didn’t hear Aiden proudly declare, “Daddy make big smart talk!”

Emails replaced office chatter. He avoided in-person contact wherever possible. He didn’t realize how obvious it had become until Tam called one night while Tim was brushing Aiden’s teeth.

“Tim. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly.

“Cut the crap. You’ve stopped coming in, you’re avoiding calls. And Ra’s has been sending flowers to the office. Creepy, expensive arrangements. Every day.”

Tim froze, toothbrush dangling in his hand. His heart started pounding so loudly he almost missed Aiden mumbling around the foam: “Daddy? Why stop?”

“I need a break,” Tim said finally, voice flat. “I’ll be working strictly from home for now.”

“Tim—” Tam’s voice softened, worried.

“I’ll handle it.” He hung up.

Tim didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, their lives shifted into lock down. The apartment became their little world. Aiden didn’t like it—he pouted at the window, pointed at the door, protested in broken words—but Tim wasn’t willing to risk it. Not with Ra’s sniffing around.

So Tim drowned him in distractions. Packages arrived daily: puzzles, coloring supplies, books, new toys. Aiden tore them open with glee, but the joy never lasted long.

He was smart enough to notice. Smart enough to push back.

“Daddy… go out? Please?”

“Not today, buddy.”

He’d distract him with a race to see who could finish a puzzle fastest. Or with peanut butter sandwiches cut into star shapes. Or with stories at bedtime, Tim’s voice was quiet and steady while Aiden clutched his arm.

But Tim knew it couldn’t last. He could see the restless energy in the boy, like a bird beating its wings against glass.

And in the back of his mind, the paranoia wouldn’t stop whispering: ‘What happens if Ra’s finds him?’

Two weeks of laughter, small victories, unspoken fears, and a creeping sense that the fragile world Tim had built couldn’t hold forever.

____________________________________________________________________________

The apartment was quiet in the way Tim was starting to get used to. Aiden had gone to bed an hour ago, curled up beneath a fortress of plush toys, his breathing soft and steady through the baby monitor Tim had jury-rigged on his desk.

Tim moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, stacking plates, rinsing glasses, wiping down the counter until the space gleamed. It was mindless work, grounding work. For a fleeting moment, he could almost believe this was what normal looked like—quiet evenings, routines, responsibility that didn’t involve Gotham bleeding out on his watch.

He paused, leaning against the sink. His reflection in the darkened window looked tired, yes, but softer around the edges. Almost… human.

The illusion broke when his phone buzzed against the counter, vibrating insistently. Tim frowned, drying his hands on a dish towel as he checked the caller ID.

Tam.

Late, for her.

He hesitated, thumb hovering before he finally answered. “Hey.”

“Tim?” Tam’s voice was sharp, clipped in a way that set his nerves on edge. “Please tell me this isn’t true.”

His stomach dipped. “What isn’t true?”

“The article.”

Tim straightened. “What article?”

“Don’t play dumb.” There was no heat in her words, but the weariness was worse. “I’m only calling you instead of Bruce because I thought you deserved a chance to explain yourself first. But people are already tearing into this online. My inbox is full of links, and the board’s going to be demanding answers first thing in the morning.”

A low thrum of panic began to press in around Tim’s ribs. “Tam. What article?”

Silence for a beat. Then a sigh, papers rustling faintly through the line. “…It’s on the Gazette. Elliot Caldwell wrote it. Some big expose about you hiding a kid.”

Tim’s grip on the phone faltered. “…What?”

“You need to look at social media right now,” Tam said firmly. “It’s everywhere. People are already screenshots, speculating, making comparisons. Tim—” She hesitated, then dropped her voice lower. “…If this is true, you should’ve told me.”

Tim didn’t answer. His throat had closed up.

“I’ll call back later,” Tam said at last, softer, almost apologetic. “But please—read it, and figure out what you’re going to do. This is spiraling fast.”

The call ended.

Tim stood frozen in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Slowly, mechanically, he crossed the room to his laptop and opened it. Fingers stiff, he typed his own name into the search bar.

The screen filled instantly. Headlines. Tweets. Blurred photos of him at the toy store, shaky but damning. A trending hashtag already climbing in the sidebar: #DrakeSecretSon.

And then he found it—the Gotham Gazette article. Elliot Caldwell’s smug words staring back at him.

Best Dad.

Tim’s vision tunneled. His hands began to tremble.

____________________________________________________________________________

Gotham Gazette – Exclusive

By Elliot Caldwell, Investigative Reporter

The Secret Life of Timothy Drake-Wayne?

For years, Timothy Drake-Wayne—once Gotham’s genius billionaire boy and philanthropist-in-the-making—has lived quietly, some might even say reclusively. He attends the occasional gala, appears at Wayne Enterprises when convenient, and otherwise disappears from the public eye. Many attributed this to the tragedies and losses that have defined his life.

But what if there’s another reason?

Eyewitness accounts place Mr. Drake-Wayne in a Gotham toy store a few weeks ago—not unusual for most citizens, except for the fact that he was accompanied by a child. Not just any child, but one who called him “best dad.”

Yes, you read that correctly.

The boy, estimated to be around five years old, bore a striking resemblance to Drake-Wayne: dark hair, pale complexion, and eyes that one onlooker described as “too sharp for a kid his age.” Their interaction was tender, familiar. The child clung to him as though they’d known each other for years.

So who is this mysterious boy?

Drake-Wayne has never been romantically linked in the press. No record of adoption has been filed under his name. Yet here is a child, publicly and without hesitation, calling him father.

One cannot help but ask uncomfortable questions: Is Timothy Drake-Wayne hiding a secret heir? If so, why the secrecy? Why deny the boy his rightful place in Gotham’s most scrutinized family? And if not… what, exactly, is the nature of their relationship?

Some might say this is simply a case of generosity: a wealthy man mentoring a child in need. Others, however, may wonder why all evidence of this boy’s existence is being carefully concealed.

In a city already drowning in secrets, perhaps another has just surfaced.

For now, Timothy Drake-Wayne remains unavailable for comment. But rest assured, the Gazette will continue its investigation into this curious—and potentially scandalous—development.

Because in Gotham, shadows never stay buried for long.

____________________________________________________________________________

Tim couldn’t breathe.

The article’s words still rang in his skull, ugly and sharp, cutting deeper with every beat of his pounding heart. His vision tunneled, hands gripping the counter until it hurt. The apartment felt too small, too loud, too watched. His chest hitched with shallow, useless breaths.

‘Everyone knows. They’ll come for him. Ra’s. The press. Bruce. I messed up, I—’

“Daddy?”

He startled at the soft voice.

Aiden stood in the doorway, clutching his stuffed mole to his chest, hair tousled from sleep. His small glow lit the shadows, but his expression was worried. “Daddy no sleep?”

Tim tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. His breaths were coming too fast.

Aiden frowned and padded closer. “Dad… Daddy fear.”

The certainty in his voice froze Tim. Aiden crawled up onto his lap uninvited, settling with the weight of someone who wasn’t leaving.

“Aiden panic,” Aiden said seriously. “First time Aiden see Krill. red light—catch me. Aiden scream and scream. No breath. Chest hurt.” He tapped Tim’s chest, mirroring where Tim clutched his shirt. “Like Daddy now.”

Tim forced air in through his nose, out through his mouth, but it shook. “Aiden—”

The boy shook his head. “Listen. Aiden tell Daddy story.”

And before Tim could argue, Aiden launched into it, words tumbling over each other in his broken but earnest English.

“After Aiden run from green Krill, Aiden end up in dark cave. Hide. Then Aiden see weird Krill. Bright, scary. Aiden think—no, no, too scary. But weird Krill not like green. Weird Krill have… hair.” He giggled softly, brushing a hand against Tim’s hair. “Weird hair. Not Krill. Tim.”

Tim blinked, his breath stuttering.

“Aiden so scared… but then Aiden see. Tim not bad. Tim save. Tim give Aiden blood. Tim give best nest.” Aiden smiled wide, pressing closer. “AURORA bless Aiden. Aiden get new nest and Aiden get best Daddy.”

Something inside Tim cracked. His heart ached, but not with panic—with warmth so fierce it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. His hands shook as he wrapped Aiden close.

“You… you think I’m the best Dad?” Tim’s voice was raw.

“Best Daddy in whole sky.” Aiden grinned up at him. “Even Daddy panic. I love Daddy.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the glow and weight of the boy against him. The words anchored him, steadied him.

His breaths slowed. His chest eased. The static cleared.

“I love you too, Aiden,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

The knock came hard and fast, rattling through the apartment like gunfire. Tim had barely managed to steady his breathing when it started. Aiden was still curled against him, small arms around his neck, but the boy looked up now, eyes wide.

Tim gently set him down. “Hide,” he whispered. “Now.”

Aiden obeyed without argument, scurrying down the hall, the soft patter of his feet swallowed by the next round of pounding on the door.

Tim dragged himself up, pulse hammering again. He cracked the door open an inch—just enough to see.

Dick. Jason. Cass. Steph. Duke. Damian.

Every sibling on his doorstep.

His throat closed. “How—how did you find me?”

Dick’s expression softened, but his voice carried no apology. “Babs tracked your bank statements. You’ve been avoiding all of us for weeks, Tim. But your debit card led us here.”

The words hit harder than the knock had. Tim’s hand tightened on the door frame. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Jason leaned in, all broad shoulders and impatience. “Cut the crap. We’re not leaving until you tell us what the hell is going on.

Cass’s eyes searched his face, quiet but firm. “This isn’t like you.”

Steph crossed her arms. “You think you can just ghost us forever? We’re your family, Tim! You don’t get to lock us out.”

“Back up,” Tim snapped, panic already bubbling back up. “You need to leave. Patrol starts soon. Don’t you have better things to do?”

Duke frowned, concern softening his voice. “Tim… are you okay?”

They stepped closer, crowding the doorway. Too close. Too loud. Tim’s chest heaved, breath tearing ragged. “Back up!” His voice came sharper, more aggressive than he meant—but the way they all froze told him it had landed like a whip crack.

Then Jason moved. “That’s it. Enough of this.”

He shoved the door hard.

The slam knocked Tim off his feet, sending him sprawling. Pain shot up his hip as he hit the floor, the room tilting sideways. His chest cinched tight, air refusing to come.

Someone shouted at Jason. Maybe Steph, maybe Dick. He thought he heard Damian’s sharp voice call Jason a “moronic idiot.”

Hands. Hands on his shoulders, trying to help, but all Tim felt was pressure, weight, the past clawing back to the present. He twisted, scuttling back like a trapped animal.

The hallway spun with faces, reaching hands, voices overlapping, pounding into his skull. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

And then—

A tiny blur shoved its way into the fray.

“Leave Aiden’s Daddy alone!”

Before anyone could react, Aiden balled up his fist and swung as hard as he could… right into the closest target’s no-no square.

Jason let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a curse, doubling over instantly.

The entire group froze.

Tim’s gasping breath hitched, the room falling into stunned silence. Aiden planted himself in front of him, small body shaking but defiant, his little cape fluttering behind him like armor.

“Bad Krill,” he growled, glaring up at the bat family with all the ferocity a five-year-old could muster.

Chapter Text

Jason Todd had been hit before. He’d been beaten, stabbed, shot, even blown apart once. But nothing in all of that compared to the humiliation of being taken down by a kid in swim trunks.

This was different.

Flat on his back on Tim’s living room carpet, Jason groaned in agony, both hands cupped protectively over his lower half. His face contorted, sweat beading on his temple as Aiden—a pint-sized force of fury—continued his assault.  His voice broke in a hoarse groan. “Ohhh—you little—”

The little menace didn’t stop.

“LEAVE! BAD KRILL! LEAVE ALONE!” the boy screeched, each word broken up with sharp, birdlike trills that rattled in the ears.

His cape (Tim’s old cape, now three sizes too big) flared with each kick and punch. Tiny fists landed with surprising accuracy for a five-year-old, and Jason swore he saw stars.

Steph clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, “he’s winning.”

“Shut up,” Jason hissed through clenched teeth. “This is not funny.”

“It’s so funny,” Steph shot back, though she was fighting not to double over laughing.

Tim stood rooted to the floor, chest tight, lungs fighting for air. The whole scene felt surreal: his family in full gear, crowding the small apartment; his panic clawing at the back of his throat; Jason freaking Todd losing a fight to a half-naked five-year-old in a cape too big.

For a moment, the ridiculousness cut through the static in his head. His breathing hitched—but steadied.

Then Dick took a cautious step forward, hand raised as if to pull Aiden off.

Tim didn’t think. He moved.

“Don’t,” he barked.

His voice cracked like a whip. In a blink he had Aiden scooped up, clutching the boy tight against his chest, retreating a step back toward the kitchen counter. His body curled around the child, every muscle taut, like a shield against the six figures in his living room.

