Archive of Our Own

Tim Drake was currently buried under three monitors, a graveyard of empty espresso shots, and the Q3 projected earnings for the Asian-Pacific division. He wasn’t just working; he was winning. For the first time in six months, the inbox was nearing zero.

Then, the window of his penthouse office slid open. It wasn't a magical breeze; it was the heavy, humid warmth of a Gotham summer, carrying the distinct scent of hot asphalt and exhaust, a smell that meant the city was alive and moving.

"You look like you’re trying to merge with the spreadsheets," a familiar, cheerful voice said.

Tim didn’t even look up to know it was Kon. Conner Kent, Superboy, his best friend, and the person currently sitting on the edge of Tim’s mahogany desk, scuffing the expensive polish with his boots.

"I’m not merging," Tim mumbled, typing one final command. "I’m finalizing. That’s the last of the LuthorCorp hostile takeover data. It’s done, Kon. It’s actually done."

"The difference is about ten more milligrams of caffeine before your heart explodes," Kon teased, ignoring the business jargon. He reached down, his tactile telekinesis humming softly against Tim’s skin as he nudged the keyboard away. "The sun is out, Tim. It’s seventy-two degrees. The Wayne’s are having a picnic in the park. A public one. Like normal people."

Tim blinked, finally looking up, scrubbing a hand over his tired face. Kon looked solid. Real. There was a smudge of grease on his leather jacket, probably from his bike, and a small, healing nick on his chin from a razor. He didn't look like a dream; he looked like a Saturday.

"Bruce is doing a public picnic?" Tim asked, skepticism warring with hope. "Voluntary socialization?"

"He’s even wearing a polo shirt," Kon grinned, leaning in close enough that Tim could smell the cheap laundry detergent he used at the farm. "Come on. I’ll fly you. We can be there in three seconds."

Tim hesitated, looking back at the screens. Usually, this was where the paranoia set in. Why is it quiet? What am I missing? But as he looked at the completed files, a wave of profound, narcotic relief washed over him. He had pulled three all-nighters. He had solved the Riddler’s latest cipher last Tuesday. He had balanced the budget.

I did it, Tim thought, a tightness in his chest loosening. I actually cleared the deck. I can take an afternoon. I’ve earned an afternoon.

"Fine," Tim exhaled, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "But if Damian tries to stab you with a plastic fork again, I’m not intervening. I’m off the clock."

The park didn't look like a saturated cartoon. It looked like Robinson Park on a good day. The grass was a little dry in patches from the summer heat, and the distant sound of Gotham traffic provided a familiar white noise that kept Tim’s instincts from twitching.

The Waynes weren't posing; they were occupying space with the chaotic energy they usually reserved for the Cave.

To the left, Dick was showing off, pure and simple. He launched a frisbee with a theatrical spin, doing a triple-flip just to catch the return throw from Cass. Cass moved efficiently, intercepting Duke’s throw with a sharp laugh. Duke looked lighter, the shadows under his eyes gone, looking like a college kid on break rather than a vigilante.

Over by the pavilion, the scent was heavy with charcoal and marinade. Jason was manning the grill, flipping burgers. He was wearing a novelty apron that read "Kiss the Cook (Or I'll Shoot You)", an aggressive sentiment undercut by the fact that he was arguing with Barbara about spices.

"It’s not too much paprika, Barbie, it’s a dry rub," Jason insisted, wiping his hands on a rag.

"It’s going to burn before the meat cooks, Jay," Barbara countered, looking up from her tablet. She wasn't looking at a crime map; she was looking at a recipe blog.

Tim settled onto the checkered blanket near the center. Bruce was there, legs stretched out. He wasn't meditating or brooding. He was scratching Titus behind the ears, while Damian lectured Stephanie nearby.

"The electrolyte balance is crucial, Brown," Damian insisted, pointing at a water bowl. "One does not simply 'splash' water. Titus requires optimal hydration."

"He's a dog, Dami, not a marathon runner," Steph snorted, rolling her eyes at Tim.

"Timmy! You made it!" Dick shouted, abandoning the game to pull Tim into a crushing hug. He smelled like sweat, expensive cologne, and grass stains. "Kon, good work dragging him out."

Tim sat next to Bruce, bracing himself. "You’re wearing a polo, Bruce. And you're outdoors."

Bruce offered a small smile, but his eyes were sharp, grounded. He gestured to the datapad lying on the blanket. "The Board confirmed the merger, Tim. And with Joker back in Arkham and secure as of this morning, the patrol shifts are... manageable. For once."

Tim nodded, the logic clicking into place like a puzzle piece. Joker is secured. The merger is done. That’s why we’re here. It wasn't magic; it was logistics.

He reached for a sandwich from the basket. He took a bite, expecting dry catering food.

The flavor exploded on his tongue, roast beef, aged cheddar, and the sharp, distinct bite of horseradish mayonnaise. It tasted exactly like the sandwiches Alfred used to make him before late-night stakeouts when he was fourteen. It tasted like comfort. It tasted like home.

I worked hard for this, Tim told himself, chewing slowly, savoring the burn of the horseradish. I fought for this peace. I'm allowed to enjoy the sandwich.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, it turned the Gotham skyline into a silhouette of jagged purple and molten gold. It was beautiful, but almost too sharp, like a high-definition photograph that had been oversaturated. The family drifted off into smaller, laughing groups, leaving the quiet to settle.

Kon and Tim sat on the edge of the stone bridge overlooking the park’s pond.

"You’ve been quiet," Kon said softly. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his blue eyes were fixed on Tim with an intensity that usually made Tim squirm. Tonight, it just felt grounding.

"Just thinking," Tim said, watching a duck paddle through the glassy water, leaving a perfect V-shaped wake that didn't seem to disturb the lily pads. "About how... functional this feels. Everyone is happy. No one is bleeding. The stocks are up. Even Damian smiled. Once."

"That’s the goal, right?" Kon asked. He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing solidly against Tim’s. Kon was always warm, a living solar battery, but today the heat felt heavy, a physical weight seeping into Tim’s bones. It chased away a deep, marrow-level coldness Tim hadn't realized he was feeling until that very moment. "We win. We rest. You deserve this, Tim. More than anyone, you kept this family from falling apart."

Tim looked down at the water. The surface was dark, mirroring the twilight sky. "I did, didn't I? I finally fixed it."

"Yeah," Kon whispered, his voice vibrating against Tim's arm. "You fixed it."

Tim leaned his head on Kon’s shoulder. It made sense. The exhaustion dragging at his eyelids wasn't suspicion; it was the crash after a decade of adrenaline. He had spent years holding up the sky like Atlas; it was only fair that he finally got to put it down without being crushed.

"I just..." Tim swallowed past a lump in his throat. "I don't want this to end."

"It doesn't have to," Kon said. He reached out, taking Tim’s hand. His grip was firm, calloused, and impossibly secure. "We have all the time in the world."

Tim looked down at their joined hands, then past them, into the dark water below.

For a split second, a tremor ran through him, a sharp, piercing ache in his chest that had nothing to do with emotion. A phantom impact.

He blinked, staring at his reflection.

For a microsecond, the water didn't show the clean, content face of Tim Drake. The reflection rippled, warping into something grey and waxen. He saw blood, dark, oxygen-starved blood, matted into his hairline and sleeting down a face drained of all color. He saw a bruise blossoming violet across a cheekbone that looked sunken, like the face of a corpse found days too late.

Tim gasped, his heart skipping a beat, his free hand flying up to touch his own face. His skin was warm. Dry. Intact.

"Tim?" Kon’s voice was full of concern, anchoring him back. "You okay? You squeezed my hand really hard."

Tim stared at the water. The image was gone. It was just his normal reflection, looking back at him with wide, startled eyes.

Just a flashback, Tim told himself, his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Just a memory of the patrol last week. Or the Ra’s fight. I’m tired. My brain is misfiring.

He refused to let the paranoia win. He couldn't explain a hospital room, but he could explain blood. Blood was part of the job. Blood meant he was still fighting.

