Chapter Text
The Batstorage, while not entirely unused, isn't ever really talked about.
Yes, anything confiscated from rogues and national villains goes in there. Yes, inventory is taken nearly every month, just to be sure, just to be safe. Yes, everyone is aware it is there, and every Robin has had at least one instance of trying to sneak something "cool" out. No, this does not mean that anyone really thinks about it. It's just...there. In the same way the sky is blue and the sun in Metropolis is bright and Brucie Wayne has a champagne flute in his hand at every gala. If it was gone, everyone would question it, but maybe no one would notice for a little while.
Tim, sometimes, feels a little like the Batstorage.
It's stupid and inconsequential and really, Tim is embarrassed in himself for even really making the connection. He has a family; they love him, they need him, even if, yes, he feels a little overshadowed sometimes. The Batstorage is quite literally a concept. A space. Whatever you want to call it; he can't be feeling kinship with something just because, yes, he feels like he's only useful and not loved. That's not how this goes.
Anyway, all this to say that he's made the somewhat wise decision to skip patrol tonight in favour of taking inventory for the Batstorage. He figures it's a good idea; it'll be the first night that the entire family, sans Duke, is out on patrol, with Cass and Barbara finally back from a Birds of Prey mission, Dick in town for at least a week, and Bruce completely caught-up on everything he missed in the timestream.
(It's been four months. Why hasn't Tim left yet? He knows Bruce has acclimated back into life well. He knows Batman has acclimated back into life well. Even if Damian hasn't tried to murder him since he got back, he's not sure how much he wants to bet it'll last. He should leave, soon.)
(Next week, he decides.)
So as patrol starts and everyone else suits up, Tim, instead, drags himself past everyone, through a small side door, and into a space is larger than it should logically be (punch in the passcode, sidestep right there and make sure to take a longer stride; keep your steps heavy to turn the lights on, immediately move out of the way; get to the second door, come on, come on—), bright white lights burning every feature of the room into his retinas.
Great. Just what he wanted to do with his night. To be fair, he did choose to do this willingly.
He opens the second door, slips inside, and spends less than half a second redoing the locks. He gives the room a quick once over; shelf after shelf, plaques at the bottom, everything numbered and sorted. It's neat. There's a lot of tech in the Batstorage.
Some of it is familiar. Prototypes and failed experiments on tools he knows better than his own bed. Some of the things he sees have been confiscated from the Justice League, for some reason or another. A lot of the tech is integral to Bruce's many, many contingencies, much more than what Tim has in the Nest (there's more tech, not more contingencies. Tim has as many, if not more than, Bruce, as the result of chronic, unmedicated anxiety, the long, long list of horrendous situations he's found himself in, and being trained by none other than Batman. Maybe all his contingencies are paranoia. Maybe they will be useful, one day).
Tim wonders, briefly, if anyone really knows what's back here, or if they just check off the boxes on the list. He doesn't really care at the moment; he's here for some time alone, with his thoughts, where he can release the careful wrapping around everything flitting through his head at a mile a minute.
It's not like no one's back here often—someone has to come back here every once in a while, just to make sure nothing's malfunctioned and to keep inventory—but it's that it happens so rarely. And so, Tim has decided that he'll just be the one to do that. It'll save everyone some trouble, give him time to sulk without feeling like he's being whiny and ungrateful, and get something done. Win-win-win.
However, there's something that catches his eye above all. A plaque near the end of the Batstorage, reading "CADMUS" below whatever the shelf holds. Tim hesitates for only a second before drifting over, trying to shift through the items without getting injured. The last thing he needs is to break something, or worse, accidentally activate something. Who knows what it could do, especially if something's broken?
As if in response to his thoughts, there's a sharp, jolting pain, and he expects to see something catastrophic when he looks down, but—no. The base of his palm has been cut, steadily dripping onto some broken glass from what seems to be (or rather, once was) a modified cloning pod. He pulls his hand back, using his uninjured hand to pull a pack of antimicrobial wipes from his pocket, and turns back to the pod. It doesn't look broken, not that he can tell. The inside is empty, if a bit dirty, and the outside—he sees the little edge of jagged glass that cut him, the open end of some tube, presumably for input. He can't tell if it would still work, but he doesn't want to risk cutting himself again. The last thing he needs, now that he's already messed up and gotten hurt, is to make a mess. In the end, he settles for prying open the bottom, where he assumes the control panel will be, and searching around for something to turn it off, just in case. He tries to remember any mission reports from the actual lab, if it was ever mentioned how someone could turn one off. He comes up blank.
He decides, after some time of looking around, that he's found something that should disable it, and carefully pulls it out from where it connects to an inner mechanism. He's not sure if it works, but he's basing everything he's doing off of his own experience cloning Kon, which is to say it's probably fine. How different can cloning pods be, really? He steps back after a moment and wipes his hands off on the thighs of his pants, before deciding that it's going to be fine. Probably. This is the best he can get, anyway. For now. Worse case scenario, he'll check back in in the morning and work on it.