Aiden squeaked, then buried his face against Tim’s shirt, still glaring over his father’s shoulder with all the fury his tiny frame could muster. His voice was muffled but defiant:

“Mine! Daddy mine!”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

His siblings took up too much space.

Tim’s apartment had always been small—two bedrooms, an open living room, kitchen just big enough for one person at a time. It had been meant for quiet, for working alone, for nights of case notes and bad takeout. Now, every inch felt occupied, suffocating.

Dick knelt slightly, trying to make himself smaller, hands held palm-up in a gesture of peace. His domino mask shadowed his eyes, but his voice was gentle. “Okay. Nobody’s here to hurt you, little guy. We didn’t know.” His gaze flicked up, steady on Tim. “You didn’t tell us.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. “Because it’s not your business.”

Steph huffed, throwing her hands up. “Not our—Tim, do you hear yourself? You’ve been ghosting us for weeks, and then we find you holed up here with a kid? That’s not something you just brush off!”

“I can take care of it,” Tim snapped, harsher than intended.

Jason finally staggered upright, still pale but back on his feet, one hand braced on the wall. He pointed a finger at Tim, voice low and sharp. “You can barely take care of yourself, Replacement. What happens when Joker or Two-Face or any psycho with half a brain catches wind of this?”

At Jason’s tone, Aiden flinched. His small hands fisted in Tim’s shirt. 

Tim’s eyes went cold. “Don’t talk around him like that.”

The venom in his voice silenced the room. Even Jason froze, startled by the raw edge.

Cass’s eyes softened as she studied Tim’s posture, the way he crouched protectively over the child. “Not afraid of us,” she murmured. “Afraid of losing.”

Aiden lifted his head then, glaring straight at Damian feeling his animosity, who had been silent but scowling. With all the fire in his small body, he declared:

“Tim Daddy. Aiden family!”

The words landed like stones.

Dick’s expression shifted instantly, his voice steady. “Okay,” he said. “Family.”

Jason muttered darkly, “Violent little family member with garbage aim.”

“GOOD aim!” Aiden shrieked back, his trill sharp enough to make Duke wince.

Steph broke down laughing again. Duke grinned despite himself. Even Cass’s lips twitched.

“Tim,” Duke tried carefully once the laughter ebbed, “look. We’re not here to take him from you. But keeping this locked up? It’ll break you. And him.”

Tim’s grip tightened. “Not your choice.”

Damian stepped forward, voice crisp with authority he hadn’t earned. “Keeping secrets endangers the family. If this child is yours, then we must all be informed. That is protocol.”

Steph groaned. “Protocol? This isn’t a mission file, demon brat.”

“Don’t call me—” Damian snapped, but Cass rested a quiet hand on his shoulder. He stilled with a sharp exhale.

Dick rose to full height, his presence filling the room, but his voice was calm. “Tim… we’re not against you. We just want to help. That’s what family does.”

Tim shook his head, jaw tight. “You don’t get it. I can’t risk that.” He looked down at Aiden, who was staring back up at him with wide, trusting eyes. His voice cracked. “I won’t risk that.”

“Then let us stand with you,” Dick said softly. “Not against you.”

For the first time since the door opened, Tim faltered.

His eyes flicked over each sibling: Jason’s scowl, Steph’s exasperation, Cass’s quiet concern, Duke’s careful patience, Damian’s distrust wrapped in stubborn pride. They were his family, for better or worse. He hated them, loved them, needed them—and he didn’t know if he could trust them with this.

Aiden’s little voice broke the silence again. “No bad krill.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Kid, if you say that one more time—”

Tim startled into laughter. A brittle, broken sound—but real.

The tension eased, if only a fraction.

Tim shifted Aiden in his arms, clearing his throat. “Aiden, these are my brothers and sisters.”

Aiden narrowed his eyes. “Not krill?”

“Not krill,” Tim confirmed firmly.

Steph smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m more of a leech than a sister. Ask anyone.”

Aiden giggled.

Cass raised a hand in a small wave. Duke offered a crooked salute. Damian scowled so hard it looked painful. Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “child support.”

Then Duke spoke, cautious, pointing at their suits. “So… does he know about… us?”

Before Tim could answer, Aiden puffed up proudly. “Must support Tim!”

“Support?” Steph echoed.

“Daddy need helper. Aiden help.”

Jason snorted. “Oh yeah. He’s definitely yours.”

Before they could pry further, Aiden tugged on Tim’s sleeve. “Daddy! AURORA’s day coming! Very soon!”

Every head turned sharply.

Dick frowned. “Aurora? Who’s that?”

Aiden brightened, he chirped rapid-fire, babbling and trilling excitedly about Aurora, waving his arms like he was trying to paint the story in the air, cape flaring around with his arms. None of it was comprehensible to anyone but him.

The family stared, baffled.

Tim coughed. “Aurora’s… a very cool person.”

Steph raised a brow. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

Tim opened his mouth to elaborate—

And the security alarm shrieked to life.

The shriek of the alarm cut through the air like a blade. Red light pulsed across the apartment walls, harsh and unforgiving, painting everyone’s faces in jagged flashes.

“Warning. Arkham Asylum breach detected. Multiple inmates at large. Scarecrow. Firefly. Additional hostiles unconfirmed.”

The computerized voice repeated, steady, clinical, merciless.

Tim’s pulse spiked. His whole body went taut. The part of him that was always calculating, always cataloging, already working angles, wanted to move—wanted to grab his gear, get ahead of the chaos, stop the bloodbath before it began. That part screamed for control.

But the little boy in his arms made a distressed, high-pitched trill, clinging tighter to his shirt.

“Daddy!” Aiden’s wide eyes darted around the flashing red light, pupils narrowing like a cornered animal. His cape flared instinctively, as if he could shield them both. “Bad krill! Bad krill coming!”

Tim held him tighter, grounding himself for just one more second. “No, not krill,” he murmured into Aiden’s hair. 

The others were already moving. Jason was on his feet despite the earlier low blow, shrugging into his jacket and pulling his mask free from his belt. Steph was fumbling with her domino mask, pulling her hair into a quick tie. Duke tapped his comm, already syncing with the Cave’s channels. Damian’s sword was in his hand as if it had never left.

And Dick—Dick looked at Tim. Really looked at him.

“Tim,” he said, calm even through the sirens, “we’ve to go. Suit up.”

Tim’s throat was dry. He looked down at Aiden, at the boy’s trembling hands clutched against his shirt, at the silent plea in his eyes.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t leave him.”

“You won’t,” Dick said firmly, stepping closer. “None of us will. But Gotham needs you, Tim. Just like he does.”

Aiden made a desperate chirp, shaking his head violently. “No! No leave! Stay, Daddy stay!”

The words lodged like glass in Tim’s chest. He sank to his knees, setting Aiden down in front of him. His hands framed the boy’s small face, steady despite the storm raging in his chest. “Listen to me, Aiden,” he said, voice low but steady. “I have to go. Just for a little while. Because people out there… they need help. But I will come back.”

Aiden’s eyes filled, shimmering in the red light. His cape twitched, curling around him. “Promise?”

Tim’s throat tightened. “Promise. I’ll always come back to you.”

Aiden trilled, small and broken. His little fists clutched Tim’s wrist like chains.

Steph crouched low beside them, softer than Tim had ever heard her. “Hey, kiddo. We’ll be back. All of us. You won’t be alone.”

Aiden glared through wet eyes. “Not krill?”

Steph cracked a tiny smile. “Not krill. Cross my heart.”

It earned the smallest, wobbling chirp of acceptance.

Tim pressed a quick kiss to Aiden’s hair before forcing himself to stand, each movement feeling like it took a year. He reached for his cowl, slipping it on like a guillotine falling.

Red Robin.

The shift was instant. His shoulders squared. His eyes hardened. The boy’s father vanished behind a soldier’s mask.

Dick caught the change too, his jaw tightening.

The Bat siblings gathered, the familiar hum of weapons, gear, and determination filling the room. The sirens outside joined the chorus, Gotham already screaming for them.

Tim risked one last look back. Aiden stood where he’d been set down, trembling but upright, his cape flared wide like a challenge against the world. His little voice carried across the chaos, piercing and raw:

“COME BACK, DADDY! NO BAD KRILL WIN!”

Tim swallowed hard and turned away, disappearing into the night with his family at his back.

Behind him, Aiden’s chirps echoed through the apartment, defiant and unyielding, a child’s war cry against a city that never slept.

In the red glow of the alarms, the clock ticked toward Gotham’s next nightmare.

And for just a heartbeat, a little boy whispered to an empty room:

“Come back, Daddy.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was too quiet.

Aiden sat curled on the couch, the TV remote clutched so tight in his little hands it left red marks on his palms. Daddy had told him to stay, but the silence pressed on his ears until they rang.

He hit the power button. The bright colors of Bluey flickered across the screen.

For a moment, it helped. The little dogs barked and laughed, their voices silly and light. Aiden tried to laugh with them, but his giggle broke halfway. His chest twisted. He thought of Daddy's pale face, the way he shook when the others had come, how scared he'd looked even though he tried to hide it.

And now Daddy wasn't here.

Aiden wasn't sure he could breathe without him.

He clenched the remote harder. "Not fair!"

With a frustrated squeak, he hurled it. The plastic clattered against the coffee table, bouncing so hard the screen flickered.

The cartoon was gone.

A serious-looking woman filled the screen instead, her voice heavy.

"I'm Summer Gleeson, reporting live from Gotham. Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham Asylum and is spreading fear gas through downtown..."

Aiden's little hands froze on the couch cushion. Fear gas?

"...The Signal is on the scene evacuating civilians. No word yet on Batman's location."

A shadow darted across the corner of the camera, so fast it blurred.

Aiden's eyes lit up instantly. His little body jerked forward, nearly bouncing off the couch. "Daddy!"

The news crew gasped. "What the hell was that?!"

"Oh—breaking update! Firefly has appeared, setting buildings ablaze. Gotham firefighters are—wait—yes, the rest of the Bats have arrived. Nightwing from Blüdhaven has joined the fight—"

The names meant nothing to Aiden. All he cared about was the truth pulsing in his chest: Daddy was out there. Fighting monsters. And Aiden was here.

Alone.

His little chin wobbled. Tears blurred his vision. He sniffled, hugging his knees to his chest. "I want Daddy..."

Then—

Laughter.

It rang through the apartment, soft and bright, like music.

Aiden's head snapped up.

The laugh wasn't scary. It made his chest warm, his tears pause. It drifted toward the hall, beckoning.

He slid off the couch and padded after it, his bare feet quiet against the floor. "A-AURORA?"

The laugh answered, like bells.

He ran.

Down the hall, into the garage.

And stopped.

The air shimmered with little fire-lights, glowing like dancing music notes. They circled the cape Daddy had been making, still unfinished on the workbench.

Aiden gasped, tiny hands pressing to his mouth.

The notes whirled faster, stitching the cape with sparks of gold. When it was done, they floated it toward him.

The fabric draped over his shoulders, glowing orange. It was shaped like wings, patterned like Daddy's, but softer, flowing like a bird's. Down the center ran five stars, the first one etched with curling constellations.

But the notes weren't finished.

They whirled around Aiden, faster and faster, their glow reflecting in his wide eyes. He spun with them, giggling through his tears as the lights brushed against his skin. Then—warmth. A sudden, powerful warmth that sank into him, wrapping him like a hug.

Cloth shimmered into being over his small body. Dark red pants clung snug but comfy to his legs, like they'd always been his. A sleek black turtleneck hugged his torso, a golden glow pulsing in the shape of the Winged Light across his chest. A mask shaped like a bird, edges curled like bat-wings, pressed gently against his face until it fit perfectly.

Then the lights sunk into his skin.

They were warm but not burning, filling him until his whole body glowed. His hair lightened, then brightened, until it shimmered like melted wax under moonlight. His skin followed, smooth and glowing faintly, like a candle molded into a child's shape.

In the center of his chest, his light shone through. A small, radiant gem, pulsing with every heartbeat. His soul, visible, glowing bright.

Aiden stared down, wide-eyed. He poked it, giggling softly when the light rippled like water.

The cape flared behind him, alive. Each of the five stars pulsed in rhythm, bursts of energy waiting for him to fly.

The laugh still rang through the garage, soft and lilting, like wind chimes caught in a warm breeze. It's song dancing through Aiden's ears, a soothing melody that made him feel loved.

Aiden stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed. His gem pulsed nervously against his chest.

"...A-Aurora?" His little voice cracked, soft as a whisper.

"Yes, my starling," came the reply, warm and shimmering, like sunlight pouring through clouds. The lights spiraled higher, shaping her voice into the air itself. "You've been waiting, haven't you? Waiting for the moment you would spread those wings."

Aiden's lip wobbled. "But—Daddy said stay. Daddy's out there with bad krill—he could get hurt. I can't... I can't just sit here." His fists tightened at his sides, tears stinging. "But I'm scared too."