"I'm fine," Tim whispered, pushing the gruesome image into a mental lockbox. "I’m just... tired. And happy. Is that allowed?"

"It is," Kon smiled, leaning in. The space between them vanished.

As Kon leaned in to kiss him, the perfect, soft kiss Tim had denied himself for years, Tim finally let go of the tension. He closed his eyes, accepting the reward. He leaned into the warmth, telling himself that this was the reality, and the cold, dead thing in the water was the nightmare.

Beyond the golden sky, the world did not shift. But somewhere far away, in a room filled with the smell of antiseptic, a heart monitor let out a long, singular whine before falling silent.

In the park, the sun never quite finished setting.

Yet the next day still managed to sneak up on Tim. The Young Justice clubhouse, or at least, the version of it Tim was currently standing in, was a masterpiece of architectural impossibility. It was cavernous, filled with beanbag chairs that never lost their fluff and a kitchen stocked with every snack known to man.

One moment he had been on the bridge, the taste of Kon on his lips, and the next, he was walking through these doors. He didn't question the jump in time or geography. It felt seamless, like the turning of a page.

"Tim! Heads up!"

Tim turned just in time to catch a flying plushie of a stuffed shark. Bart was a blur of yellow and red, vibrating with so much energy he was practically humming. "Movie night! Movie night! Movie night! I’ve already pre-ordered every flavour of popcorn. Even the weird spicy ones that Cassie likes!"

Cassie walked in, looking radiant in a casual denim jacket, her Lasso of Persuasion coiled neatly at her hip, not because she needed it, but because it looked cool. "He’s not joking. There are twelve buckets in the theatre room. Also, Kon is looking for you in the kitchen. He said something about 'culinary destiny.'"

Tim grinned, the weight of Gotham feeling a million miles away. "Culinary destiny? That sounds dangerous."

"It involves a waffle iron and an alarming amount of chocolate chips," Cassie laughed, shoving him toward the kitchen.

As Tim walked, he felt that strange sensation again. The hallway felt just a little too long, the carpet just a little too soft. He looked down at his feet. He wasn't wearing his heavy tactical boots; he was wearing soft wool socks. When did I change? he wondered. He couldn't remember putting them on.

But then, the smell of vanilla and toasted batter hit him, and the thought was gone.

In the kitchen, Kon was hovering. Literally. He was floating three feet off the ground, a spatula in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other. He looked like a domestic god of chaos.

"You're late for the revolution, Drake," Kon said, his eyes crinkling in that way that made Tim’s stomach do a backflip.

"I didn't realize the revolution was being catered," Tim replied, leaning against the counter. He watched Kon work. There was something so peaceful about it. No world-ending threats, no Lex Luthor clones, just… breakfast for dinner.

"Only the best for the best leader we ever had," Kon said softly. He touched down on the floor, sliding a plate toward Tim. It was a mountain of waffles, topped with strawberries, chocolate, and a perfect swirl of cream.

Tim picked up a fork, but paused. "Kon? Do you ever feel like… like things are too good? Like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

Kon stepped around the counter. He reached out, his hands resting gently on Tim’s waist. The warmth was immediate, grounding. "Timmy, look at me. The shoes are all dropped. We won. Everyone’s safe. Why can’t it just be nice?"

"I don't know," Tim whispered. "I guess I'm just waiting for the alarm to go off."

"No alarms today," Kon promised, leaning his forehead against Tim's. "Just waffles. And movies. And me. And them too I guess." He huffed.

Tim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He took a bite of the waffle. It was the best thing he had ever tasted, sweet, warm, and comforting.

Later, they were all piled into the theatre room. It was a sea of blankets and pillows. Bart was upside down on a beanbag, Cassie was leaning against the wall, and Tim was tucked firmly under Kon’s arm.

The movie was an old black-and-white comedy. Tim found himself laughing along with the others, his head resting on Kon’s chest. He could hear Kon’s heartbeat, a steady, rhythmic thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Tim frowned. The rhythm changed. For a second, it didn't sound like a heart. It sounded like a mechanical pulse. Beep. Beep. Beep.

He pulled back, looking at Kon’s chest. "Kon?"

"Yeah, Tim?" Kon looked down, his expression pure and loving.

"Your heart… it sounds… weird."

Kon laughed, a light, airy sound. "That’s just because I’m crazy about you, Rob. It’s doing a happy dance."

Bart chimed in from the floor, "Yeah, Tim! Even I can hear it! It’s the sound of true love! Or maybe the third bucket of buttery popcorn. Hard to tell!"

The room erupted in giggles. Tim felt silly for even mentioning it. He settled back against Kon, closing his eyes. The sound returned to a normal heartbeat. The movie played on, a flickering light in the dark room.

He didn't notice that the movie was looping the same three minutes over and over again. He didn't notice that the shadows on the wall weren't moving with the light. He just felt Kon’s arm tighten around him, pulling him closer into the warmth.

"Go to sleep, Tim," Kon whispered into his hair. "I’ve got you. You don't have to wake up yet."

"I'm not tired," Tim murmured, already drifting off.

"Good," Kon’s voice seemed to echo from everywhere at once. "Then let's just stay here forever."

-

Kon had a "thing." That’s what he called it when he floated into Tim’s bedroom at the Manor, through a window that Tim realized later he’d forgotten to unlock, and told him to dress for ‘aesthetic comfort.’

"We’re going to Metropolis," Kon announced, looking far too handsome in a soft charcoal sweater. "But not the 'giant robots attacking' part of Metropolis. The 'I want to show you my favourite spot' part."

Tim laughed, pulling on a oversized hoodie. "There are no quiet spots in Metropolis, Kon. It’s the City of Tomorrow. Tomorrow is loud."

"Just trust me."

Kon didn't fly him there at mach speed. Instead, they drifted. It was a slow, lazy glide through the night air. The wind didn't bite; it felt like a silk scarf against Tim's face. As they approached the gleaming skyline of the city, Tim noticed something impossible.

Metropolis was glowing, but the sky above it was crystal clear. In a city with that much light pollution, the stars should have been invisible. Instead, the Milky Way was a vibrant, violet-and-silver smear across the heavens.

"How?" Tim breathed as Kon touched down on the roof of a building that seemed taller than the Daily Planet.

"I pulled some favours with the universe," Kon joked, though his eyes stayed on Tim.

The rooftop was set up with a velvet blanket and a telescope that looked suspiciously like a high-end WayneTech model. There was a small cooler with sodas and, because Kon knew him too well, a thermos of high-grade coffee.

"It’s beautiful," Tim said, stepping to the edge. He looked down. The streets below were bustling, but the sound didn't reach them. It was silent. "I’ve never seen the stars like this over a city."

"I wanted you to have the best view," Kon said, stepping up behind him. He didn't touch him, but Tim could feel the heat radiating off his body. "No scanners, no monitors, no signals in the sky. Just... this."

They spent hours talking. Not about missions or the Joker or the end of the world, but about nothing. About the book Tim was reading, about the weird dream Kon had about a sentient pizza, about how much they liked each other’s company.

At one point, Tim leaned into the telescope. He peered through the lens, expecting to see Saturn or a nebula.

Instead, he saw a blur of white. A flickering, fluorescent tube. A hand, his own hand, pale and thin, resting on a sterile sheet.

Tim jerked back, nearly knocking the telescope over.

"Tim? What is it?" Kon was there instantly, steadying him.

"I... I think the lens is smudge," Tim said, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "I saw something... white. Like a hospital."

Kon laughed, but his eyes didn't move. They stayed perfectly still, reflecting the impossible stars. "You’ve been working too hard, Rob. Even your imagination is trying to put you back in a lab. Look again. It’s just the moon."

Tim looked. It was the moon. It was massive, cratered, and glowing with a soft, pearly light.

"See?" Kon whispered, sliding an arm around Tim's shoulders. "Nothing but the moon and me."