He turns away from the "CADMUS" plaque. He still has inventory to take, after all, and only so long to do so if he wants to sleep (or rather, avoid a scolding for not doing so). It'll be fine. It always is, sooner or later.
Tim watches as patrol ends, and everyone slowly begins to flit through the cave. He hovers in the doorway to the Batstorage, eyes scanning across his—the family. He sees Steph land first, quickly followed by the dying rev of Jason's motorcycle—"You lost, admit it!" "You threw smoke bombs onto an active road, blondie. I don't think that's fair—" "You're just upset you lost."—the only two in the cave for a good ten minutes. Steph catches his gaze from the corner, and she opens her mouth to say something, already moving to talk to him, but not before Cass swings in, and her attention is diverted.
Dick enters on his own; his gaze skips over Tim entirely, though he reasons that this is simply because Dick has entered through one of the underground entrances; something going on in the sewers, maybe, if the smell is anything go by. Tim is sort of glad he didn't have to be there for it. Bruce and Damian enter together, of course, what is Batman without Robin and vice versa, but Tim still catches Damian's gaze straying towards where he lingers, the slight tense in his jaw. Silently, why is he still here?
Tim doesn't look away, and instead keeps watching as the six vigilantes all converse, loud and happy and familial, keeping to the doorway of the Batstorage. Maybe Steph had been right when she said that Bats tended to linger in doorways; it wouldn't be the first time someone was caught standing like a vampire for far too long.
There's the prickle of someone else's gaze on his back, and he throws a haphazard gaze over his shoulder, back into the Batstorage. Nothing. He's being paranoid. It's as good a sign as any to turn in for the night, and he takes the excuse to slip out, shooting a camera in the corner a mock solute; goodbye, Barbara, turning in tonight. Even as he ascends up the stairs back into Wayne Manor, the prickle of unease doesn't disappear.
When Tim wakes up, he's warm.
Like, stupidly warm. He thinks, for a moment, that he might have a fever. Then the warmth shifts, a leg thrown over his hip, and he realises it's a person, not his own body. He stills. Without opening his eyes, he goes through who it could be in order to prepare himself. The body is smaller than him, or at least feels like it due to the fact their head is tucked under his chin, which immediately narrows it down to three people—Cass, Steph, and Damian. Damian would never sneak into his bed; Steph hasn't talked to him since he got back (though maybe that's partially his fault, for avoiding most conversations and refusing to really confront the growing gap between him and everyone else). That leaves Cass, but...no, the body is definitely smaller than him. It's not just the way they're curled up making them seem so, they are. Cass isn't shorter than him—but that brings him back to Damian, and again, the younger boy would never—
He opens his eyes.
Curled up with their head tucked beneath their chin, arms wrapped around his chest, and one leg thrown over his hips, is a young boy that looks like a carbon copy of him, sans any of his scars. His pale skin, the beauty mark right underneath his left eye, the straight line of his nose (that he hasn't seen since he was Robin; his nose is ever so slightly crooked now, from being broken so many times over the years), even his skinny build. The boy looks maybe fourteen, maybe a bit younger, but it's hard to tell considering Tim himself never really looked his age; there's no way of telling if that rings true with whoever this is, too.
Which, speaking of.
Who is this?
Is this a time travel situation? But if this is him at fourteen, he'd have been Robin by now. There'd be scars, marks—and it still doesn't explain why the boy is clinging to him like he's the most important thing in the world. Universe hopping, maybe? It could explain the discrepancies, but nothing else. Tim can't logically conclude any reason that someone who looks like a younger, healthier him would come to his specific universe for. He lets his thoughts flit through his head with less control than he usually does, trying to cling to some semblance of sense, like sticking his hand in a river and hoping to catch a fish.
The CADMUS pod.
Ah. That makes sense.
...fuck. That makes sense.
He can't be sure, obviously. But it would explain a lot. For example, why a boy that looks nearly the same as him is in his bedroom. Or in Wayne Manor at all, really. It wouldn't explain how he got here, not really—the CADMUS pod was in the Batcave, and for the boy to have gotten from it to his room meant he had to sneak past the rest of the family—but it does tie up a lot of loose ends. He pins it in the back of his mind as a firm maybe, right as the boy starts to stir. Tim waits with baited breath, and—
Icy blue eyes meet his.
Or more specifically, his eyes meet his. In a way. He adds another point to the clone theory and tries not to let his breathing stutter. The boy, or clone, or whatever he is, blinks once, twice, before a slow smile spreads his lips, and he presses his face back into Tim's chest.