The fire-lights dimmed for a breath, then flared brighter, circling him like a gentle embrace. "Bravery is not the absence of fear, little one," Aurora murmured. "It is choosing to move forward, even when fear holds your heart."

Aiden sniffled, gaze dropping to his small hands. "...What if Aiden not enough? What if Aiden make Daddy mad?"

The cape lifted from the worktable, carried by unseen hands, and draped itself across his shoulders. It was warm, humming with the stars sewn into it, wrapping him not just in fabric but in comfort. Aurora's voice softened into something impossibly tender:

"You are already enough, Aiden. You shine with the light of your soul — and that light was meant to fly. Your Daddy will not be angry. He will see what I see: a brave, fierce little starling, ready to guard his nest."

The lights drifted upward, shaping faintly into wings before scattering like sparks across the ceiling. "You do not fly alone. My song will guide you. Your stars will carry you. And the love you hold for him will be stronger than any fear the world can throw."

Aiden's gem glowed brighter, steadier, syncing with her words. His fear trembled, but beneath it a warmth grew — determination.

Aurora's voice rang one last time, brighter now, almost proud:

"Go, my little starling. Go and show the night your light."

And with that, the bo-staff slid across the floor toward him, its metal glinting with tiny etched stars that shimmered as if alive. Aiden bent down, small fingers curling around it. He looked toward the garage doors as they slowly creaked open, the city's chaos roaring just beyond.

His chest rose and fell once, twice. Then he nodded.

"...Okay. Aiden got this."

And with his cape blazing, stars bursting to life with each flap, Aiden launched into the night.

WHOOSH!

The first star flared, bursting him upward.

He flapped again, harder. Another burst. Faster. Higher.

The stars in his cape flared, one after another, bursts of orange propelling him higher and faster with each frantic flap. Aiden soared into the night sky, the cold wind tugging at his face, sharp and stinging but alive, so alive. Below him stretched Gotham — not the quiet nest he knew, but a sprawling, groaning beast lit by fire and fear.

From above, Gotham wasn't just a city. It was a beast. Its tall towers clawed at the sky, their glass windows glinting like angry eyes. The bridges stretched like ribs across the river, black water foaming below like it was trying to gnaw its way free. Smoke oozed up from broken buildings, drifting across the streets like the beast's breath, hot and sour.

Every shadow whispered. Every scream pulsed in his chest gem until it hurt. Gotham wasn't safe. Gotham was crying.

The stars carried him forward, flaring in bursts of orange light. He zipped past gargoyles perched on rooftops, their stone faces snarling and watching as if they too were guardians of this nest. Some looked mean. Some looked tired. Aiden gave them a chirp as he passed — his kind of wave — and in the rush of wind he swore they growled back.

Down below, monsters tore through the streets.

One wore rags and a skull-face, clutching long claws that hissed smoke. Everywhere he walked, people screamed and clawed at their skin, their eyes wide and broken. Fear rolled off him like green fog. Scarebird.

Above, another monster soared with metal wings that spat fire, painting the night orange. He laughed as flames ate through rooftops, glass exploding, the very air screaming. Firebug.

And between them — Aiden's breath hitched —

His Daddy. Red Robin. Tim.

He darted through the mess like a song written in motion, his cape snapping behind him, his staff moving so fast it blurred. He pushed civilians away from danger, cut through the green gas, swung at monsters without stopping. But there were so many of them. The fire chased him. The gas surrounded him. And still he kept going.

He wasn't alone, not really.

A flash of blue and black landed hard on a car roof — Nightwing, twirling his sticks with sparks flying. Robin darted through the smoke, faster than thought, his sword slicing down Scarecrow's claws. And high above, wings of pure shadow swept over the fire, a dark giant whose very presence made the monsters freeze — Batman.

But Aiden only saw Tim. His Daddy in the middle of it all, fighting too hard, hurting himself to keep the city safe.

The stars in his cape throbbed in time with his racing heart. Faster. Louder. Stronger. He wasn't supposed to be here. Daddy told him to stay. Daddy told him to be safe.

But how could he? When the beast-nest was screaming? When his Daddy was hurting?

The chirp built inside him, rumbling low, sparks spilling out from his little chest gem. He felt it burning in his throat, in his wings, gathering light. His stars flared bright enough to paint the rooftops orange.

And then he saw it — Firebug swooping low, flamethrower aimed at a cluster of huddled people who had nowhere to run.

Aiden folded his wings. Dove.

The sound exploded from him in a perfect sphere of light and force, blasting out across the street. Windows shattered, smoke shivered, flames bent backward. Firefly let out a startled yell, knocked off course, his fire jet scattering harmlessly into the night sky.

The city paused. Civilians looked up. The Bats froze. Even the monsters faltered.

And Aiden hovered above them all, cape blazing with stars, chest gem glowing like a second sun, tiny voice ringing clear and stubborn in his little chirps

"Daddy!"

Chapter Text

The Bats froze.

Even in the chaos of Scarecrow’s toxin filling the streets, of civilians screaming and scattering, of Firefly regaining altitude in a plume of smoke — their eyes locked on him.

On the small, glowing figure hovering in the smoke, cape blazing orange like living fire, hair turned waxy white, a faint gem of light pulsing in his chest.

Nightwing’s voice cracked first. “What the—Tim… what the actual hell is that?”

“Is that a kid?!” Steph blurted, her voice pitching higher with disbelief.

“Correction,” Jason growled, helmet turning sharply toward Tim, “that’s your kid, Replacement.”

Tim felt the ground vanish under his feet. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only watch as Aiden hovered there, wings beating in sharp bursts of starlight propelling him higher.

“No. No, no, no, no…” His voice cracked under the mask. “Aiden—”

The boy beamed down at him, utterly oblivious to the horror crushing Tim’s chest. “Daddy!”

Before Tim could shout again, Firefly’s voice shredded through the smoke:
“YOU! YOU LITTLE BASTARD!”

The villain’s flamethrower spat fire into the air, a roaring column of heat streaking toward Aiden.

“NO!” Tim surged forward, wings flaring to shield—

—but the fire never touched him.

Aiden hovered midair, giggling, the flames curling around him like harmless ribbons before vanishing into his small hands. He laughed louder, spinning as if it were a game. “Warm!” he chirped, the gem in his chest glowing brighter with each lick of flame.

“...what the fuck,” Jason muttered, voice hollow.

Firefly reeled back in panic. “What—what the hell are you?! That’s MY fire, you little freak!” He fired again, a concentrated blast of burning gas.

Aiden only absorbed it, his laughter sharper now, almost taunting. “More!”

Tim’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have time to unravel what was happening, didn’t have time to panic harder—because Firefly raised his weapon again.

Tim’s hand snapped to his belt, pulling out a birdarang. He hurled it hard, and the blade whirred through the smoke, slamming into Firefly’s wingpack. Sparks burst, metal shrieked, and the villain’s scream cut sharp as his altitude failed.

“Daddy!” Aiden shot forward, wings bursting with starlight. He let out a shrill, warbling chirp that exploded outward in a sphere of sound and light. The blast slowed Firefly’s plummet just enough for him to crash-land without turning to pulp.

Tim was already there, staff drawn. One crack to the helmet and Firefly went limp.

But there wasn’t time to breathe.

The crack of gunfire erupted around them. Scarecrow’s goons had noticed. A half-dozen men armed with assault rifles opened fire, rounds sparking against asphalt and brick.

Tim spun, wings snapping wide—shield mode. Bullets sparked harmlessly off the tech-laced material as he dragged Aiden close, tucking the boy beneath the black shroud of his cape.

For a moment, it was just them, crouched together in the storm of gunfire.

“What are you doing here?” Tim hissed, voice cracking between panic and rage. “You are so grounded—do you even realize—”

Aiden’s eyes blazed, wide and earnest, his little hands clinging to Tim’s armor. “Aiden want to help! Daddy, Aiden must help! Aurora said so!”

Tim’s jaw locked, his heart stuttering. “Aurora—Aurora and me are so going to talk—”

“She said Aiden brave!” Aiden chirped fiercely, almost shouting over the gunfire. “Aiden heard Gotham crying. Aiden couldn’t stay. Aiden won’t let you hurt!”

Tim’s throat closed. For one awful second he almost ordered him home, almost crushed that bright light before it got him killed.

But then his son’s voice cracked soft, trembling: “Please… let Aiden help.”

The city burned around them. Goons advanced. Firefly lay unconscious. And Tim Drake—the calculating, always-in-control Red Robin—made the most reckless decision of his life.

“Listen to me,” Tim rasped, forcing calm into his voice despite the storm pounding against his ribs. “I’ll cover you. But if we’re doing this—” his throat caught, but he pressed on, “—then I need call you something else. I can’t call you by your name here. So give me a hero name. Quickly please!”

Aiden blinked up at him, chest gem pulsing faintly. For a moment, he faltered. Then his face lit, remembering Aurora’s voice.
“Starling,” he said proudly, chirping the word like a song. “Aurora called me Starling.”

Tim’s mouth twisted, emotions crashing all at once. His boy, with his too-big heart and his stubborn bravery, standing in the middle of Gotham like he belonged there. He nodded once, firm.

Tim’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp but steady.
“Starling—go. I’ll cover you.”

Aiden’s little hands clenched around his bo-staff. His gem pulsed like a heartbeat, brighter with every second. Aurora’s voice echoed in his memory, warm and certain: ‘Go, my little starling. Go save your nest.’

He nodded once. “Okay, Daddy.”

Then he flew.

The blaze before him roared, an inferno eating at the buildings, gnawing its way up brick and steel. Firefly’s work. It should have been terrifying. For most, it would have been suffocating heat, choking smoke, the end of safety.

But to Aiden—

It sang.

Every flame flickered with whispers he could hear in his bones. They leaned toward him as if recognizing something inside him, something older than Gotham’s streets. He raised his hands, spread his wings wide, and let the first star in his feathers flare.

The fire bent.

It swirled like ribbons, dragging toward his palms, sinking into the gem in his chest. A rush of heat, sharp and electric, coursed through his body—but it didn’t burn. It filled him. He gasped, wings flaring harder, each flap pulling more and more of the blaze into himself.

Tim surged to his feet, bo-staff snapping open with a metallic crack. He charged a gunmen, drawing their fire instantly. The staff spun and struck, breaking rifles, knocking men off their feet, sharp and efficient. Every movement screamed look at me, not him.

Aiden stood in the center of the street, arms out, drinking in the fire. Flames slid across his waxy skin like water. Ash curled into spirals and vanished into his gem, leaving only dim embers that winked out one by one.

And as the last tongues of fire sank into him—

He felt it.

Gotham exhaled.

The city’s suffocating air seemed to lighten, the smoke thinning, the night sky peeking through again. Aiden’s gem thrummed in rhythm with the streets beneath him, like Gotham itself was breathing for the first time in years. Relieved. Restored.

Aiden’s eyes went wide, and a soft chirp slipped from his throat. “She happy, Daddy…” he whispered to no one but himself. “Gotham happy.”

The last ember winked out. The street grew quiet.

Aiden lowered his hands, chest gem glowing with all the fire he had drawn into himself. His little body trembled with energy, but he felt lighter than ever, wings spread proudly behind him.

Then he turned.

His eyes locked on Tim, still fighting, staff flashing like lightning as he held back the last of the thugs. And something in Aiden’s tiny chest ached. His dad was still out there, fighting alone, while he stood glowing like a lantern.

No. Not anymore.

He grabbed his bo-staff tight, wings flaring, and launched forward with a burst of starlight. His stars flared with every flap, propelling him faster. He aimed himself at the nearest goon, chest gem pulsing—

—and flew to fight at his father’s side.

“Daddy!” he chirped, the sound cutting through the gunfire.

Tim turned just in time to see his boy slam into a goon, staff crackling against the man’s ribs.

For a heartbeat, Tim froze—then he moved, spinning to knock out the next attacker. And suddenly, impossibly, they were fighting together.

The first wave of goons fell fast, but more poured from the smoke, automatic rifles braced, shouting curses into the night. The air was thick with gunpowder and ash.

Tim planted himself in the center of the street, cape wings flaring wide, staff in hand. His chest heaved with focus, scanning the angles. Beside him, Aiden’s gem pulsed brighter, his waxy hair catching the glow of distant flames.

“Stay sharp, Starling,” Tim ordered, his voice low. “Watch their hands, not their mouths.”

Aiden chirped back, a sharp nod. His little fingers tightened on the bo-staff.

The gunmen opened fire.

Tim’s cape snapped shut around them like a shield, bullets pinging harmlessly off reinforced plating. The sound was deafening. Then—with practiced speed—he dropped his wing just enough to lunge forward, staff cracking against the first thug’s jaw.

“Now!” he barked.

Aiden shot out from under him, wings bursting starlight as he vaulted forward. His staff smacked against a goon’s knee, dropping the man with a shriek. Another raised his rifle—but Aiden’s gem flared, and he chirped, the sharp sound startling the man just long enough for Tim to slam him across the face.