Tim let himself be pulled into the embrace. He felt a weird, fuzzy sensation in his head, like a radio station losing its signal, but then Kon kissed his temple, and the static cleared.

If the picnic and star-gazing were anything to go by in terms of Kon being Tim’s, then Sunday dinner at Wayne Manor was the event that set it in stone.

Tim and Kon walked into the dining room hand-in-hand. Usually, a Wayne family dinner involved Damian throwing a butter knife, Jason complaining about the "rich people food," and Bruce looking like he was mentally calculating the cost of property damage (he probably had a separate accounts per child for damages).

Instead, the scene was... peaceful.

Alfred was parading out a roast that smelled like every childhood memory Tim had ever enjoyed. Dick was actually helping set the table. Jason was sitting next to Duke, laughing at a joke, and most shockingly, Damian was sitting quietly, petting a cat that wasn't even his.

"Ah, the lovebirds have arrived," Jason smirked, but there was no bite in it. He actually looked happy for them. "Sit down. Alfred made the potatoes you like, Tim. The ones with the extra garlic."

"Thanks, Jay," Tim said, feeling a warmth spread through his chest.

The dinner was a blur of laughter and supportive vibes. Bruce actually spoke about his pride in Tim’s recent work at Wayne Enterprises. Barbara and Stephanie were whispering and giggling at the other end of the table, throwing knowing looks at Tim and Kon.

"I’m really glad you’re here, Kon," Bruce said, raising a glass of sparkling cider. "You’re good for him."

Kon beamed, his hand squeezing Tim’s under the table. "I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Wayne."

It was perfect. It was too perfect.

Tim looked down at his plate. He picked up a piece of the roast. He realised, with a sudden jolt of terror, that he couldn't feel the weight of the fork. He looked at his hand. It was there, holding the silver, but the sensation of touch was missing.

He looked around the table.

Everyone was frozen. Just for a micro-second. Dick’s laugh was caught in his throat. Bruce’s glass was suspended in mid-air. The steam from the roast hung motionless in the air like a photograph.

"Tim?"

The world snapped back into motion. Dick laughed. Bruce drank. The steam drifted.

Kon was looking at him, his expression a mix of love and something that looked almost like... pleading. "You're not eating, Tim. Don't you like it?"

"I... I lost my appetite," Tim said, his voice trembling. "Did the room just... stop?"

"Stop?" Stephanie asked, leaning forward. "Like, a time-stop? Was it a villain? Should we get our gear?"

"No," Tim said, rubbing his eyes. "No, I just... I think I need to lie down."

"I'll take him," Kon said quickly, standing up. "He’s just overwhelmed. It’s been a big day."

As Kon led Tim out of the room, Alfred stepped forward. "Be well, Master Timothy," the butler spoke.

Tim turned back to look at him. Alfred’s eyes were filled with a profound, crushing sadness that didn't match his smiling face.

"I'm fine, Alfred," Tim said, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

Upstairs, in the safety of Tim’s room, Kon tucked him into bed. The sheets were the perfect temperature. The room was the perfect dimness. Kon sat on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through Tim’s hair.

"Just sleep, Tim," Kon murmured. "Everything is okay. We're all here. We're all safe. Just stay here with me."

Tim closed his eyes. The last thing he heard wasn't Kon's voice. It was a distant, rhythmic, Hiss-Click. Hiss-click. The sound of a machine breathing for someone who couldn't.

But then Kon hummed a soft tune, and the sound drowned in the honey-thick sweetness of the dream.

The Manor was transformed. It wasn't just a party; it was a gala of impossibilities. Strings of fairy lights hung from the high ceilings, glowing with a soft, warm amber that made the ballroom look like a scene from a fairy tale.

"Surprise!"

The shout was a deafening, joyful chorus. Tim stood at the top of the grand staircase, his hand instinctively finding Kon’s. Below him stood everyone. Not just the core family, but the Extended Network. There was Zatanna showing tricks to a laughing Billy Batson. Oliver Queen was arguing with Dinah over the punch bowl.

But as Tim descended the stairs, his foot faltered on the last step. His heart didn't just skip a beat; it hammered against his ribs in a sudden, violent rhythm of confusion.

Near the piano, chatting comfortably with Bruce, stood Jack and Janet Drake.

They looked exactly as they did in the old press photos, vibrant, laughing, healthy. But there was something else, something Tim hadn't seen in years, maybe ever. They looked relaxed.

Tim froze, his hand gripping the banister white-knuckled. This made no sense. The animosity between the Waynes and the Drakes was a quiet, jagged thing (which was heavily sugar-coating it). Yet there was Bruce, listening intently to Jack, a genuine smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Mom? Dad?" Tim whispered, the words scraping his throat.

Jack turned, spotting him. The expression on his face wasn't the usual distracted annoyance or the 'we-have-a-flight-to-catch' impatience. It was pure, unadulterated delight.

"There’s the man of the hour!" Jack beamed, stepping forward with open arms. "Bruce was just telling me about that dispersal unit you re-engineered for the Wayne Enterprises R&D division. Though I told him, if he wants to see real talent, he should see your darkroom work."

Tim blinked, the air leaving his lungs. "My... what?"

"Your photography, son," Jack said, clapping a warm hand on Tim's shoulder. The weight of it felt solid. Real. "I found that portfolio you hid in the study. The black and white series of Gotham architecture? The shot of the gargoyle in the rain?" Jack shook his head in wonder. "I never realized you saw the world like that, Tim. It’s beautiful. I’m sorry I never looked before."

Tim felt a stinging heat behind his eyes. The logical part of his brain, the detective part that knew Bruce and Jack would never share a drink, hell Bruce would slam the glass in his face with the pretence of being tipsy, tried to scream that this was wrong. But the desperate, lonely part of him that had waited seventeen years for his father to compliment his art... that part silenced the logic.

"You... you liked it?" Tim’s voice cracked.

"We loved it," Janet said softly. She appeared at his other side, not stiff or distant, but radiating a warmth that felt like sunlight. She reached out and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear Tim hadn't realized had fallen. "We're so proud of you, Timothy. Not for the grades, or the company. Just for you."

Tim looked at Kon, searching for a warning, but Kon was just smiling, giving him a thumbs up. It’s okay, the smile said. You earned this. You finally earned this.

The detective in his head died. The boy took over.

"Mom," Tim choked out, and then he was falling into her arms.

Janet caught him. She held him tighter than she ever had in life. It wasn't the stiff, side-hug of a gala photo op. It was an embrace that enveloped him completely. Tim buried his face in the crook of her neck, smelling her expensive perfume and the faint scent of rain. He sobbed, letting go of years of neglect, finally feeling safe. Finally feeling home.

"Shh," Janet soothed, her hand stroking the back of his head. "It’s okay, darling. We’re here. We aren't going anywhere."

Tim clung to her, his fingers bunching in the fabric of her silk dress. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"I know," she whispered. Her voice was right against his ear, intimate and loving. "You’ve been working so hard. You’re so tired, Timothy."

"I am," Tim wept into her shoulder. "I'm so tired."

"Then you need to rest," she murmured. She pulled him tighter. The embrace began to feel heavy. Constricting. "You need to breathe, darling. Just breathe."

"I..." Tim tried to inhale, but her arms were like iron bands around his ribs.

"Breathe," she commanded gently.

Hiss.

Tim frowned into her shoulder. The sound hadn't come from her mouth. It came from everywhere.

"Just. Breathe."

Click. Hiss.

"Mom?" Tim tried to pull back, but she was holding him fast. The rhythm of her petting hand changed. It wasn't soothing anymore. It was mechanical. Up. Down. Up. Down. Perfect, unnatural time.

"Breath in," she whispered, her voice losing its inflection.

Hiss.

"Breathe out."

Click.

The scent of her perfume curdled, turning sharp and antiseptic. The silk of her dress felt cold and plastic under his fingers.

"Mom, let go," Tim gasped, panic spiking. "I can't—"

"You. Need. To. Breathe." Her voice wasn't Janet’s anymore. It was a flat, synthesized drone.