"Brother," the clone purrs, squeezing his arms tight around Tim's chest. Tim allows himself a moment of internal confusion before reigning everything in, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and throwing that bomb over to the corner. Later. He'll get to it later.
"You are...?" Tim tries to keep his tone neutral, friendly. He doesn't want to accidentally set the clone off, if he has some sort of complex or another, but he also really needs to try and get as much information as possible. For a moment, he wonders if he's done something wrong when the clone doesn't answer, but then the younger boy pulls back and looks at him quizzically.
"No name," he says, before clearing his throat, "I have no name."
Ah. Well. Maybe he should've expected that, considering he already came to the conclusion the boy was a clone, but— "Right."
There's silence, for a moment. Tim considers his options. There really aren't a whole lot, to be fair. He can't very well take a life, especially not one that's done anything wrong, but also—how's he supposed to explain this to his family?
Does he have to?
Tim considers this for a moment. Maybe. If the clone could get from the old CADMUS pod to his room successfully and therefore unnoticed, then maybe there's some merit. Besides, he thinks dryly, would they notice even if I didn't try to hide it, really?
He's leaving next week, isn't he? It wouldn't be that hard to hide the clone for a singular week. Seven days. Then he can move into his apartment full-time, give up the pretense he's been keeping of being part of the family—and, well, sue him for being selfish, but the clone seems awfully affectionate. He doesn't quite hate the idea of having a loving younger brother.
He realises, after all of this has passed through his head, that he's been quiet for a while.
"Do you...have a name you would like to be called?" He asks. The clone shakes his head, which is—well, fair. Tim hadn't really expected the answer to be yes. As it stands, he's surprised the clone can talk at all. It's not like he did any memory implants yet—though maybe that was included in the original CADMUS pods, possibly a reason they were failures? Too complicated? He'd ask Kon about it, but it could be triggering...he could always try and study the pod on his own, of course—
He's spacing out. Again.
"Right," he breathes. In, out, pause. "Let's see what we can do about that."
The clone blinks up at him, and—and makes no move to get up. He tries shifting his own body, and the limbs tangled around him only tighten. The clone's brows furrow in distress as he burrows his head against Tim's collar again, whining out a muffled "no". This may pose a slight problem.
"Bud," Tim says, softly, adopting the tone he used as Robin when talking to little kids. "We need to get up to do that. Come on."
The clone just holds on tighter, or at least tries to, and shakes his head.
"If we can get you a name, then we can lay back down. 'Kay?" Tim offers, letting the clone consider this for a moment. "You can even hold my hand while we do it. Promise. You don't have to leave my side."
The clone, this time, considers the offer. Finally, after a long moment, he pulls back, looking Tim dead in the eyes. "Promise?"
"I promise," he says with a nod, and after another second, the clone finally detaches himself from Tim. Tim takes a moment to shake out his limbs, massaging his joints, trying to feel less sweaty, before slipping out out bed, stretching as his feet hit the floor. As soon as his hand falls back down, a smaller, colder hand clutches it, and Tim lets the clone cling to his side.
The two wander over to Tim's desk, where he sits down—the clone hovering over his shoulder, slipping his arm through Tim's now that he can no longer hold the older boy's hand—and opens his laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He thinks for a moment, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the clone. He inclines his head, any thoughts?
The clone shakes his head, eyes wide and curious. Tim stifles a small laugh and turns back, typing in a few cursory searches.
He's halfway through some obscure baby name website when the clone suddenly taps his screen, pointing out one of the names. Min, clever. Tim considers it for a moment—his mother always distanced him from her culture, said she wanted him to be able to integrate better, to succeed without her accent, her features—but he doesn't have many qualms with it himself. He wonders, for a brief moment, if the clone knows and specifically chose it because of that. Either way, he searches the name on its own, running through a few different websites and trying to cross reference it with what he learned on his own to double check the meaning. Nothing in particular comes up.
"Min, then," he agrees out loud, closing out his tabs and shutting the laptop. Almost as soon as he does, Min is tugging on his arm again, dragging him backwards towards the bed.
"You promised," he says, as if Tim might've forgotten in what had been, at most, fifteen minutes. He feels like he should've spent longer—this is a name, an identity, a quantification of who Min is—but Min chose it, so he supposes it's fine. At worst, Min can choose something else later, when he has a better understanding of the world (when he realises that he doesn't want to be tied to Tim).
"I did," Tim concedes, letting himself be pulled towards his own bed, "Min."
And for the second time in one day, but possibly only the second time in the last four months, someone smiles genuinely at Tim.
Tim spends the next two hours, trapped in his own bed underneath or sometimes next to Min, studying the younger boy. From what he can tell, he's aged up to, about, fifteen. That's going off the assumption that he really is a clone, of course, but everything going on only seems to confirm his earlier assumption, so he lets himself work off of that, instead of a baseline of nothing. Technically, at fifteen, he was a lot better off than he is now—health-wise, that is.