For a heartbeat, they locked eyes. ‘We’re doing this.’

And then the dance began.

A goon swung a bat at Tim’s back. Aiden darted in, wings flashing, catching the blow with his own small staff. The impact rattled his arms, but he held firm. “Got Daddy!”

Tim spun, using the opening to sweep the man’s legs and drop him cold. “Nice block,” he muttered, pride burning under the steel in his voice.

Two more came from behind Aiden. Tim’s heart seized—too far to reach him—until his boy chirped, wings pulsing, the sound-wave staggering them just long enough for Tim to close the gap. He caught one by the collar, slamming him into the other, both collapsing in a heap.

But the fight wasn’t done.

One of the last men raised his rifle straight at Aiden. The boy froze, wings flaring instinctively—too small to shield himself from that.

“Starling!” Tim shouted.

He lunged, cape wrapping around Aiden’s body just as the gun spat bullets. Sparks rained as the rounds bounced harmlessly off the plating. Aiden clung tight to his father’s waist, chirping wildly, trembling but refusing to cry.

Tim’s jaw clenched. Rage flared hot and sharp.

He surged forward, staff striking the gunman across the temple with brutal precision. The man crumpled instantly, weapon clattering to the street.

Tim dropped to one knee, pulling Aiden into the open again. The boy’s chest gem still glowed, steady and strong. “You alright?” Tim asked, his voice softer than he intended.

Aiden nodded quickly. “Help!”

“Yeah,” Tim said, pressing a hand briefly to the boy’s shoulder. “You did.”

The last wave came, three men rushing with knives and pipes. And this time, father and son charged together.

Tim’s staff spun high, knocking one blade away. Aiden ducked low, wings flashing as he swept his tiny staff against the man’s ankles. Tim finished the takedown with a jab to the chest.

Another swung at Aiden—too big, too fast. But Aiden’s gem flared, and the man hesitated, startled by the sudden burst of light. Just enough for Tim to slam his knee into the goon’s gut and drop him.

The last attacker lunged at Tim’s blindside. Aiden chirped sharply, leaping onto the man’s back, staff whacking against his helmet. The thug stumbled, and Tim spun to finish it with a clean strike.

Finally—finally—the street fell quiet.

The two of them stood back-to-back, chests heaving, wings folded in. The bodies of unconscious goons littered the pavement, sirens wailing faintly in the distance as police rolled in.

Tim turned slowly, looking down at his boy. Aiden was grinning so wide his cheeks glowed, eyes shining, chest gem pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Tim huffed a breath, fighting back the sting behind his eyes.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“Ai–Starling helpful!” Aiden chirped brightly.

Tim let out a short laugh despite himself, cuffing the nearest goon. “Yeah, Starling. You’re helpful.”

Tim stared at him, torn between laughing and crying. The comms crackled in Tim’s ear. Oracle’s voice rang out:
“Red Robin. Firefly down. Scarecrow’s been apprehended by Nightwing and Batman. Report back to the Cave for debrief.”

Tim exhaled slowly. Relief warred with the tension still strangling him.

He looked down at Aiden, who tilted his head curiously. “We go home now?”

“Not quite,” Tim said, tucking his staff away. His voice gentled, almost teasing. “First—you’re going to meet the family. Officially.”

Aiden’s eyes went wide, his little wings giving a tiny burst of starlight. “The not-krill?”

“Yeah,” Tim said with the faintest smile. “The not-krill.”

Aiden chirped, beaming. “Fly there?”

Tim’s chest tightened. Warmth spread, cutting through all the fear and chaos. He reached for his boy’s hand. “Yeah, Starling. We can fly there.”

And with a flare of wings—two silhouettes rose into Gotham’s night sky, father and son cutting through the smoke together.

Chapter Text

The air taste sharp. Like metal and smoke. It sting nose when Aiden breathe, but he like it still, ‘cause air move fast, fast around wings. Wings make him small comet, orange sparks fluttering out behind. He laugh, voice high and happy, tumbling and twirling in the sky.

“Daddy look! Spin-spin!” he chirp, flipping upside-down so world go all topsy. His little legs kick, dangling in open night. His gem in chest hum soft, warm.

But Daddy’s voice float steady from behind, deep but soft. “Careful, Starling. Stay close.”

Aiden chirped in trapped fire. “Close-close! But fast-fast too!” He swoop down, then rocket back up, wings buzzing like star-bird. The city stretch under him, wide and dark. Tall claws of buildings scrape at sky, and down below little lights blink like fallen stars. But not soft like home stars. These lights harsh, red and yellow, sometimes flashing blue.

Gotham smell different too. Burnt. Ash float like black snow. Aiden squint at streets, see holes in road, broken glass glittering. Cars bent wrong way, smoke curling up.

“City hurt…” Aiden whisper, little chest tight.

Tim glide closer, cape spread wide. His eyes keep moving, sharp-sharp, counting everything. “Yes,” he say, quiet. “Arkham did this. The breakout left scars. But Gotham always survives.”

Aiden not understand all, but he feel the weight in Daddy’s voice. Heavy. Like chains he break once before. Aiden flap wings harder, try to bring bright. He spin in circle. “Look, Daddy! Aiden star again! Star keep city safe!”

For tiny breath, Tim smile. Not big, but real. “Yes, little star. Keep it bright.”

They fly more, long time. Aiden dart ahead sometimes, giggle echoing, then loop back when Tim call. Once he try to dive too low, almost clip antenna on rooftop, and Tim have to swoop under, herding him back up with cape like bird-daddy nudging chick.

“Not too wild, Aiden,” Tim scold soft.

“Wild fun!” Aiden argue, giggling. “Sky love wild!”

But he stay closer after that.

At last, Tim slow. “We’re here.”

Aiden tilt head. Below, between broken trees and rocks, dark cliff open mouth. Secret mouth. No lights, no doors. Just stone with shadows deeper inside. But gem in chest pulse, whisper secrets: ‘Big place. Strong place.’

“Hidey-hole?” Aiden ask, blinking big eyes.

Tim land smooth on ledge, motion Aiden to follow. “Not just a hole. You’ll see.”

Aiden fold wings, float down. His bare feet tap stone, rough and cool. He shuffle closer, peeking into dark mouth. “Big… dark… scary…”

“Safe,” Tim correct, voice sure. He place hand on stone wall, press button hidden in crack. Metal grind, low rumble. Rock face split open, wide door sliding away. Light bloom inside—cold white glow like stars trapped in lamps.

Aiden’s mouth drop open. “Shiiiiiiny…”

Inside not cave like he think. It breathe like giant. Tunnels stretch long, machines hum, screens blink, and everywhere tools shine sharp-sharp. Big cars sit in line, black and sleek, like monsters sleeping. Up high, bats flutter and cry.

Aiden stumble forward, tiny hands reach out. “Daddy… nest… so big…”

Tim kneel, pull flask from belt. “Drink first, Aiden. So they can understand you.”

Aiden sniff flask, tilt head. Water. Plain. He sip, then gulp. Warmth spread fast. Cape blink away in sparking stars. Gem dimmed to a soft glow, he could still feel it but could not see it. His body change—suit melting back into clothes from before. Loose shirt, pants scuffed, shoes worn. His waxy skin turned to flesh, and his hair faded back to black.

Aiden blink down at self. “Aiden is like Daddy again… clothes-back…”

Tim nod. “That’s right. Human now.” He touch Aiden’s hair, gentle pat. “I’m very proud of you my little star.”

Aiden beam bright, heart thumping. “Star! Daddy’s star!” He flap arms like pretend wings, then giggle, spinning.

But then… voices.

Sharp. Curious. Loud.

Aiden’s legs very short. The cave was huuuge—all stone teeth and glowing screens and cars that looked like dragons sleeping. He wanted to touch everything, but all the bat-people kept staring at him like he was a bug in a jar.

Questions, questions, questions.

“Where’d he come from?”

“What even is he?”

“Tim, what the hell is this?”

Daddy kept saying the same thing.

“He’s my son. That’s all you need to know.”

But they didn’t stop. They buzzed and poked with their words until Aiden’s ears went flat and his gem thumped nervous in his chest. He was about to tell them himself—when the sword boy, the little one with the scowl, spoke up.

“Who,” Damian said, arms crossed tight, “is Aurora?”

Aiden blinked. His cape wings twitched. “Aurora…?”

“Yes,” sword boy pressed, sharp like claws. “You keep saying her name. Who is she?”

Daddy froze. He turned so fast his cape swished. “That’s… not someone you need to worry about.”

Sword boy narrowed his eyes. “So she is important.”

“No—” Daddy’s voice cracked. “She’s not—”

Damian tilted his head, voice like a knife. “Is she his mother?”

The cave went quiet. Too quiet. Even the big computer hummed softer, like it wanted to hear the answer.

Daddy’s mouth opened. No words came out. His mask hid his face, but Aiden knew the look—like Daddy’s brain had tripped over a step and face-planted.

Aiden puffed out his cheeks. “Daddy forget words,” he announced proudly. Then, he sat up straighter and flapped his wings. “Is okay! Aiden tell!”

Every mask turned toward him.

He pointed at his glowing gem. “Aurora protect. Aurora save. Aurora love. She sing when Aiden lonely. She give light when dark scary. She say Aiden not alone. Never.”

The words tumbled out like chirps, fast and certain. His gem pulsed bright as he talked, every beat matching the happy thump in his chest. “She see Aiden running, catch with song. She give Aiden Daddy. She make nest warm.”

Steph’s mouth dropped open. “So she… totally sounds like a mom.”

Aiden blinked. He turned. “Mom…?”

Steph nodded, grinning. “Yeah, sweetie. That’s what moms do. Protect, love, save. Sounds like Aurora’s basically your mom.”

Aiden’s eyes went round and shiny. He whipped around to Daddy, turning so fast he made a little fwoosh sound. “Aurora Mommy?”

“No, —” Daddy started, too quick.

Aiden gasped, the laughter in his ear said yes. His arms spread wide, stars practically sparking in his eyes. “Aurora Mommy! Daddy say so!”

“That’s not what I—” Daddy’s voice cracked high, panicked. He waved his hands fast, like he was fighting invisible bats. “I didn’t say that—”

But Aiden was already bouncing in the chair, chirping loud enough to echo through the cave. “Aurora Mommy! Aurora Mommy! Daddy say Aurora Mommy!”

Jason snorted so hard his helmet crackled. “Oh, this is priceless.”

Nightwing doubled over, laughing into his gloves. “Tim… Tim, buddy, baby bird, congratulations, you’re married.”

“No—no, I—” Daddy’s voice was breaking into little pieces. He sounded like a computer with too many tabs open. His face also looked like those cady apple Daddy gave him once.

Even Bruce’s mouth twitched, just a little, like he was fighting a smile.

Aiden didn’t care. His gem glowed warm. His chest felt light. Aurora Mommy. Daddy Daddy. Nest full of bats. His family.

He flapped his arms, giving a loud, triumphant chirp. “Aiden got Mommy now!”

The laughter bounced off the cave walls. Daddy dropped his face into his hand with the most dramatic sigh ever.

But when Aiden leaned against his side, small fingers curling into the folds of his cape, Daddy’s arm came around him anyway. Tight. Warm.

“…This is my life now,” Daddy muttered into his glove.

Aiden just grinned.

The laughter still echoed off the cave walls. Jason was chuckling, Nightwing wiping tears from his mask, Steph grinning wide. Even Bruce’s mouth twitched like it wanted to smile.

Daddy had both hands over his face, groaning, but Aiden didn’t mind. He leaned against Daddy’s side, chest glowing warm, proud of his new Mommy.

The warm part didn’t last.

Because then sword boy’s voice cut sharp again. “Enough foolishness. Stop playing around.” Damian’s eyes were like knives. “We still don’t know what he is.”

The laughter drained from the cave, like water slipping away.

Jason crossed his arms, grin fading. “Yeah. Seriously, Tim. You can’t just drop a kid out of nowhere and expect us not to ask.”

Little lady bat’s smile faltered. Nightwing’s hand dropped from his mouth. Even Bruce’s face turned heavy again, shadows hiding the almost-smile.

The warm light in Aiden’s chest dimmed a little. His gem pulsed slow, uncertain. All the bats were staring again. Staring too hard. Staring like krill.

“…Aiden can tell,” he whispered.

Daddy’s head snapped toward him. “Aiden—”

But Aiden kept going, words spilling like starlight. “Aiden is star. Aiden come from sky. Bad green krill chase Aiden. So Aiden run, run, run until Aiden find shiny hole—portal. Find Daddy.” His small fists clenched, chest glowing brighter. “Daddy chained. Sleeping Lady hold. Aiden break chains. Save Daddy.”

The bats froze. Even the big computer seemed to go quiet, listening.