Hiss. Click. Hiss.

Tim shoved her away, stumbling back.

Janet didn't stumble. She didn't look hurt. She stood perfectly still, her smile frozen in a rictus of maternal affection. But her eyes... her eyes weren't looking at him. They were looking through him, fixed on a point in the middle distance.

"Tim?" Kon asked. But his voice sounded tinny, like it was coming through a cheap speaker. "What’s wrong? Check your O2 stats."

"What?" Tim spun around. "Kon, what did you say?"

Jack Drake stepped forward. He didn't have a drink anymore. He was holding a clipboard. "Bp is dropping," Jack said, his voice cheerful and conversational. "Seventy over forty. We’re losing the pressure."

"Dad?" Tim backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs, but the thumping in his chest didn't match the rhythm of the room. The room was pulsing. “B?”

Hiss. (The lights flared white) Click. (The room plunged into shadow) Hiss. (White)

"Stabilize the head," Bruce said from the piano. He wasn't looking at Tim. He was looking down at his own hands, which were covered in blue latex gloves. "He’s seizing."

"No," Tim whimpered, clamping his hands over his ears. "Stop it! Stop talking like that!"

"We’re so proud of you," Janet’s voice droned, looping over the mechanical noise. "We’re so proud. Time of death. We’re so proud. Check the airway. Just breathe, darling."

The beautiful amber light of the ballroom bleached out, dissolving into a blinding, harsh fluorescent glare. The smell of roast duck and expensive wine vanished, replaced instantly by the stinging scent of bleach and copper blood.

Tim screamed, shutting his eyes tight, but the sound didn't stop. It was inside him.

Hiss. Click.

"Come back," a voice sobbed, not a dream voice. A real voice. Broken and ugly and terrified. "Please, God, Tim. Come back."

The floor beneath Tim’s feet dissolved into water. He fell, not into a void, but into the suffocating rhythm of the machine that was breathing for him. The darkness rushed up to meet him, drowning out the pleading voice. The mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator grew louder, filling his ears, filling his lungs, until the rhythm slowed, smoothed, and finally softened into the gentle sound of curtains fluttering in a breeze.

…back…okay now…long…okay…

Tim inhaled deeply, a long, satisfying intake of air that felt like it wiped the slate clean.

He sat up, stretching his limbs. He felt amazing, rested, energized, and strangely light. The nightmare, if there had been one, was gone, washed away completely, leaving behind nothing but the lingering feeling that he’d had a very long, very productive night of sleep.

The window creaked open.

"Morning, sunshine," Kon said, floating in with a grin that could outshine the sun. He was holding a single yellow rose. "Ready for our date?"

Tim smiled, his heart doing a happy little somersault. "A date? This early?"

"Best time for a picnic at the Reservoir," Kon said, dropping onto the edge of the bed and kissing Tim’s forehead. "I’ve already got the basket. Alfred packed those little crustless sandwiches you like."

"You're the best," Tim murmured, leaning into the touch. Everything felt so right. So perfect.

They spent the morning by the water, the sun glinting off the surface in a way that looked like scattered diamonds. They talked about the future, about Tim taking a sabbatical from Wayne Ent, about maybe traveling the world together.

"I just want to be wherever you are," Tim said, resting his head on Kon’s shoulder.

"Good," Kon replied, squeezing his hand. "Because that’s exactly where you’re staying."

By the time night fell, it was time for work. But even ‘work’ felt like a breeze.

Tim, in his Red Robin gear, vaulted over a Gotham rooftop, the cape billowing behind him. Beside him, Kon soared, keeping pace with an easy grace.

"Standard patrol?" Kon asked.

"Standard patrol," Tim confirmed.

They spent the next few hours breaking up a low-level mugging near Crime Alley and stopping a joyrider in a stolen car. It was easy. The criminals were slow, the gadgets worked perfectly, and the Gotham police actually arrived on time with a thumbs-up and a "Thanks, Red Robin!"

They ended the night perched on the head of a gargoyle overlooking the Narrows.

"You know," Tim said, looking out at the city. The fog was rolling in, but it wasn't the thick, choking smog of the Gotham he remembered. It was soft, like dry ice at a concert. "Sometimes I feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world."

"You are," Kon said, landing softly on the stone beside him. He reached out, unmasking Tim with gentle fingers. "And so am I."

They sat in the quiet of the night, watching the lights of the city.

Tim noticed a small red light on his wrist, his comms unit. It was blinking. He tapped it.

...im... wake... please…

The voice was faint. It sounded like Dick, but older, exhausted, and broken.

Tim frowned, tapping the device again. "Dick? You're breaking up. Is there an emergency?"

"What is it?" Kon asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I thought I heard Dick on the comms," Tim said. He listened again.

Silence.

"Must have been some atmospheric interference," Tim laughed, shaking his head. "For a second, it sounded like he was crying. Weird, right?"

"Super weird," Kon agreed, pulling Tim into a side-hug. "Dick’s fine. He’s at the Manor waiting for us with cocoa. Let’s head back."

"Yeah," Tim said, looking at the blinking red light one last time before switching it off. "Let’s go home."

As they flew toward the Manor, the moon stayed perfectly full, perfectly silver, and perfectly still in the sky.

Tim blinked. When was the last time the Gotham saw the sky?

The cold wind of the upper atmosphere was gone. The smell of ozone and jet fuel vanished, replaced by the scent of cardboard and dust. 

All Tim had done was close his eyes for a second. I must have been more tired then I thought.

"You know," Kon’s voice came from the hallway, strained with effort, "for a guy who digitizes everything, you have an insane amount of physical books."

Tim looked down. He wasn't in his suit. Not still in this sky. He was wearing worn-out gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He was standing in the middle of a sun-drenched living room in Metropolis, holding a tape gun.

"Those are reference materials," Tim called back, slicing open a box marked KITCHEN. "And be careful with the crate marked 'Fragile.' It’s Alfred’s china."

"I’m holding it with my T.K., Tim, it’s literally floating," Kon said, drifting into the room. He set the crate down with feather-light precision. "Okay. That’s the last of it. We are officially moved in."

Tim looked around the apartment. It was messy, chaotic, and completely theirs. "It feels... real."

"It is real," Kon grinned, wiping a smudge of dust from Tim’s cheek. "Come on. Let’s go buy a couch. I refuse to sit on lawn chairs for a week."

The months didn't blur; they settled into a rhythm, heavy and sweet like honey. 

It wasn't the frenetic, adrenaline-spiked pacing of a life lived between rooftops and debriefings. It was slower. Deliberate. A life measured in shared coffees and the warmth of the other side of the bed.

Three months in, the concept of "home" had shifted from a tactical base of operations to a physical space that required furnishing. They were standing in the middle of a high-end furniture store in downtown Metropolis, a showroom so vast and brightly lit it felt like a simulation of heaven.

"It’s not practical, Kon," Tim hissed, gesturing to the cloud-white sectional that dominated the center of the display.

Tim was vibrating with a specific kind of Bat-paranoia, his eyes darting to the exits and then back to the offensive piece of furniture. "It’s white. Do you know who we are? We bleed. We come home covered in soot, chemical residue, and whatever sludge rises out of the Gotham sewers. We drink copious amounts of dark coffee that will spill."

"But it’s comfy," Kon insisted, ignoring the logic completely. He flopped onto it, his limbs sprawling with a loose, cat-like grace that Tim envied. He patted the cushion beside him. "And it’s stain-resistant. I checked the specs. Besides, I can scrub out any stain at super-speed. I’m basically a living washing machine."

"That is demeaning to your power set," Tim grumbled, crossing his arms. "And stain-resistant doesn't mean Tim-resistant. I once stained a titanium desk with a Sharpie."

"You were sleep-deprived and trying to redraw the schematic for the Batmobile," Kon countered, grinning. He reached out, grabbing Tim’s wrist. "Just sit. Test the structural integrity."