He had a spleen, obviously. He had a slightly straighter nose, not that it mattered very much. His left ankle didn't need him to adjust his walk, even if his right was a little messed up. Any joint pain had been mostly within his wrists, and sometimes his ankles, but not yet the rest of his body. His sight had been better; as it stands now, he has reading glasses, not that he uses them very often. It's not like anyone knows, nor has anyone noticed his constant squinting and headaches. There's, obviously, a laundry list of scars he hadn't gained yet at fifteen, but it seems like Min has no scars whatsoever. Sensibly so.
From what he can tell, though, Min does have a few of his health problems. His wrists seem to be giving his trouble. When he stands up to follow Tim (who just wants to get a book), he walks funny, favouring his right ankle. He seems to have okay vision. Obviously, Tim can't check whether or not he has a spleen—yet. Maybe later, after he moves out.
From this, he's come to the conclusion that Min's body has some of his health issues, not dictated by the chronological order in which he got them. An incomplete copy of his DNA; it would explain a few discrepancies, like their varied speech habits (by which Tim means, Min not speaking much at all), especially if the CADMUS pod had had some method of inscribing his memories. He's not quite sure how that would work, but it could have explained some of the extra bulk of the machine. If only he could go down there and study it.
The issue with this, of course, is the fact that Min will not let go of him no matter what.
It's sweet. It's probably the most physical contact Tim has gotten in a long, long time that wasn't someone trying to kill him, which is kind of depressing. As it stands, he chooses not to acknowledge that train of thought. Instead, he tries to figure out how to convince Min to stay put. He can't very well just waltz into the Batcave with what is, very obviously, a clone of him, but it also seems like he can't just leave Min in his room.
Reluctantly, he sets his book down, and turns to look at Min. Min, who has done nothing but stare at Tim, wide eyed and awed, for nearly the last hour. Min, who has called him nothing but brother, which is...strange, to hear. Especially considering that they could easily pass for brothers, nearly identical save for Min's straighter nose and Tim's slight height advantage.
"Min," Tim says, a little exasperated. He sees the small furrow of Min's brow and softens his tone, ever so slightly. "I need to go to the cave. If I don't—"
"Why can't I go with you?"
"—people are going to notice—Min, you can't come with me, we've been over this. There are protocols for clones, and nearly all of them include you being separated from me," he finishes, watching Min's gaze closely. The boy's brows furrow, smooth out, and there's a tic in his jaw that he doesn't bother to fix. It's endearing, to have someone that hasn't trained to hide their reactions.
"But you'll be gone either way," Min points out, "and if I go with you now, I can go again. Later."
Tim breathes steadily through his nose and reminds himself that Min is simply trying to find a solution. It's not his fault he doesn't have the entire situation (for once, Tim understands why people are so annoyed by his stubbornness).
"It's..." Tim drags his tongue along the inside of his teeth, tracing along the finer details of his inner cheek when that bores him. "...listen, Min. I know you're good. I know you wouldn't ever hurt me. But the rest of the family doesn't know that. Historically, none of us have a very good track record with clones."
"Not a clone," Min mumbles, burying his face into his crossed arms. The furrow in his brow is back. "I'm your brother."
Tim, at that, allows himself a small smile. He leans over to ruffle Min's hair, trying to replicate the effortlessly affectionate way Dick did it when he was younger, and he seems to succeed, because Min perks up, just slightly. He's still slumped across Tim's desk, but he doesn't look quite so upset. If anything, he looks almost...smug? No, that can't be right. Pleased, at most.
"Of course," Tim agrees.
He lets the comfort of the moment stretch a second longer, before his mind snaps back to the situation at hand. What can he even offer Min to make him stay? Or does he really need to sneak Min back and forth between his room and the Batcave, every time he leaves? Every time he goes anywhere?
Ugh. He loves Min, he does, he can already feel affection for the younger boy gnawing at him and curling around his bones, but having a clingy sibling is hard. Harder than he thought, but then again, he's never had someone cling to him so dearly, like he matters quite so much.
(...he misses when he mattered.)
"How about this," Tim starts after another moment, which is starting to become his catch phrase, "I'll go down right now, for a little while to talk to everyone else, let them know I'm alive and fine, there's no need to check my room, and then when I say so, you can come down as well. Okay? I'll leave my laptop here, and you just need to keep it open. I'll send a signal when I want you to come down."
Min considers this, his face screwed up in concentration, as if weighing the pros and cons. He takes longer than Tim thinks he would've taken at fifteen, but it's fine. He doesn't quite mind, not really.
"Okay," Min finally agrees, slow and quiet. Then, as an afterthought, "but. Be quick."
Tim smiles to himself, nodding along at Min's request. "I will."