Aiden swallowed. “Humans in black hurt Daddy. Hurt bad. Aiden fight. Aiden give light.” His gem flickered faint, weak. 

Aiden hugged his Daddy’s legs tighter. Words spill and spill, no stopping now. His chest gem flicker.

“…Aiden give light. All light. No more. Aiden s’posed to die.”

The cave goes still.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then—crack.

“What?!” Jason’s voice boom, sharp like gunfire. “The hell do you mean, supposed to die?!”

“Tim.” Nightwing’s voice low, fast, urgent. “Tell me he didn’t just say—”

“He’s a child!” Steph cry, voice squeak with edge. “He died? He—he almost—”

“Absurd.” Sword Boy’s growl cut over hers. “Stars? Krill? Portals? None of this makes sense!”

Too many sounds. Too loud. Words slam into each other like angry birds.

Aiden’s gem pulse fast, fast. His ears ring. He curl smaller in chair, eyes big. “Stop—stop—”

But they not stop.

Jason slam hand on table. BANG. Echo roll through cave like thunder. “Tim, you knew? You let him—?!”

“I didn’t—” Daddy start, but Jason louder.

“Don’t you dare play dumb!”

Nightwing cut in, arms out like shield. “Everybody calm—”

“Calm?!” Steph’s voice crack. “He said he was dying! He’s tiny! And you—”

Damian slice through, sharp sword words: “This is ridiculous. He’s lying, or delusional. Or worse—”

“Shut the heLL UP!”

Daddy’s roar slam across cave like a whip.

All voices choke silent.

Even Batman blink slow.

The cave hum hum hum… then hush.

Aiden peep up. Daddy stand, fists tight, shoulders sharp like Veteran's wings. His face not soft now. No tired eyes. No careful voice. Only fire.

“You’re scaring him.” Daddy’s voice like storm ready to break. “He’s five years old. He doesn’t need your interrogations, or your disbelief, or your damn shouting matches.”

His finger jab at them all. One by one. “He’s my son. That’s all you need to know.”

Aiden blink fast. His gem slow down. Beat softer. Safer. Daddy mad—but not at him.

The others… freeze. Nightwing bite lip. Steph clutch hair. Jason scowl but not speak. Damian glare holes but quiet. Even Big Bat stay statue, mouth line pressed tight.

Cave air heavy. Heavy but not loud.

Daddy kneel down, level with Aiden. His hand reach, steady, warm on Aiden’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Starling. You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to.”

But Aiden shake head. Words still bubble. “No… Daddy gotta know. Daddy no know.”

Daddy blink. “What do you mean?”

Aiden press tiny hand to chest gem. Glow steady now, soft. “Aiden die. Light gone. But… Aurora help. She say… take Daddy blood. Mix with Aiden. Make Aiden stay. Make Aiden human.”

Gasps. Sharp, soft, everywhere.

Purple Lady whisper. “Oh my god…”

Nightwing rub forehead. “That’s—Tim, that’s not possible.”

Red Helmet mutter curse under breath.

Sword boy’s eyes narrow, suspicion burn. “Magic. Or alien trickery.”

Aiden nod, simple. “Aurora Mommy say… if Aiden stay, no go back. No sky again. But… is okay. Aiden got Daddy.”

His little hands grab Tim’s wrist. Hug tight.

Daddy’s eyes wet. Real wet. His breath catch like stitch in chest. “...I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

Aiden tilt head, confused. “Why Daddy cry? Aiden happy. Daddy here. Aiden stay.”

Tim’s laugh broken. Sad but soft. He pull Aiden into hug, arms wrap so tight it feel like shield.

Aiden bury face in armor neck, breathing in leather-smell, metal-smell, Daddy-smell. Safe.

Daddy’s arms warm. Heart beat thump against Aiden cheek. Cave quiet now, just breath-sounds and drip-drip water far away.

But Red Helmet move closer. No stomp, no bang. Slow. Careful.

He crouch low, visor dark but voice softer than before. “Hey, kid.”

Aiden peek up. Eyes big, wings curl tight. “…Hi.”

Jason scratch helmet like awkward. “That… must’ve been scary. Giving up your light. Thinking you were gonna die.”

Aiden blink. Head tilt. “Scary?”

Helmet nod slow. “Yeah. Scary.”

Aiden think. Tap chin with tiny finger. Then shrug. “Eh. Not first time.”

Cave freeze.

Like someone press big pause button.

Purple lady gasp sharp. Nightwing’s mouth drop. Sword boy actually stumble back one step. Even Batman eyes widen a blink.

Red Helmet pulled back, stare down hard. “...What?”

Aiden nod, serious now. “Not first time Aiden die. Aiden die lots.” He hold up fingers, start counting. “One time, Krill bite. Eat. Aiden no get away, so Aiden’s light go poof. One time, Eden in sky fall to fast, smash Aiden. Light go poof. One time Aiden made it, have to give all light to Eden–”

“Aiden.” Daddy voice crack. He grab tiny hands quick, stop finger-count. His eyes wet again. “Stop.”

“But—”

“Please.”

Aiden blink. Daddy’s face not angry. Not storm. Just… sad. Sad like crying baby moth.

Aiden soft-chirp. shoulders droop. He lean in, press forehead against Daddy’s. “Sorry, Daddy.”

Daddy let out shivery breath. Hug tight again. “Not your fault. Never your fault.”

Behind, voices shuffle. Nightwing whisper low, like someone afraid of glass breaking. “He’s just… saying it so easy. Like it’s nothing.”

Purple lady sniff. “Because he doesn’t know it’s not normal.”

Little lady bat had sad tears in eyes.

Red helmet mutter bad word under breath.

Even Sword Boy shut mouth, no more sharp words.

Batman… silent. Watching. Shadow-face unreadable.

Aiden snuggle closer, chest gem glowing faint but steady. “Aiden not scared. Aiden help. That all matter.”

Daddy kiss top of his head. “You’ve helped enough, Aiden.”

Cave heavy now. Like smoke but no fire. All Bats quiet. All eyes sharp.

Aiden fidget, fringers twitching. Did he say wrong thing?

Daddy squeeze hand gentle. “It’s okay,” he whisper, but his face look tight, mouth pressed thin.

Nightwing lean forward slow. “Tim… what does he mean? Giving up light to Eden? Why would a kid—why would your son—even have to do that?”

Aiden open mouth. “Because—”

But Daddy’s voice cut in first, steady, sharp like blade. “Because that’s what his world asks of him.”

Bats shift. Sword boy scowl deeper. Jason cross arms tight. Steph frown.

Daddy kneel down, pull Aiden close against chest so his voice low but strong enough to fill the cave.

“Aiden isn’t like us,” Daddy say. “He’s… from a place where children carry a light. They have to collect as much as possible. The more light they have the stronger they can be, the longer they can live. And when that light runs out—” his voice crack, “—so do they.”

Aiden nod quick, wanting to help. “Yes! Light is life. Light is wings. No light, no fly, no sing. Just… poof, turn to cryst… cryst–stone” He wave little hands.

Little lady bat flinch. Nightwing run hand over his face like headache.

“But why give it up?” Red Helmet demand, voice rough. “Why not keep it? Why burn yourself out?”

Aiden chirp, tiny but sure. “Because Eden need. Eden always need. We give light, make place safe. Make home not break. Aiden give, ‘cause Aiden love nest.”

Daddy’s hand tight on his shoulder. He nod, gaze sweeping family. “It’s… their destiny. Every child eventually walks to Eden, carrying their light. They give it up to keep their world alive.” His throat bob. “It’s sacrifice. One expected of all of them.”

Aiden smile faint, shoulder drooping soft. “Aiden want to help. Want to sing safe song for Eden. So Aiden give all. That okay.”

Purple Lady shake head fast, tears glassy. “Not okay, kiddo. That’s not okay.”

Sword boy mutter sharp under breath, “Insanity.”

Batman finally speak, voice low rumble. “He was meant to die.”

Cave freeze again.

Daddy’s eyes snap to Bruce, sharp, furious. “Not anymore,” he bite out. Hugging Aiden so tight the gem in chest press into armor. “Not while he’s mine.”

Aiden lean into hug, not scared. Daddy stormy, yes—but stormy for him. Stormy because he love.

Aiden chirp small, pressing cheek to chest. “Not die. Not now. Have Daddy and Mommy.”

Cave quiet, but soft this time. Like everyone waiting for story. Aiden puff chest, gem glow bright.

“Aiden tell more to Daddy! Aurora no just save Aiden,” he chirp, hands spread big. “She save all. She sing big song on Aurora Day. Song fly in sky, go everywhere. Song make heart strong, make people not break. Krill no can hurt when song play. Aurora keep us safe. Aurora make people live again.”

He bounce little, arms flap. Smile so big. “Aiden love her much. She best. She Mommy.”

Silence. Then—Jason snort so loud his helmet fog. “So let me get this straight—Replacement got knocked up by a cosmic songbird. Congrats, you’re a space baby daddy.”

Tim choke, face turn red like cherry. “What—no! Jason—she’s not—oh my god— That’s not how babies work—”

Steph giggle behind hands. “Tim. Come on. Kid’s literally describing her like the perfect mom. Protector, healer, giver of hope…” She grin wide. “Sounds like family to me.”

Tim groan. “Steph, please—”

Sword boy smirk sharp. “Admit it, Drake. You’ve consorted with celestial beings.”

“Consorted?!” Tim choke, face red as his tunic. “She’s not—Aurora is—she’s not even—oh my god—”

Aiden giggle, hugging Tim’s leg. “Daddy red like cherry! Daddy shy! Is true then!?”

Tim’s jaw drop. “What—no! Aiden, she’s not—”

But Aiden beam brighter. “Daddy say no but mean yes. Aurora Mommy! Daddy say so!”

Cave explodes with laughter. Nightwing bend double, wheezing. Jason slap wall so hard dust fall. Steph roll on her heels cackling. Even Big Bat mouth twitch like maybe-smile.

Little lady bat stand closest though. She crouch low, eye soft, head tilt. “Pretty. Words pretty,” she say quiet, pointing at Aiden’s glowing chest. “Love true.”

Aiden nod fast. “Yes! Aurora love all. She sing for all. For you too!” He chirp soft, like tiny song, and lady bat’s eyes soften even more. She press hand to her chest, then give small smile.

Red Helmet mutter between laughs, “God, Replacement’s kid just gave Cass the warm fuzzies. Guess Aurora really is Mom of the Year.”

Tim drag hand down face, groaning. “Please stop calling her that—”

“Mommy!” Aiden chirp proud. “Aurora Mommy. Daddy say so. Daddy no lie.”

More laughter echo in cave, warm and big.

Tim bury face in hands. “I hate all of you.”

Cave still shaking from laughter. Everyone noisy, even big Bat. Daddy hide face in cape, red like berry fruit. Aiden hug his leg tighter, giggling. “Daddy funny. Daddy shy. But is okay. Aiden share Mommy with Daddy.”

More laugh. Red Helmet almost fall over. Purple lady wheeze loud. Sword boy roll eyes but smile tiny. Nightwing clap his hands like music. Little lady bat only smile soft, eyes bright. Batman just stare, but corner of mouth move like maybe laugh too.

Aiden beam wide, happy. Family loud but warm. Not scary.

Then Daddy take big breath, rub face. Voice soft but still red. “Okay, enough. Let’s… let’s do this properly.”

He crouch so Aiden see his eyes. “Starling, this is my family. Your family too.”

Aiden blink big. “Family? Like Mommy sing about?”

Daddy nod, small smile. “Yeah. Like that.”

He stand, point to tall one with blue stripe. “That’s your Uncle Dick.”

Uncle Dick grin big, wave silly. “Hey, kiddo. You like flying? ‘Cause your dad was the best acrobat I knew.”

Aiden chirp loud, wings flap. “Aiden fly good too! Do spin, flip, zoom!” He spin in circle, almost fall. Uncle Dick laugh loud.

Daddy point to helmet man. “That’s Uncle Jason.”

Jason pause, scratch neck. “...Hey, kid. You doin’ okay?”

Aiden grin wide. “Yes! Aiden very okay! Uncle Jason shiny helmet.”

Jason chuckle low. “Heh. Guess I’ll take it.”

Daddy sigh but smile tiny. “That’s your Aunt Steph.”

Steph crouch, grin wide. “Hi, munchkin. You’re adorable. Want me to braid your hair sometime?”

Aiden gasp. “Braid? Like Aurora light twist in sky? Like Daddy do for hair?”

Steph nod. “Exactly like that.” Aiden bounce, wings flutter, so happy.

Daddy look at small serious one. “That’s Damian. He’s… your Uncle too.”

Damian fold arms, glare sharp. “I am not—”

But Aiden skip to him anyway. “Uncle Dami!” He hug tight around Damian’s leg. Damian stiff like statue, face red. “Aiden love Uncle Dami.”

Whole cave laugh again. Damian hiss, “Tt—get off,” but doesn’t push him away.