Tim sighed, the fight draining out of him as Kon pulled. He tumbled down, landing awkwardly against Kon’s side. Kon immediately wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him deep into the plush cushions.

It was... disgusting. Disgustingly comfortable. It felt like sinking into a cloud that had been engineered specifically to support his exhausted spine.

"See?" Kon murmured, his chin resting on top of Tim's head. "Tell me you want to go back to sitting on those folding metal chairs we have."

Tim closed his eyes. For a second, a strange sound buzzed in his ear, a high-pitched whine, like a hearing aid feedback loop. Reeeeeee.

He shook his head, and the sound vanished, replaced by the ambient pop music of the store.

"Fine," Tim whispered, surrendering to the comfort. "But if you get Kryptonian blood on this, you're buying the next one."

"Deal," Kon squeezed him. "I plan on being invulnerable for the foreseeable future."

The moving-in process was a montage of impossible feats. Kon floated the couch up four stories because the elevator was "too slow." Tim organized the bookshelf by the Dewey Decimal System, only for Kon to rearrange it by "color vibes" while Tim was in the shower.

They compromised. Fiction by author, non-fiction by color. It made Tim twitch, but every time he went to fix it, Kon would appear with a mug of tea and a distractingly bright smile, and the books would stay wrong.

Six months in, the argument wasn't about saving the world or the color of upholstery; it was about the sink.

The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic clicking of Tim’s mechanical keyboard. Outside, the Metropolis rain was falling, but it didn't sound like rain. It sounded rhythmic. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Like a heavy machine piston.

"Tim."

"I'm working," Tim mumbled, not looking up. His eyes were glued to the code scrolling down his screen. He was rewriting the encryption key for the Titans' comms, but the numbers kept looking strange. Every time he blinked, the binary code seemed to shift into vitals. 120/80. 98%. 120/80.

He shook his head, and the code corrected itself. 0100110. Just a glitch in the display.

"Tim, look at the sink."

Tim glanced up, blinking the dryness from his eyes. Kon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over a t-shirt that was tight enough to be a safety hazard. He gestured with his chin toward the basin.

A tower of coffee mugs, precariously stacked in a defiance of physics that rivaled the leaning tower of Pisa, teetered in the basin. There were mugs from Wayne Enterprises, a generic 'I Heart Metropolis' mug, and three different sizes of travel thermoses.

"I'll get to it," Tim said, his fingers hovering over the keys. "I'm just finishing this algorithm for the Titans' comms. If I don't patch the frequency variance, the interference from the new lex-towers will—"

Kon leaned over the counter, his movement a blur of speed, and plucked the laptop out of Tim's hands.

"Hey!" Tim protested, reaching for it.

"The algorithm can wait. The sentient mold growing in your 'Number 1 Detective' mug cannot," Kon said, holding the laptop out of reach. He wasn't angry; his eyes were dancing with amusement. "It’s your turn. We made a deal. I cook, you clean. I made the lasagna. You conquer the porcelain mountain."

Tim groaned, rubbing his face. The fatigue hit him then, sudden and overwhelming. It wasn't just sleepiness; it was a bone-deep heaviness, like gravity had suddenly turned up to eleven.

"I'm tired, Kon," Tim admitted, his voice sounding smaller than he intended.

"I know," Kon’s voice softened instantly. He set the laptop down on the far counter and walked around the island.

He didn't nag. He stepped into Tim’s space, his hands warm and solid on Tim’s shoulders. The heat radiating from him was grounding, chasing away the sudden chill that had crept into the room.

"You push too hard," Kon murmured, pressing a kiss to Tim’s temple. "You think if you stop, everything falls apart. But it won't. I'm holding it up."

Tim leaned into him, closing his eyes. "You're holding up the dishes?"

"I'm holding up the world, Tim. The dishes are just part of the package." Kon turned him gently toward the sink. "Wash the mugs. Then we watch that terrible reality show about the cake decorators that you pretend to hate. Deal?"

Tim looked at the sink. The water in the basin was still, reflecting the kitchen light. For a split second, the reflection wasn't a stack of mugs. It was a face. Pale. Tubes taped to the mouth. Eyes closed.

Tim blinked hard. The reflection rippled back into ceramic mugs.

"...Deal," Tim said, grabbing the sponge. "But I’m not admitting I like the cake show."

"Your search history says otherwise," Kon called out, already retreating to the white couch.

Nine months in, sunlight hit Tim’s face, hot and insistent.

He groaned, rolling over, reaching for a body that wasn't there. The sheets were cool on the left side. Panic flared in his chest, a sharp, jagged spike of adrenaline. Where is he? Is he safe? Before his nose registered the air.

The smell hit him next. Butter. Sugar. Vanillin. A scent so thick and comforting it felt like a weighted blanket.

Tim stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, squinting against the Sunday morning light. The apartment was bathed in gold. Dust motes danced in the air, suspended in perfect stillness.

Kon was at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama bottoms and... an apron that said Kiss the Cook.

He was dancing slightly to music that wasn't playing, flipping a spatula with unnecessary flair.

"You're ridiculous," Tim rasped, his voice rough with sleep, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm amazing," Kon corrected, catching the flip of a pancake perfectly. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling in the sunlight. They were so blue it hurt to look at them, brighter than the sky, brighter than reality. "Blueberry for you. Chocolate chip for me."

He plated the stack and slid it onto the counter as Tim sat down.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Tim murmured, staring at the food. It looked like a magazine cover. The syrup glistened. The steam rose in perfect spirals. "We could just get takeout. You worked late with the League."

Kon stopped moving. The playful energy vanished, replaced by a stillness that felt profound. He leaned across the counter, resting his chin in his hand, looking at Tim with an intensity that made Tim’s breath hitch.

"I know I don't have to," Kon said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating in Tim’s chest. "I want to. I’m going to make you pancakes every Sunday, Tim. That’s the promise. Whether we’re here, or at the Tower, or on Mars. Sundays are for pancakes. Forever."

"Forever is a long time, Kon," Tim whispered. The word felt heavy on his tongue. Forever.

"Not long enough," Kon smiled. It was a sad smile, though Tim couldn't understand why. "We have to make up for lost time."

Tim took a bite. It tasted perfect. The blueberries burst on his tongue, sweet and tart. It tasted like a future he had never let himself believe he could have. It tasted like safety.

"Tim?"

Tim blinked.

The taste of blueberries vanished, replaced instantly by the stale, recycled air of a space station.

He was standing in the Justice League Watchtower observation deck. The Metropolis apartment was gone. The sunlight was gone. The smell of pancakes was gone.

"You okay?" Kon asked, looking at him with concern.

Tim stumbled slightly, grabbing the railing. He looked down at himself. He was in his Red Robin uniform. Kon was wearing his Superboy suit, the solar crest bold on his chest. He looked younger, the subtle lines around his eyes from the apartment gone. 

"Yeah," Tim shook his head, the transition jarring him for only a split second before the logic of the dream smoothed it over like a trowel over wet cement.

Right. Patrol is over. We aren't at the apartment right now. That was... that was memory? Or a plan?

His brain scrambled to fill the gap. We were just talking about the apartment. We were planning the move. That's why it felt so real.

"Just... spaced out," Tim said, rubbing his temple where a dull throb was beginning to pulse. "Long patrol."

"Well, you did good work," Kon said, sliding an arm around him. The tactile telekinesis hummed against Tim’s armor, a familiar comfort. "Why don't we head to quarters? It’s a quiet night. We actually have the weekend off."

"The whole weekend?" Tim asked, the déjà vu prickling at the back of his neck like a static charge. He felt like he had asked this before. He felt like he had lived this weekend a thousand times.

"The whole weekend," Kon confirmed, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like cherry chapstick instead of syrup.

"Happy anniversary, by the way."

"Anniversary?" Tim pulled back slightly.

"One year since we made it official. Since the bridge."

Tim’s brow furrowed. One year.