Daddy point to quiet sister. “That’s Aunt Cass.”

Cass kneel low, smile soft. Aiden chirp, hug her too. “Aunt Cass warm. Aunt Cass pretty.”

She hug gentle back, whisper, “You too.”

Aiden glow bright, so happy.

Then silence. Daddy look last at Big Bat. Face stiff, worried. He whisper soft, “And… this is… Bruce.”

Big Bat step close. Voice deep, soft like earth. “You may call me Grandpa.”

Aiden blink big. Heart beat fast. Then smile explode. “Grandpa!” He fly up, hug big Bat’s chest tight.

Big Bat freeze. Then arms wrap gentle. Warm, heavy, safe.

Daddy eyes wet, face soft. Aiden chirp, happy. Family real. Family big.

Aiden bounce on toes. Cave still buzzing from introductions. Daddy rub face, smile small but soft.

Aunty Steph clap hands like drum. “We need a party! We need balloons, cake, streamers, confetti! Starling needs party!”

Aiden chirp loud, wings flapping, bouncing. “Party! Aiden want party! Mommy happy too?”

Steph laugh. “Aurora would love this, kiddo.”

Then slow footsteps. Aiden stop, tilt head. Big warm voice fill cave. “Everyone change, and go to bed first. We celebrate after. And… I have something for our newest family member.”

Aiden blink. “Who? Aiden? Gift? Big shiny?”

Step closer. Gentle hands, voice soft. “Yes, Master Aiden. A gift for you.”

Aiden flutter wings fast. “Shiny! Pretty! Aiden want now!”

Big Bat smile small. “Patience. But first… we dress and sleep.”

Daddy kneel, whisper soft. “Aiden, this is Alfred. He… he help make cave ready, and your room too.”

Aiden tilt head, confused. “Alfred? Funny name!”

Alfred chuckle soft. “Now, come with me, Aiden. We sleep before cake.”

Aiden grab Daddy hand, skip along. “Okay! Sleep quick! Then party! Then cake! Then Aurora songs?”

Alfred nod. “Yes, songs. But first you need to sleep.”

Aiden hop, wings twitching. “Yay! Sleep and have awesome dreams! Like… like stars? Sparkly?”

Alfred smile gentle. “Sweet dreams, Master Aiden. And… just right through here.”

He lead Aiden through quiet halls of Cave, small steps echoing. Aiden bounce, looking left, right. So many rooms, so big. “Cave huge! Daddy nest big! Aiden fly here, wow!”

Alfred chuckle. “Yes, very big. But safely.”

Aiden stop, point tiny finger. “That room! That door! Is mine? Aiden’s room?”

Alfred nod, pull door open slowly. Light peek through, faint, warm. “Yes. The room is yours. Master Bruce… your Grandpa… wanted it perfect for you.”

Aiden blink wide. “All mine? Cozy? Bed big? Stars maybe? Aurora happy?”

Alfred smile. “All yours. Cozy. Bed ready. And yes… stars. Aurora would approve.”

Aiden bounce, hug Alfred. “Alfred nice! Aiden like Alfred! Thank you!”

Alfred chuckle. “You’re welcome, Master Aiden.”

Aiden look around room, glow bright. “Aiden live here! Forever maybe?”

Daddy kneel, smile soft, wings fold small. “If you want, Starling. You always have a home here.”

Aiden run, touch soft bed, glow tiny gem pulse fast. “Home! Happy! Daddy happy? Aurora happy?”

Daddy chuckle soft, voice wet. “We all happy, kiddo. You here. That’s enough.”

Aiden jump onto bed, wiggle, glow bright. “Starling cozy! Starling safe! Party soon? Cake soon?”

Alfred shake head, chuckle soft. “Soon, little one. Soon.”

Daddy lift him up, tuck under covers, press quick kiss on forehead. Wings twitch, glow dim to soft warmth. “Sleep soon, my little star. Party in morning light.”

Aiden blink, half-asleep, snuggle into blankets. “Morning light… Aurora sing… cake… party… Starling happy… Daddy close…”

Daddy stand, whisper soft, voice breaking little. “Always close. Always.”

Alfred pat shoulder gently. “Welcome home, Master Aiden.”

Aiden yawn, gem pulse soft. Eyes flutter closed. “Home… happy… Aurora… Daddy…”

Cave quiet, warm. A little star sleeps.

Chapter Text

The dining room was full of color. Bright balloons bobbed against the ceiling, streamers twisted around the chandelier, and a banner that read “What’s the Little Light?” hung crookedly above the table. Steph had her phone out, recording everything, her grin stretched wide.

Aiden sat on a booster seat at the head of the table, his little legs swinging. His cape wasn’t on—Steph said she needed to get a good video. He knew what a cape was, but this wasn’t “flying outside” time, so he left it off.

“Daddy?” Aiden chirped, his broken words soft but clear. “Aiden… Aiden boy.”

Tim froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Uh… Yeah?”

“I… boy. Like Daddy!” Aiden said again, bouncing in his seat, fists clenched with pride. “Aiden boy!”

Steph waved the phone. “Everyone ready? And… record!” She gave a thumbs-up to Dick, who was crouched behind the table helping frame the shot.

Tim coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just a joke, buddy. We’ve got balloons and cake, that’s all. Not—uh—not serious.”

Aiden tilted his head, confused. “Not serious?”

Cass leaned forward, smiling softly. “Yeah, little one. This is just for fun. We’re celebrating, not really saying anything serious yet.”

Aiden’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “Okay… funny… okay.”

The cake was set in the middle of the table. Steph grabbed a small knife and started slicing it with dramatic flair while Duke and Damian hovered, unimpressed but curious. Alfred quietly set a small wrapped box next to Aiden’s plate, saying nothing, just a gentle smile.

“Open!” Aiden squeaked, eyes wide.

He tore the paper off the box with tiny hands, revealing a soft plush owl, its wings a deep midnight blue. A small tag read: “For the bravest little boy—Alfred.”

Aiden blinked, hugging it tight. “Owl… thank you, Alfred!"

Alfred gave a small bow of the head. “It’s for you, Master Aiden. To watch over you when I cannot.”

Meanwhile, Bruce, leaning against the doorway, crossed his arms. He didn’t smile often, but tonight… tonight he allowed it. He leaned down slightly toward Tim, voice low. “He’s… remarkable, Tim. You should be proud.”

Tim swallowed, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “I—thank you, Bruce. I am. I really am.”

Bruce’s stern gaze softened just a touch. “He’s got your courage… and perhaps a bit more.”

Aiden cheered and clapped, clearly pleased. He grabbed a forkful of cake, smashing it into his mouth with reckless abandon. “Cake! Yummy cake!”

Steph laughed, recording him eagerly. “This is gold. Look at him go!”

Duke chuckled beside her. “And that’s how a Bat-family party begins.”

Then came the gifts. Damian handed over a small canvas, carefully painted. Aiden’s eyes widened as he unwrapped it. On it was a swirling orange and blue galaxy, dotted with tiny stars. “Aiden… like… sky!” he chirped.

Damian’s scowl softened slightly. “I thought you might like… something to watch over your night.”

“Thank you, Uncle Dami!” Aiden giggled, spinning in his seat with the painting held tight.

Jason leaned over, smirking. “Bet you can’t eat another piece of cake and hold that painting at the same time, little dude.”

Aiden puffed out his cheeks. “Watch!” He shoved a big bite of cake in his mouth and waved the painting, almost dropping it. Everyone laughed, including Bruce, who gave a quiet, approving nod.

“Now,” Steph said, twirling the camera toward the balloon pile, “time for the reveal!”

Dick helped her set up the balloons. “Okay, Aiden, you ready to pop them?”

Aiden’s eyes sparkled. “Pop… pop balloons! Yes yes yes!”

With a giggle, he jabbed at the balloons. A cascade of blue confetti rained down, filling the dining room with shimmering pieces of paper.

Aiden threw his arms into the air, beaming. “Aiden… boy! Like Daddy!”

Tim chuckled, shaking his head. “Yep. Just like your dad.” He leaned down, ruffling Aiden’s hair. “You’re our little guy.”

Cass smiled, patting Aiden’s back. “And a very clever little guy, too.”

“Clever!” Aiden chirped. He hugged the plush owl and the painting simultaneously, grinning at the chaos around him.

The Bat-family laughed and ate cake, the room filled with warm light and teasing remarks. Bruce finally said, quietly but firmly, “He is lucky… and so are you, Tim.”

Tim’s chest tightened. “We both are, Bruce. We both are.”

And in the middle of it all, Aiden laughed, totally unconcerned about rules or worries. He was just a little boy, surrounded by family who finally felt like… family.

______________________________________________________________

The dinning room in Wayne Manor was too big. Too shiny. Too loud. Aiden sat at the end of the long table, legs swinging, chin in his palms, staring at the mountain of pancakes stacked on the silver platter.

“Master Aiden,” Alfred said with infinite patience, setting another plate down, “you must eat something more than syrup.”

“But syrup yummy,” Aiden said, stabbing his fork into a pancake and dragging it through a lake of sticky sugar. His hair puffed up from static, glittering faintly like it always did in sunlight. “Stars eat sugar too.”

Jason snorted from his seat. “Pretty sure stars eat gas, kid.”

Aiden blinked at him, serious. “Gas bad. Syrup better.”

Steph nearly fell out of her chair laughing. “You can’t argue with that logic.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, coffee in hand. “Aiden, buddy, you need protein. Eggs. Bacon. Something besides sugar.”

“Eggs yucky,” Aiden declared, wrinkling his nose. “Bacon… hm… maybe.” He leaned across the table, grabbing for the bacon plate. Dick smoothly slid it toward him, smiling.

“Here you go, Aiden. Try a little piece.”

Aiden bit into it, chewed thoughtfully, then lit up. “CRUNCHY MEAT GOOD.”

Jason cackled. “That’s my boy.”

“Not your boy,” Aiden corrected firmly, pointing at Tim. “Daddy’s boy.” He puffed out his chest proudly.

Jason pretended to clutch his heart. “Ouch. Kid’s got favorites already.”

Damian, sitting stiff-backed with perfect posture, scowled at the chaos. “This entire display is disgraceful. Pancakes are not food fit for a warrior.”

Aiden glared at him, cheeks puffing out. “Damian no warrior. Pancake stronger.” He slammed his tiny fork into the fluffy stack and lifted a floppy piece high like a sword. “See? Pancake fight!”

Before Tim could stop him, syrup dripped onto the table. Steph egged him on immediately. “Pancake duel! Someone grab another fork!”

“Absolutely not,” Damian snapped.

“Absolutely yes,” Jason countered, already sliding a fork across to Aiden.

“Jason,” Tim warned.

Too late. Aiden giggled, clashing pancake-sword against Jason’s fork. “Ting! Ting!”

Jason went along, making over-the-top grunts like he was in a real sword fight. “Ugh! Too powerful—how can I resist the Pancake Knight?!”

Aiden beamed, cheeks sticky, and shouted, “Victory!!”

Tim groaned into his coffee, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a smile.

Alfred returned just in time to see syrup dripping onto the pristine tablecloth. His sigh could have leveled a city. “…I suppose it was too much to expect a quiet breakfast.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The training room smelled like leather and metal, all shiny floors and too-many weapons hanging on the walls. Aiden stood in the middle, bouncing on his toes, eyes wide like the whole place was a toy store.

“Wowww…” he whispered, spinning in a slow circle. “So many shiny sticks!”

“They’re weapons,” Damian corrected coldly, pulling his bo staff from the rack. “Not toys. Not for children.”

Aiden blinked at him, then reached up to poke the staff’s end. “Stick.”

Damian’s glare deepened. “Bo. Staff.”

“Stick,” Aiden repeated with a grin. “Long stick.”

Jason barked a laugh from the sidelines. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Tim knelt in front of Aiden, adjusting the tiny practice gloves Bruce had found for him. “Okay, listen, buddy. This room is for training, not playing. We’re gonna go easy, alright?”

“Easy easy,” Aiden agreed, nodding solemnly. Then he immediately tried to cartwheel across the mat. His legs flailed, he landed on his butt, and burst out laughing.

“Great start,” Jason said dryly.

Tim rubbed his temples. “We’re supposed to work on balance.”

“Balance, balance,” Aiden echoed, popping back onto his feet. He spread his arms wide like wings, wobbling in a circle. “See? Balance bird!”

Steph clapped. “Ten out of ten, little dude.”

Damian muttered something under his breath in Arabic.

But then Aiden crouched low, tongue poking out as he tried to mimic Damian’s stance. His little body wobbled, but he copied it almost perfectly. He even jabbed forward with invisible force, shouting: “Hiiiii-yah!”

The strike knocked him flat onto his face.

Everyone froze.

Then Aiden popped back up, giggling. “Daddy! Did you see? Aiden strong like Damian!”

Tim hurried forward, brushing dust off his hair. “You’re supposed to keep your center of gravity low—”

But Aiden had already launched himself into another move. He spun in a messy flip, arms pinwheeling. “FLIP STAR!”

He landed flat on his back with a thud.

Jason doubled over laughing. “I can’t—this is better than TV.”

Tim dropped his face into his hand. “He’s going to give me a heart attack.”

But Aiden wasn’t upset. He scrambled up again, cheeks flushed with joy, bouncing on his toes. “Daddy best teacher! Aiden learn fast! Aiden strong star!”

Dick grinned warmly from the corner, arms crossed. “He’s got the spirit, at least.”

“Spirit won’t save him in a fight,” Damian muttered.

But when Aiden struck another wobbling pose, Damian hesitated for half a second—then adjusted his own stance so the kid could copy better.

Tim noticed. He didn’t say anything, but he smiled.

_______________________________________________________________________

The training mats were cleared, and Aiden had finally collapsed in the corner with a juice box in hand. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his cheeks pink from all his tumbling. He happily sucked at the straw, little legs kicking back and forth against the mat.

Tim sat beside him, towel draped around his shoulders, still watching him with that look only Tim had—half worry, half awe.

Bruce entered quietly, the heavy tread of his boots soft against the polished floor. He hadn’t said much through the morning’s antics, but he had been watching, arms folded, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Looks like someone had a good workout,” Bruce said evenly, coming closer.

Aiden lit up instantly. “Big Grandpa!” he chirped, waving with his straw still in his mouth.

Bruce’s stern mouth twitched like he was hiding a smile. “Grandpa’s fine.” He crouched slightly, bringing himself more on Aiden’s level. “How are you feeling, Aiden?”

“Strong star!” Aiden declared, flexing his skinny arm. Then he added proudly, “Daddy best teacher.”

Tim flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “He… has enthusiasm, at least.”

Bruce’s gaze softened a fraction before turning serious again. “Tim,” he began, voice low, “have you thought about… what comes next? Beyond the cave.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“School,” Bruce said simply. “Structure. Normalcy. He can’t spend all his time down here with us.”

Aiden blinked, straw slipping from his lips. “School?”

Tim froze, like he hadn’t prepared for this moment. “I… don’t know if that’s a good idea, Bruce.”

“Children need peers. They need classrooms, teachers, opportunities,” Bruce said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was weight to every word. “If he’s going to grow up here, he needs more than training sessions and family dinners.”

Aiden tilted his head. “What school?”

Tim turned to him, struggling to find the words. “It’s… a place where kids go to learn. Reading, writing, math, things like that.”

Aiden’s eyes widened. “Like Aunty Cass teach words? Like ‘I’ and ‘my’?”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded, impressed by the connection. “Exactly. But with many teachers. And many children.”

Aiden gasped softly, bouncing. “Many childrens? Like me?”

“Like you,” Bruce confirmed.

Tim’s chest tightened. “He’s not ready,” he said firmly, looking back to Bruce. “He’s… different. He doesn’t know Earth customs. He barely understands—”

“He’s learning,” Bruce countered gently, surprising Tim. “And he’s doing it fast. You saw it today. The way he listens. The way he imitates.”

Steph poked her head in then, phone still in her hand from earlier. “What’s this? School talk? Ohhh, Aiden would crush show-and-tell.”

Jason wandered in after her with a bag of chips. “Kid’d tell everyone his mom is some cosmic goddess and watch the PTA explode.”

Aiden perked up. “Mommy Aurora!” he blurted, puffing out his chest. “She sing song, protect all, love all, give Aiden daddy!”

Tim buried his face in his hands. “Oh no.”

Bruce raised a brow, deadpan as ever. “Aurora?”

Jason smirked. “Yeah, you missed it earlier. Apparently, the kid’s got a cosmic goddess for a mom now.”

Steph leaned against the wall, grinning. “And Timmy’s the one who made it official.”

Tim’s ears went red. “I did not—!”

But Aiden was too busy nodding furiously. “Yes yes! Daddy say Aurora Mommy! Mommy best mommy! She love all! She save Aiden! She give Daddy!” He beamed, proud of himself.

Bruce’s gaze shifted from Aiden’s radiant grin to Tim’s mortified face. A long silence stretched.

Then—so subtle most of them missed it—Bruce’s lips twitched again, just the faintest curve upward.

“Sounds like you’ve built quite a family,” Bruce said at last.

Tim’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Bruce—”

But Bruce stood, straightened his shoulders, and said simply: “We’ll talk more about school later. For now… enjoy the day.” He glanced at Aiden. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And then he left, cloak sweeping behind him.

Aiden sipped his juice box and leaned against Tim’s side, utterly content. “Daddy red face funny,” he mumbled.

Jason laughed so hard he nearly choked on his chips.

__________________________________________________________________

The afternoon sunlight spilled in from the Manor’s tall windows, golden patches on the polished floor of the library. Aiden sat cross-legged on a rug, his cape and shoes abandoned in a heap nearby. A picture book lay open in front of him, though he wasn’t really reading it — more poking at the drawings of animals and chirping happily when he recognized one.

Steph plopped down beside him, phone at the ready. “Okay, Aiden, repeat after me: I am Aiden.”

Aiden tilted his head. “Aiden is Aiden,” he corrected, bright and confident.

Jason, sprawled on the couch with a grin, snorted. “That’s what we’re trying to fix, kid. You can’t just say your name every time. You gotta use “I” and “my” sometimes.”

Cass slipped silently into the circle, crouching across from Aiden. Her voice was calm, gentle. “Why always say ‘Aiden’? Why not ‘I’?”

Aiden blinked, wide-eyed, considering. His little hands tugged at the corner of the rug. “Because… Aiden name special.”

Cass tilted her head, patient.

The boy’s voice softened, the words slow, careful. “Before Daddy… no name. Only light. Only ‘I.’” He pressed a hand to his chest where the gem would glow when he wore his cape. “Then Daddy give Aiden name. Real name. Not just light. Aiden want everyone remember it.”

The room went still for a heartbeat.

Steph’s grin faltered into something softer, almost guilty. Jason stopped mid-chew, frowning slightly. Cass’s eyes flickered with quiet understanding.

Jason leaned forward, smirking to cover the pang in his chest. “Yeah, but if you say it too much, you’ll use it up. That’s the rule.”

Aiden’s eyes went round. “Use… up?”

“Totally,” Jason said smoothly, keeping a straight face. “That’s why people switch names sometimes. Run out of the old one.”

Steph, catching on instantly, gasped dramatically. “Oh no, Jay’s right. That’s why I used to be Spoiler. Said ‘Steph’ too much and had to get a new one.” She shook her head in mock tragedy. “It’s a dangerous game, kid.”

Aiden’s face crumpled, lip wobbling. “No! Aiden no want lose name! Daddy gave name! No no no—” His small hands balled into fists, tears springing at the corners of his eyes.

Cass’s sharp gaze cut to Jason and Steph. Her expression said everything: fix this. Now.

Jason raised both hands in surrender. “Whoa, hey, kiddo—relax. I was messing with you—”

But it was too late. Aiden let out a sharp, hiccupping sob. “No new name! Aiden keep name! Aiden no want lose Daddy’s name!”

That was the exact moment Tim walked in, tablet under his arm, mid-sentence. “Hey, has anyone seen—”

He stopped dead. Aiden crying, Steph looking guilty, Jason throwing his hands up, Cass giving him the most damning stare imaginable.

Tim’s expression hardened. “What. Happened.”

Cass didn’t hesitate, pointing a finger straight at Jason. “They said he’d lose his name if he said it too much.”

Tim’s voice dropped flat. “Jason.”

Jason shifted uncomfortably. “It was a joke.”

“A joke,” Tim repeated, deadpan. He crouched immediately beside Aiden, brushing the boy’s hair back gently. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Listen to me, Starling. Names don’t get used up. You can say your name a thousand times a day and it’ll always be yours. Always. Because I gave it to you, and nobody can take that away.”

Aiden hiccupped again, clutching Tim’s sleeve. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Tim said firmly, pulling him into a hug. “You’ll always be Aiden. No matter what.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, muttering. “Sorry, kiddo.”

Steph sighed, shoulders slumping. “Sorry, Starling. We were trying to be funny.”

Cass only nodded, her gaze still fixed like a hawk on the others.

Aiden sniffled but managed a watery smile, cuddling closer into Tim’s chest. “Okay… Aiden say ‘I.’ Sometimes.”

Tim kissed the top of his hair. “That’s my boy.”

Jason shot Steph a look. “We’re never living this down, are we?”

Steph groaned. “Nope.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tim had barely set Aiden down before the boy sniffled hard, wiped his cheeks with both hands, and then sat up straight, determined.

“Okay… Aiden try.” He pointed at his chest proudly. “I am Aiden!”

Steph clapped like it was a Broadway show. “YES! Nailed it.”

Jason smirked. “Better than your first flip in the training room.”

“Hey,” Tim warned, though his lips twitched.

Aiden puffed up, clearly pleased with himself. He scrambled off the rug, stomped to the bookshelf, and picked up a book twice too heavy for him. He wobbled back, arms shaking, and plopped it down in front of Tim. “My book!” he announced.

Tim blinked. “You can’t even read that one—”

“My book!” Aiden repeated, hugging it possessively.

Cass tilted her head, hiding a small smile. “Good.”

And just like that, Aiden was off.

“My chair!” he cried, clambering onto a seat.
“My cookie!” he declared five minutes later, swiping the last one from the plate before Jason could grab it.
“My Daddy!” he shouted suddenly, wrapping both arms around Tim’s waist and glaring at the others like a tiny guard dog.

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Okay, that’s a little scary.”

Steph was recording again, giggling uncontrollably. “This is going to go viral, it’s so cute!.”

Tim sighed, running a hand over his face, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a smile.

Cass, quiet but thoughtful, leaned closer to Aiden as he nestled against Tim. “You don’t need to say it all the time. We know. We won’t forget your name.”

Aiden looked at her seriously, then nodded. “But… saying is fun.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “Fair enough, kid.”
______________________________________________________________________

The Manor’s rooftop was colder than Aiden expected. He tugged his jacket closer, the sleeves still a little too long, and tilted his head all the way back until the sky filled his vision.

So many stars.

Tiny lights sprinkled across the black, dim from Gotham’s glow but still there. Aiden’s chest gem pulsed faintly as if recognizing them.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Dick’s voice came from where he perched on the ledge, casual as ever, one leg dangling over the edge like a kid. “Not as many as out in the country, but still something.”

Aiden nodded fast. “Stars! My family.”

Tim settled beside him, crouching so they were at eye level. He brushed Aiden’s hair back gently. “You miss them?”

Aiden thought about that. His wings flickered faintly—gone now, but still remembered. He hugged his knees. “Stars far. But… Daddy close.” He leaned against Tim’s side without hesitation. “So… Aiden okay.”

Tim’s throat worked, but he only pulled Aiden closer.

Dick smiled, softer now. “You know, when Tim was a little older than you, he used to come up here with a telescope and keep notes on constellations. Nerd stuff.”

Tim groaned. “Please don’t—”

Aiden’s head shot up, eyes wide. “Daddy like stars too?!”

Tim hesitated, caught. “…Yeah. I always have.”

Aiden beamed so brightly his gem almost glowed through his jacket. “Daddy and Aiden same!”

Dick chuckled, leaning back against the stone. “Told you. You two are cut from the same cloth.”

They stayed like that a while, the cold air nipping at them, the hum of the city below. Aiden pointed out each star he could see, naming them nonsense words, while Tim corrected a few with real names. Sometimes Aiden repeated the names, sometimes he refused and stuck with his own.

When the wind picked up, Aiden shivered, and Tim tucked his jacket tighter around him.

“Time for bed, Aiden,” Tim murmured.

Aiden shook his head stubbornly, pointing to the brightest star on the horizon. “Last one! That one is… Mommy.”

Tim froze. Dick blinked, caught between a laugh and a wince.

“Mommy star always watching,” Aiden said seriously. “So Daddy not worry.”

Tim swallowed hard and kissed the top of his boy’s head. “…Okay. Mommy star.”

Aiden smiled, satisfied, and finally let Tim carry him inside.

Chapter Text

Elliot Cadwell fidgeted behind his cluttered desk, the flicker of the overhead light twitching in time with the pounding of his heart. The newsroom outside his glass office buzzed faintly with the evening rush — the sound of keys, printers, and quiet gossip — but all of it blurred under the sharp edge of Vicky Vale’s voice.

“The hell were you thinking, Elliot?”

She slammed the door behind her, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Her coat swished like the wing of some furious bird as she strode across the office. The front page of his article — the one about Bruce Wayne — was crumpled in her fist.

“You dared write that piece?” Her tone was steel dipped in fire. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Elliot opened his mouth — to defend, to explain, to something — but no words came.

Vicky circled his desk like a hawk sizing up a mouse. Her heels clicked against the tile in a rhythm that felt almost predatory.