The memories rushed in to fill the void. He remembered the bridge. He remembered the apartment hunting. He remembered the white couch and the argument about the mugs and the way Kon snored when he was really tired. It all felt solid. It felt earned. It had texture and weight.

"Wow," Tim breathed, the anxiety fading as he looked into Kon's eyes. "A whole year."

To celebrate, they threw a gala at the Manor that dwarfed every party Tim had ever seen.

The ballroom was a sea of gold and white. The usual stiffness of Gotham’s elite was gone, replaced by genuine joy.

"To Tim and Conner!" Dick shouted from the stage, hoisting a champagne glass. He looked spectacular, his smile blinding. Beside him, Barbara was glowing, standing rather than sitting, leaning against his arm.

The cheers were deafening.

Tim navigated the crowd, hand-in-hand with Kon.

Jason clapped Tim on the back, laughing with Steph. He was wearing a tuxedo that actually fit, and the white streak in his hair was gone. He looked soft, his eyes crinkling without the usual weight of trauma or the green tint of the Pit.

"Look at you, Replacement," Jason teased, but his voice was gentle. "You actually look happy. It’s a good look."

Tim felt a momentary pang. Wait, isn't Jason usually... angrier? Doesn't he usually make a joke about me dying?

No, the dream whispered. Not here. Here, everyone is healed.

"Thanks, Jay," Tim said, the doubt slipping away like water off oil.

Then the music swelled, a beautiful, sweeping orchestral piece that seemed to vibrate in Tim’s very bones. It was a waltz, but it sounded like a lullaby.

"May I?" Kon asked, bowing dramatically.

Tim laughed, bowing back. "You may."

Tim was swept into the dance. They spun through the room, and Tim felt like he was literally floating. He looked down. His feet were hovering three inches off the parquet floor. Kon was flying them, just slightly, making the turns effortless.

The room blurred into streaks of gold and light. The faces of his family; Bruce, Dick, Alfred, his parents, blurred into a ring of smiling spectators.

"I love you, Tim," Kon said, pulling him close. His eyes were glowing with an impossible blue light, not heat vision, but something softer. Something like a beacon.

"I love you too," Tim whispered.

And he meant it. It was the easiest thing in the world to say. It felt like the only truth that mattered.

The music reached a crescendo. The spinning got faster.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The beat of the music synced with the beat of Tim's heart.

Hiss. Click.

Tim frowned against Kon’s shoulder. There was that sound again. The mechanical snake in the garden.

"Don't listen to it," Kon whispered, his lips brushing Tim's ear. "Just listen to me."

"I am," Tim promised, closing his eyes tight. "I'm listening."

The waltz ended in a flurry of applause that sounded like heavy rain, or perhaps, like static on an empty channel.

Kon was immediately swept away by Clark and Jon for "Kryptonian family business," leaving Tim breathless and flushed, drifting toward the periphery of the room.

He found himself at the dessert buffet, a sprawling landscape of spun sugar and chocolate. He wasn't hungry, he hadn't been hungry in what felt like months, but he stared at a tray of lemon tarts, mesmerized by how identical they were. Every dollop of meringue was the exact same height. Every slice of lemon was at the exact same angle.

"You should try the tart, Brother. It is quite acceptable."

Tim turned, his shoulders tensing instinctively, expecting a sneer or a challenge for his heirship.

Instead, he found Damian.

The youngest Wayne was standing there, but he wasn't slouching, nor was he resting a hand on a hidden dagger. His posture was unnervingly perfect. He held a small china plate with both hands, like a choirboy.

"Damian?" Tim asked cautiously.

"I wanted to congratulate you, Timothy," Damian said. His voice was smooth, too smooth. It lacked the guttural, arrogant edge that usually grated on Tim’s nerves. He stepped forward and, to Tim's utter shock, placed a gentle hand on Tim’s arm. "I know I have been... difficult in the past."

Tim stared at the hand on his arm. Damian’s fingers were manicured. There were no calluses from gripping a katana. No ink stains from his art. Just soft, unblemished skin.

"But I have realized that you are a vital part of this family," Damian continued, his eyes locking onto Tim’s. "I am glad you found happiness with the Kryptonian. You deserve peace."

Tim froze. The air in his lungs turned to ice.

This is wrong, a tiny, quiet voice whispered in the deepest, locked basement of his mind. Damian calls me 'Drake.' Damian wants to prove he's better than me. Damian would never say 'vital part of this family.'

He looked up at Damian’s eyes. They were bright, green, and kind. But they were empty. There was no spark of intelligence, no hidden calculation. It was like looking at a high-resolution photograph of his brother, or a perfectly crafted doll.

"You're acting... different," Tim said, his voice trembling. He took a half-step back. "Are you feeling okay? Did J’onn do a psychic sweep on you?"

Damian didn't blink. He let out a soft, melodious laugh that sounded like a pre-recorded audio track. "I am simply maturing, Timothy. Is it so hard to believe that I have grown? That I love my brother?"

Tim stared at him. The word WRONG flashed like a neon sign in his brain, hot and violent. The edges are too smooth. The dialogue is scripted. Why isn't he blinking? Why is the music skipping?

"You're not Damian," Tim whispered, the horrific realization clawing at his throat. "What is—"

CRACK.

A sharp, searing pain spiked through Tim’s head, white-hot and blinding. He gasped, dropping his plate. It shattered, but the sound was muffled, distant. He clutched his temples, doubling over.

Stay, the world seemed to whisper. It wasn't one voice, but a thousand, overlapping into a soothing hum. It’s better when he’s kind. Don't you want a brother who loves you? Don't you want the pancakes on Sunday? Don't you want to be happy?

I... Tim’s thought fractured. The logic of the dream poured over the cracks in his mind like warm wax, sealing the doubt, burying the detective.

The pain vanished as quickly as it had come.

Tim blinked, straightening up. He looked at Damian again. The suspicion was gone, replaced by a warm, fuzzy pride. Of course he’s maturing, Tim thought, smiling. He’s a Wayne. He’s growing up. I’ve been so hard on him, I never gave him the chance to show how much he’s changed.

"Thanks, Damian," Tim said, his smile returning, wider, glassier, and more vacant than before. "I’m glad we’re finally on the same page. I love you too, kid."

Damian nodded, his smile widening to match Tim's exactly. "Good. Now, go back to your alien. He is waiting."

Tim turned and saw Kon standing by the French doors, the moonlight framing him like a halo. Tim ran to him, forgetting the pain, forgetting the shattered plate, forgetting the strange rhythm of the hiss-click that was now almost entirely silent.

He was home.

He was loved.

And he never, ever wanted to leave.

The air on the balcony was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the kind of quiet that only exists in the final pages of a storybook.

"You're thinking again," Kon said. He didn't fly up this time; he simply appeared, leaning against the stone railing. He looked breathtaking in the moonlight, solid, warm, and entirely his.

"Just thinking about how far we’ve come," Tim said, the script flowing naturally from his lips. "About the apartment. The couch. That first fight about the dishes."

Kon smiled, that intimate, Sunday-morning smile that made Tim’s knees weak. He reached into his pocket.

"Tim," Kon whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve spent a year, more than a year, knowing that you're the only person I want to wake up next to. I want the arguments. I want the Sunday pancakes. I want a lifetime of you."

He opened the velvet box. Inside was a ring made of dark, brushed titanium with a tiny, glowing sliver of blue sunstone.

"Tim Drake, will you marry me?"

Tim’s heart soared. It was the moment he had dreamt of, the ultimate confirmation that he belonged here. The final lock snapping shut on the cage.

"Yes," he breathed, the word feeling like a prayer. "Yes, Kon. Absolutely."

As Kon slipped the ring onto his finger, the world seemed to hum. The stars grew brighter, artificial and perfect, freezing them in a moment of pure, golden contentment.

The scene dissolved into a flurry of joy. The wedding planning began immediately. The Manor was a whirlwind of silk swatches, cake tastings, and guest lists.

Tim strode into the solarium, the heels of his dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble. He was holding a stack of seating charts, laughing at a joke Dick had just told him in the hallway.

"So I told Bruce, if we put Clark next to—"

Tim stopped.

The laughter died in his throat. The solarium was there, the high glass ceilings, the sprawling ferns, the warmth of the afternoon sun, but the quality of the light was wrong. It wasn't the golden, hazy sunshine of the dream. It was cold, harsh, and fluorescent. It hummed, a low-frequency buzz that made Tim’s teeth ache. The orchids in the corner weren't blooming; they were wilted, drooping as if they hadn't seen water in weeks.

And sitting in the corner, in a simple armchair that looked far too small for him, was Bruce.

But this wasn't the Bruce ready for a wedding. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He wasn't even wearing the casual polo he wore on weekends. He was dressed in soft, wrinkled gray sweats that looked like he had slept in them for three days straight. He hadn’t shaved. He looked older, hollowed out, gray-faced, and exhausted in a way Tim hadn’t seen since Jason died.

"Bruce?" Tim asked, his voice echoing strangely in the quiet room. The air smelled sharp, like rubbing alcohol and old coffee, cutting through the scent of the flowers. "Are you okay? You look... terrible."

Bruce didn't react to the insult. He didn't even seem to see the seating charts in Tim's hands. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked up, and for a second, his eyes didn't focus on Tim's face. They looked through him, staring at something invisible, filled with a profound, aching sorrow.

"I don't know if you can hear me," Bruce rasped. His voice was wrecked, dry and cracking, as if he hadn't used it in hours. "I don't know if I'm doing this right."

Tim blinked, the seating chart crumpling slightly in his grip. Oh, he realized, his chest loosening. He’s practicing.

It made sense. Bruce was officiating the wedding. Bruce Wayne, the man who could stare down gods and monsters, was nervous about public speaking when it came to his son’s emotions. He was method acting, getting into the headspace of a solemn officiant.

"You're doing fine, Bruce," Tim said, stepping closer, though the air grew colder the nearer he got to the chair. "But you don't have to be so serious. It's a wedding, not a funeral. Do you like the venue?"

Bruce blinked slowly, a tear tracking through the stubble on his cheek. He didn't look at the Solarium walls. He looked directly at Tim’s chest, watching the rise and fall as if his life depended on it.

"I’m just... I'm so tired, Tim," Bruce whispered. He reached out, his hand trembling violently, and touched the air inches from Tim’s face. He didn't make contact. "They told me to go home. Alfred tried to make me leave. But I can't. I can't leave you here alone."

Tim smiled sympathetically, sitting in the chair opposite him. Classic Bruce. Overworking himself. Probably stayed up all night rewriting the ceremony script.

"I'm not alone, Bruce. I have Kon. I have everyone," Tim assured him gently. "And you don't have to stay here all night. The wedding isn't until tomorrow. Go get some sleep."

Bruce shook his head, a jerky, broken motion. He slumped back, staring at his hands. "I'm scared, son. I'm... I’m terrified that if I walk out that door, when I come back..." He choked on a sob, covering his mouth. "I just want you to wake up. Please. Just open your eyes."

Wake up? Tim frowned. Oh. He means 'wake up' metaphorically. Like, 'wake up and realize how happy you are.' It was a bit dramatic, even for Bruce, but weddings made people emotional.

"I am wide awake, Bruce," Tim said firmly, pushing the guest list toward him to distract him. "Look. We have the Titans, the League, my parents, you. It’s going to be the perfect day. You just need to focus on the script."

Bruce looked at the paper, but his eyes were vacant. "A perfect day," he echoed, his voice hollow. "I remember the day you came to the Manor. You were so small. So determined. You saved me, Tim. You saved me from the dark. And now..."

"And now I'm getting married," Tim finished for him, feeling a swell of affection. "And you're officiating. Because you're my dad."

Bruce closed his eyes, fresh tears leaking out. He leaned his forehead against the invisible barrier between them. "I love you, Tim. I need you to know that. Even if... even if you can't say it back right now. I'm right here. I'm holding your hand."

Tim looked down. Bruce’s hand was gripping the armrest of the chair, knuckles white. Tim reached out and placed his hand over Bruce’s.

It was freezing.

Tim recoiled slightly. Drafty room, he told himself. The insulation in the Solarium is always bad.

"Thanks, Bruce," Tim said softly. "I know you're there. Now, seriously, go shave. You can't officiate looking like a hobo."

Bruce didn't laugh. He just sat there, in the cold, harsh light, weeping silently while Tim excitedly pointed out where the string quartet would sit.

The wedding was not just a ceremony; it was a coronation of the life Tim had fought so hard to build. The Manor’s gardens had been transformed into a cathedral of white wisteria and floating candles that defied gravity, bobbing gently in the evening breeze.

Tim stood at the altar, his white tuxedo fitting him perfectly.

For a moment, he looked down at his shoes. He frowned. They seemed to be sinking, not into the grass, but into the ground, as if the world were made of thick, heavy syrup. His legs felt heavy, impossibly heavy, like lead weights had been strapped to his ankles. He tried to shift his weight, but his muscles felt sluggish and unresponsive.

Just nerves, he thought, adjusting his cufflinks. Panic attack symptoms. Heavy limbs. Classic.

Then, the music started.

It wasn't a traditional march. It was a soaring, orchestral crescendo. Kon didn't walk; he descended from the sky. He looked like a solar deity in his matching white suit, his red cape trailing behind him like a comet's tail.

When Kon landed, he took Tim’s hands. His grip was the only thing that felt solid in a world that was starting to feel increasingly translucent at the edges.

"We are gathered here," Bruce began.

Tim looked at him. Bruce stood between them, holding a book. But he wasn't looking at the couple. He was looking down, at a point near Tim's waist level, his face ravaged by grief.

"To say..." Bruce’s voice cracked. It sounded echoed, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a well, tinny and distorted. "To say the things we should have said years ago. To witness a fight that... that might be ending."

Tim squeezed Kon's hand. Bruce is going off script. He’s talking about the 'fight for love.' It’s a metaphor.

"Timothy," Bruce continued, his voice trembling. "You have always looked for the truth. You are the strongest detective I have ever known. But this..." Bruce took a shuddering breath. "I don't know how to fix this, Tim. I can't deduct my way out of this. The machines are doing everything they can."

Machines? Tim tilted his head. Right. The logistical machinery of the wedding planning. He's praising the staff.

"It's perfect, Bruce," Tim whispered. "Don't worry."

Bruce didn't seem to hear him. "I'm begging you," Bruce whispered to the air. "Don't go. Stay with me."

"I am staying," Tim said, turning to Kon. "I'm building a life right here."

Tim looked at Kon. "Kon... you're my North Star. No matter how dark it gets, or how much the world doesn't make sense, I look at you and I know exactly where I am."

"And I'll always be there to catch you, Tim," Kon replied. His eyes were shimmering, but for a split second, they flickered, turning into the flat, gray screen of a monitor. "I promise to stay with you. To keep this world exactly as you want it."

As they leaned in to kiss, a roar of applause erupted from the crowd.

But Tim paused.

The applause didn't sound like hands clapping. It wasn't the chaotic, wet sound of flesh on flesh. It was mechanical. Rhythmic.

Thud... thud... thud…

It was slow. Too slow.

Thud... thud... thud…

He ignored it. He pressed closer to Kon, desperate to drown out the sound, and the rhythmic beating faded into the warmth of their embrace.

They didn't go to a resort. They went to The Island, a place that was a perfect composite of everywhere Tim had ever wanted to go. It had the white sands of the Maldives, the jagged cliffs of the Amalfi Coast, and the lush, impossible forests of a fantasy novel.

"Is it always sunset here?" Tim asked, leaning against the railing of their private villa. The sun had been hovering just above the horizon, painting the sky in eternal purples and oranges, for what felt like days.

"If you want it to be," Kon said, wrapping his arms around Tim from behind. His skin was warm, perfect, poreless. "Why would we ever want the light to fade?"