“I built this paper’s reputation on integrity,” she said, jabbing the crumpled article toward him. “And you — you toss that away for what? Clicks? Rumors?”

Elliot’s throat tightened. “It wasn’t just a rumor, Vicky, it was—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice cutting him clean in half. “Don’t even try. You dragged Bruce Wayne’s — who is my contact, our ally — son through the mud with speculation and half-truths. If I weren’t on good terms with the Waynes, this paper would be so buried in legal fees you’d be writing obituaries for the next decade.”

Elliot’s eyes darted to the glass walls of his office — coworkers pretending not to stare, pretending not to listen. He could see the smirks, the pity, the whispered words: There goes Cadwell.

“Bruce Wayne,” Vicky continued, voice low and sharp as a razor, “is holding a press conference tomorrow morning to clear the air. You’ll be there. You’ll stand in front of every reporter in Gotham and you’ll apologize — sincerely, publicly, loudly.”

She stepped closer until the space between them felt suffocating. “He’s agreed not to sue, if you comply. But your pay is being cut, and you’re suspended until further notice. That’s me saving your career, Elliot. You can thank me later.”

Her tone softened for half a breath, but her eyes didn’t. “You’re a decent writer. Don’t make yourself a cautionary tale.”

She turned sharply, heels echoing as she strode to the door. The slam that followed left a ringing silence in the room.

Elliot sat there for a long time, his pulse drumming in his ears.

On his desk, the photo of his journalism award — Gotham’s Rising Voice, 2020 — stared back at him. Beside it sat the coffee mug Vicky had given him years ago when he first joined the Gazette: Truth Never Blinks.

He stared at the words until they blurred.

“Truth never blinks,” he whispered bitterly, tossing the mug into the trash. It shattered against the side, ceramic fragments scattering like teeth.

Fury welled up inside him, hot and acidic. He could still see the looks from the bullpen, the pity, the mockery.

’They think I’m done. They think I’m finished.’

His fingers clenched around the crushed paper of his article — the one that had cost him everything.

Tomorrow, he thought, his breath trembling with a mix of shame and rage. Tomorrow, I’ll make them regret this.

He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

And as the newsroom lights dimmed, Elliot Cadwell sat in the glow of his monitor, eyes burning — and the first shadows of obsession began to take root.

________________________________________________________________

A cold wind swept through the cavernous halls of the League’s stronghold — the kind of wind that carried whispers of centuries gone by. It rustled the silk banners marked with the Demon’s sigil and coiled through the flames of a hundred oil lamps until even the shadows seemed to bow.

The scent of burning incense mingled with steel and sand. Beneath the high arch of stone, Ra’s al Ghul stood motionless, his hands folded neatly behind his back, his reflection fractured across the polished surface of an obsidian table.

His eyes — sharp, ancient, alive with calculation — did not blink.

“This child,” he began softly, almost reverently, “slipped past me.”

The words were not shouted. They were whispered — dangerous, restrained, like the slow drawing of a blade from its sheath.

He turned, the movement deliberate, predatory. “A child of my Detective. Hidden all these years beneath my gaze.”

Talia al Ghul stood a few paces behind him, head bowed. Her poise was impeccable, her mask unbroken, but even she could feel the weight in his voice.

“He was careful,” she said quietly. “Protective.”

Ra’s smiled faintly — but it wasn’t warmth. It was the bare curl of satisfaction one might have when recognizing a worthy opponent’s move on a chessboard.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Yes… always careful. My Detective guards his secrets with the same obsession that I guard the Lazarus. But this?”

He turned again, and the hem of his robe whispered across the stone. “A bloodline. His bloodline.”

He stopped before Talia, the faint flicker of green from the Lazarus Pits reflecting in his eyes like unholy light. “I will have that child, Talia. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, her voice steady, though her gaze faltered under his.

Ra’s leaned closer, his shadow stretching over her like a curtain. “The child carries his mind. His potential. His defiance. And if the Detective would deny me a successor, then I shall take one.”

He lingered in silence, as if savoring the thought — the idea of molding something so pure, so rare, into his own vision.

Finally, his voice dropped lower. “And the woman I sent after Drake… months ago. What became of her?”

Talia’s jaw tightened. “We arrived too late. She was dead.” She hesitated, then added softly, “Burned. Completely.”

The silence that followed stretched like the edge of a blade.

Then Ra’s chuckled — low, dark, and deeply amused. “Burned.”

He drifted away from her, walking toward the edge of the chamber, where a long window overlooked the desert sands. The moonlight painted his form in silver, but the green glow from the Lazarus Pits beneath made his shadow seem alive.

“Do you recall, my daughter,” he said almost wistfully, “how he once refused me — when I offered him legacy? I told him then: the blood of the Detective is too precious to waste.”

He turned his head slightly, voice cooling to a whisper. “And now, that blood multiplies in secret. A child. A light.”

Talia’s brow furrowed. “What would you have us do?”

Ra’s’s lips curved into something inhuman. “Observe. Wait. The Detective believes himself clever. But even shadows cannot hide from eternity.”

He paused, gaze unfocused, as if staring through the stone, through time itself.

“The reports of a glowing vigilante in Gotham?” he asked suddenly.

Talia inclined her head. “It has been seen, my lord. Frightening enough that the underworld whispers.”

Ra’s hummed, the sound low and pleased — a rumble that vibrated through the chamber. “Fright is useful. Confusion is fertile soil. But still…”

He lifted one hand, running his thumb across the cool surface of the obsidian table. “Leave the woman’s body. Let it rot where it fell.”

Talia blinked. “My lord?”

He smiled — slow, dangerous, and utterly serene. “Let it stand as a warning. To my enemies… and my soldiers. Underestimating my Detective is folly. And the next who does so will join her.”

He turned his gaze upward, toward the endless dark ceiling of the chamber. “Soon, the child will draw him out again. And when he does…”

The corner of his mouth twitched — a smile devoid of warmth, but full of hunger.

“I will be waiting.”

The wind moved again, stirring the banners until they hissed softly in the air — whispering a name Ra’s had not spoken aloud in years.

“Timothy Drake.”

The torches dimmed as his words faded into the chamber’s chill, and Talia lowered her gaze.

Ra’s had already turned away — a statue of will and patience, his silhouette carved by the pale green light of the Lazarus Pit below. To others, he looked eternal. Unbreakable. But Talia knew what hid behind that calm. The same fire that had consumed empires, kingdoms, and families.

And now, it burned for a child.

Her throat tightened. “A child,” she thought, silently. “Not a weapon. Not a heir. Just a boy.”

Ra’s’s voice still echoed in her mind, each word laced with reverence and possession — I will have that child.

Talia bowed her head and whispered, “Yes, my lord,” once more, though he no longer listened.

When she turned to leave, her gaze drifted toward the shadows beyond the corridor. For just a moment, she imagined a small figure — dark hair, green eyes, a son she could no longer hold — and her chest ached with something she was all to familiar with.

“Forgive me, Timothy Drake,” she murmured softly to the silence, her voice barely audible beneath the hum of the Lazarus Pits. “For what my father will do.”

Then she walked away, her footsteps fading into the dark, leaving Ra’s alone with his obsession — and the faint hiss of the pits, whispering like ghosts of all the lives he had claimed in the name of immortality.

_________________________________________________________________

The cave was still — too still.

Time had stopped here. The air was thick with damp and decay, the kind that clung to lungs and memory alike. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, echoing intervals, each drop falling into a small pool near the far wall — the only sound in an otherwise breathless tomb.

The chains that had once held Tim Drake still hung from the ceiling, their ends rusted and blackened. The faint scent of scorched metal and incense lingered, mixed with the sharp tang of blood long since dried. And beneath those chains lay her.

Ra’s al Ghul’s sister — the woman who thought herself a goddess in silk — now reduced to nothing but a pale shell. Her skin was gray-blue, the beauty that once dripped from her movements now devoured by stillness. Her eyes stared blankly at the cave ceiling, glassy, empty. A single strand of dark hair clung to her face, matted with dust.

Days had passed. No one came. Not the League. Not the bats. Not even the wind.
Just the quiet hum of death.

Then — a sound that did not belong.

A low crackle, faint but rising, like glass being split by a torch. The air thickened, pulsing with a vibration that made the chains rattle softly. A hairline fracture of light cut through the far wall, bright green and alive, spilling across the stone like liquid fire.

The light pulsed once. Twice. Then tore open.

Something crawled through.

The creature was small — no larger than a child — but its shape was wrong. Too long. Too fluid. Its body was smoke and bone, a ghost wearing ash, curling and stretching as it slid through the tear between worlds. The faint hum of the portal faded behind it, leaving only its breathy, clicking whispers.

The Krill.
Or rather, a fragment of it.

Its glow was sickly, not the radiant gold of Aiden’s light but the predatory gleam of something that fed on it. The hue crawled across the walls, seeking, scanning, until it found what it was looking for.

The corpse.

It moved soundlessly at first, slithering through the air like an underwater current. Then, as if tasting the air for confirmation, it hissed — a guttural note that reverberated through the cavern. The sound made the torch stubs tremble, scattering flecks of ash.

The creature hovered over her body, its green light flickering across her still face. For a heartbeat, the cave was caught between silence and something ancient — a hunger older than the stars.

Then it struck.

The light flared violently, forcing her mouth open with a sharp snap. The sound echoed, grotesque and final. The Krill poured into her like smoke drawn into a vacuum — coiling, twisting, forcing itself down her throat.

Her body convulsed.

Muscles spasmed under her skin, bones cracking back into place one by one. The faint smell of burning rose from her flesh. Her fingers bent backward and then straightened, trembling as color — unnatural and gray-green — returned to her veins.

The silence stretched.

Then, slowly, her chest rose.

Her eyes flew open, glowing with the same malignant green as the creature’s light.

The woman stood, unsteady at first, like a marionette learning its strings. She flexed her fingers, stared at her hands with faint, alien curiosity. The movements were jerky, testing. She tilted her head from side to side, vertebrae cracking audibly.

A sound escaped her lips — not quite a voice yet, but a hiss, like static catching its first breath. She turned in slow circles, her gaze taking in the scorched chains, the melted stone, the faint scent of another’s presence long gone.

When she finally spoke, her tone was eerily soft — sweet, even — but with a tremor that spoke of something ancient trying to remember the shape of words.

“Little… light.”

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Her hand rose to touch her throat, feeling the vibration of her stolen voice.

“I’m coming, little light.”

The glow in her eyes brightened, and the cave — once dead and silent — came alive with the faint echo of movement as she began to walk, barefoot, toward the cave’s mouth. Each step left behind faint green smears across the stone — like poison marking its path.

Outside, thunder rolled across Gotham’s distant sky.

The wind howled through the entrance, carrying with it a whisper that didn’t belong to this world.

_________________________________________________________________________

Far above Gotham — beyond its clouds, beyond even the moon — the stars whispered.

They shimmered in slow conversation, their light weaving and breaking in ripples like breath on glass. And in the center of it all, where the constellations gathered into the shape of a woman’s silhouette, Aurora stirred.

Her light pulsed once.

She had been silent for so long — content to hum lullabies over the city where her little starling had made his nest. But something had changed. The harmony between her lights trembled. A shadow had entered her song.

Below, she saw it — not with eyes, but with knowing.
The human man, the one her starling called Father, his heart pulling with both fire and sorrow.
The man of ink and fury, whose pride burned too bright.
The creeping figure in the depths of the earth, green light bleeding through its skin.
The desert ghost whispering a child’s name as if it were destiny.

Dark threads, all of them, tugging at the edges of her starlight.

Aurora hummed, and the stars dimmed to listen. Her voice was soft but endless, a melody that crossed the spaces between worlds.

“So much noise… all for one small light,” she murmured, amusement curling through her words. “You poor mortals. You never learn to let go.”

Her hand — if it could be called that — traced the outline of Gotham’s horizon, painting it briefly with a golden shimmer before fading.

“Still,” she whispered, “I cannot let my little one face the storm alone.”

The stars flickered in agreement, their song rising and falling like the beating of many hearts. Aurora tilted her head slightly, and for a brief moment, the faintest sound of laughter rippled through the void — a musical, teasing thing.

“And his father…” she said, voice dipping low, thoughtful. “My… husband, is it?”
The laughter deepened, playful now. “How curious. Mortals and their silly words. Hmm...”

The Milky Way brightened — a shimmer of gold and rose bleeding into the dark sky like spilled light. Aurora’s presence expanded, her tone softening with affection and resolve.

“Hold fast, Father of My Fallen Star,” she whispered, voice brushing against the mortal plane like a warm wind before dawn. “The shadows grow bold, and the song falters… but I am not done yet.”

Her light dimmed, receding once more into the stars.
And as Gotham slept below — unaware — the faintest melody began to hum through the night air, a lullaby half-heard, half-felt.

A promise.
And a warning.