"I guess we wouldn't," Tim murmured.

They spent their days in a blur. They swam in water that was exactly 78 degrees. They ate fruit that burst with flavor but never had seeds or peels. They talked for hours, but Tim could never quite remember what they talked about five minutes later.

And then, the glitches started again.

More noticeable.

Tim was walking along the pristine beach, the sand warm between his toes. He looked down and saw something white half-buried in the sand. He bent to pick it up.

It was a piece of medical tape, curled and stained with a drop of dried blood.

He blinked, and it turned into a seashell.

"Weird," he muttered, tossing the shell into the surf.

He looked out at the ocean. The waves were rolling in, gentle and rhythmic. Whoosh... whoosh... But as he stared, the horizon flickered. For a split second, the beautiful sunset vanished.

In its place, he saw a dark room. He saw a tangle of tubes. He saw a monitor glowing green in the dark, the line tracing a weak, erratic path. He saw a man’s head resting on a pristine white sheet, sobbing into the mattress.

Tim gasped, stumbling back.

"Tim?"

He whipped around. Bruce was sitting on a piece of driftwood further up the beach. It was the "Tired Bruce" again. He was wearing the same gray sweats, but now he looked even worse. His skin was pale, waxy.

"Hey, Bruce," Tim said, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced a smile. "You crashed the honeymoon? That's a little possessive, even for you."

Bruce didn't turn to look at the ocean. He was staring at his own hands, which were clasped tightly together as if in prayer.

"The doctor was just here," Bruce whispered. The wind on the beach died down, leaving his voice stark and terrifyingly clear. "He said... the swelling isn't going down. He said we need to start discussing 'quality of life.'"

Tim felt a cold chill wash over him that had nothing to do with the ocean breeze. Quality of life? Bruce must be talking about his retirement. Yeah. He was getting old. He was worried about his knees.

"Bruce, stop it," Tim said, sitting next to him on the log. "You're healthy as a horse. You're just stressed. You need to relax. Look at this place! It's paradise."

Bruce finally turned his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, devastatingly sad. He reached out and gripped Tim’s hand.

Bruce’s hand was ice cold. It was the only cold thing on the entire island.

"I'm not ready to say goodbye, Tim," Bruce choked out. "I can't do it. I can't turn the machines off. I won't. I don't care what they say. I’m keeping you here."

Tim chuckled nervously, patting Bruce’s freezing hand. "Turn the machines off? What, the Batcomputer? The coffee maker? Bruce, you’re spiraling. Gotham is fine. Barbara is running things. You've earned this vacation."

"I just want to hear your voice," Bruce whispered, leaning in, desperate. "Please. Just squeeze my hand. Just once. Show me you're still in there."

"I am squeezing your hand!" Tim insisted, squeezing back as hard as he could. "I'm right here! I’m telling you about the snorkeling! The fish are neon purple, Bruce. It’s amazing."

Bruce didn't feel the squeeze. He just let out a long, shuddering breath and looked back down at the sand. "I'll wait," he whispered to the ground. "I'll sit here and wait. Even if it takes forever."

Tim stood up, shaking off the creeping dread. This was just Bruce being Bruce, dramatic, worrisome, unable to accept happiness.

"Suit yourself," Tim said lightly. "But you're missing a great sunset."

He turned and ran back toward the villa, back to Kon, who was waiting by the water with a smile that promised forever.

"Everything okay?" Kon asked, opening his arms.

"Yeah," Tim said, burying his face in Kon’s neck, blocking out the sight of the man weeping on the driftwood. "Just Bruce. You know how he is. He thinks the world is falling apart when it’s actually perfect."

The real world didn't have a golden sunset. 

It was Gotham after all, lucky to see even the moon or sun in its entirety. 

It had the hum of a HEPA filter, the rhythmic, clinical hiss of a ventilator, and the smell of sterile plastic and unscented soap.

In a private wing of Gotham General, Tim Drake lay incredibly still. He looked younger without his mask, his face pale and peaceful, framed by dark hair that had grown a little too long over the weeks.

The door creaked open. Bruce walked in first, his gait heavy. He didn't look like the man in the solarium; he looked like a man who had forgotten how to sleep. He sat on the stool by the bed, the same stool Tim had mistaken for an armchair, and took Tim’s hand.

"The monitor is steady today," Bruce said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "The doctors are... they're hopeful, Tim. But they say it's up to you now. You have to want to come back."

He sat in silence for a long time, just holding Tim’s hand, exactly as he had on the driftwood log in Tim’s mind.

A moment later, the rest of the family filed in. Dick and Barbara brought flowers, real ones that would eventually wilt, unlike the eternal blossoms of the dream. Damian stood at the foot of the bed, unusually quiet, his hand resting on the railing. He didn't call Tim "Brother" out loud, but he didn't snap or sneer either. He just watched the rise and fall of the machine-assisted chest.

Jason and Duke stood by the door, as if they were guardian warding off death himself. Cass just lingered. She was lost. She couldn’t read Tim. How was she meant to know he was okay? That he was coming back to them? Steph just stood there as if nearing the bed meant accepting.

"We miss you, kiddo," Dick whispered, leaning over to brush a stray hair from Tim’s forehead. "Babs found that coffee shop you liked, the one with the terrible overpriced espresso. We’re going to go there when you’re up. My treat."

Then, there was a soft whoosh of air from the open window.

Kon landed lightly on the floor. He wasn't wearing a white tuxedo. He was in his jeans and tattered leather jacket, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Sunken eyes that should be impossible for a Kryptonian. He looked nothing like the "domestic god" of the dream, but the way he looked at Tim was identical, filled with a devastating, unspoken devotion.

They all mostly acknowledged him, with Bruce giving a small, respectful nod. They knew. They had seen the way Kon had hovered over the city since the accident, a silent sentinel waiting for a signal that hadn't come yet.

Kon stepped up to the bedside as the others slowly trickled out to give him a moment. He reached out, his fingers hovering over Tim’s, but he didn't grab them. He looked at the heart monitor, watching the green line spike and dip in a rhythm that was purely mechanical.

"Hey, Tim," Kon whispered, his voice cracking.

He didn't float. He slumped into the chair Bruce had vacated, the weight of gravity pressing down on him hard. He reached into his pocket, not for a velvet box, but for something loose, something he had been carrying around like a talisman for months.

"I had this whole plan," Kon laughed weakly, a single tear escaping and landing on the sterile white sheet.

He opened his hand.

Resting in his palm wasn't the dark, brushed titanium ring with the glowing sunstone from the dream. It was a simple, silver band. It was scuffed near the edge, bought impulsively from a street vendor in Metropolis the day Tim had first smiled at him, really smiled at him, six months ago.

"I was going to wait until we finished the next mission," Kon confessed to the silence. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to grab dinner. Just us. No capes. That was the plan. Step one: Dinner. Step ten... maybe this."

He rolled the cheap silver ring between his thumb and forefinger. It looked so small, so mundane compared to the cosmic promise Tim had hallucinated.

"I didn't even know if you liked me back," Kon choked out, the admission wrecking him. "I bought this like an idiot because I couldn't help myself. I kept it in my pocket during the fight. I thought... I thought if we made it through, I'd at least ask for the date."

He looked at Tim’s peaceful, unresponsive face. In the dream, Tim was wearing a ring of starlight. In reality, Tim didn't even know Kon loved him.

"I think... I think you would have said yes," Kon whispered, his voice trembling.

He reached down and gently tucked Tim's hand under the blanket, pressing the cold, silver band into Tim's palm and closing his slack fingers around it.

"I don't know where you are right now, Tim," Kon murmured, looking at the steady, unchanging expression on his best friend's face. "But I hope it’s somewhere nice. I hope you're happy. And I hope... I hope in that place, I didn't wait too long."

He stood by the window, a silhouette against the dark, jagged skyline of the real Gotham, waiting for the day Tim would finally wake up and let him say the words for the very first time.