Archive of Our Own

There was something to be said about the sophistication of the world so clearly seen but so eagerly ignored. The society which happily existed alongside man that had maintained its being since the days before human-kind had walked the earth and took advantage of its beauty. Man was different from beast, and man was different from fae. This was a fact accepted universally, uniquely, by both kingdoms, though in different ways. 

Timothy Drake, for that was his man-given name and he had to remember as such to maintain his sane mind, was unique in his toeing of the line that separates the kingdom of man from the kingdom of nature. (For man had indeed separated himself from nature long ago, no matter how tightly he continues to grasp at his past partnership like a chick trying to fly back to the nest after being pushed out by mother bird to fly alone.) There were few laws accepted by both worlds, a mere handful that could fit in the paw of a squirrel: young were to be raised by their parents and pack, food was needed to grow strong, and man was not animal just as animal was not man. From the sweet singing sparrows to the gossiping fish of the lakes and seas, and from the wet moss freshly growling on the side of an ancient oak tree, to the clouds heavy with water, these laws were known. 

So, when one of these few rules gets broken, it will often lead to consequences. 

The Drakes, wealthy and known as they were, seemed eager to abandon their son, and Tim, as abandoned young do, was eager for the guidance he so lacked. The small four-year-old deemed mature enough to be allowed home alone with no nanny in sight and an entire city at his fingers did what any child would do. He ventured. 

Now, looking back, Tim could only wonder if Mother had guided and watched over him as he made his way behind his house. He had walked past the trees and the moss, and the wind seemed to curl around his ears and push at his heels, urging him deeper into the dark wood. 

The grass and dirt were wet with fresh rain, which still sprinkled down occasionally through his journey, and Tim had laughed when a branch dipped low to brush his hair. Kind, trees were, kind and wise and all-seeing. 

A fox had appeared, a pretty thing with an auburn coat and dark feet that always seemed to quicken whenever Tim got too close and slow when he lagged behind. A crow had settled into his hair and picked at the leaves and branches on his head and shoulders, shifting them around. Birds chirped and sang their afternoon songs, and Tim had made his way ever deeper, entranced by the life around him. 

A woman sat in the clearing (though she was no woman, Tim knew, for she was no man) with butterflies in her hair and vines around her arms and skin a multitude of rich colors, eyes an ever changing pool of darkness that exuded only warmth and welcome. She smiled so kindly at the young boy and ushered him into her warm embrace, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks and promises to his hair. He was hers now - just as any babe abandoned was, just as every creature was regardless. He was her first human child, and she lavished him with gifts of sight to see as she did and the gift of tongues to speak to his siblings and to the earth. He called her Mother, for she gave no other name, and she sent him home before dark, before the rain was promised to fall. The fox led him to the edge of the wood, and the crow led him further home, where he climbed into bed surrounded by the soft melody of the wind, lulling him to sleep with a murmured lullaby. 

It became a second nature, an easy habit, to venture into the woods to see Mother. She would hold him close for hours singing sweet songs and whispering ancient stories some days, others she would take him to the creeks and introduce him to the skittish fish and the stubborn beavers or up the trees to discuss the skies with stately owls and talk of blooming flora with the eager bees. Tim loved the forest with the love of a child who knows no better than to love his family. The fox often tagged along and Tim began calling her Sister Fox. The crow was rarer still, and Tim learned he and his murder lived in the city, only coming home to see their mother every so often. Tim did not know the crows name, nor his flock, and it was rude to begin calling someone a name without their permission, he remained the crow. 

It was only after Mother acquiesced that Tim was allowed to meet his more enlightened siblings and family. The Fair Folk, as Mother instructed him to call them, were different from the animals and plants. At first, Tim thought them cruel with their jokes and pranks. They were unafraid to pull at his hair and clothes, to poke at his legs and laugh at his stumbling words. But it became clear that such things were not done out of cruelty, for that was how they show affection. Just as Sister Fox nipped at his ankles when he walked too slow and weaved around his feet as walked, and just as the cats that wandered from the city curled around him at night to keep warm. Just as the bugs led him to food and how the birds shared their gossip. How the trees shifted their roots to the side so he did not trip and how the flowers wrapped around him when he laid among them. He was Little Brother and Little Prince to his siblings, the youngest no matter who was born after him, and they all took care of him in their own little ways.

Mother would smile and watch as he splashed around with undines in the streams and swam with the asrai and naiads in the lake, diving to find pretty stones and trinkets at the bottom, would laugh as he was lifted and twirled by the sylphs. Tim did not know the names of every one of the Folk, as some did not have them, and others did not give them. He simply called them his siblings and all was right in his little world. 

Some days, his Aunts and Uncles visited Mother. Death was kind, with her soft voice and hands, and stories of the people she had met in her travels. Dream was quiet and stern, with a voice deep like the sea. Destiny was austere and only visited Mother on the rare occasion. Desire and Delirium were fun, bringing gifts and sprinkling Tim in magic. Despair was most often with Desire, and was quiet, often preferring to watch as his siblings laughed and played. Destruction was only welcome under Mother’s watchful gaze, and Tim was told to call for him only in the most dire of situations. He was a traveler, and was often shunned by his siblings. 

Tim liked Dream especially, for he often took him to his kingdom while Tim slept, letting him explore the forests and libraries of the Dreaming, to explore the dreams of others if he asked. Tim knew the third of the Endless took special care of Tim, more than even Mother asked of him, for Tim’s sleeping hours were never frightening or sad. 

When it came time for Tim, now five, to begin his human schooling - for it was not learning the tracks of each sibling, picking out the distinct scent of an incoming storm or change in the wind, nor the important skill of swimming upstream in the raging river (for raging rivers often lost their sense of reason and could not be reasoned with and as such they were dangerous), and it was in no way similar to how his Fair siblings taught him to weave the truth through his tongue and teeth, or his Uncle teaching to spin magic like woven thread, so it had to be made clear this was human schooling for maths and sciences and languages Tim already spoke - Tim was forced back to his human abode for uniform fittings and book buying. His human mother and father did not return home for what was considered in the human world to be a momentous occasion, and so Tim was left with a kind woman called Mrs. Mac, who was a mother and grandmother and came from across the sea, so her way of speaking was unique. Her home across the sea was a place of magic, just the same as his forest. It was an older magic, one unique to that land, explained Mother. It was there that humans were most recently associated and lived amongst his siblings. She said that was where his eldest siblings lived, the ones who ruled over his other siblings. Mother had a mournful look about her normally present eyes and Tim chose to not ask further when the clouds darkened with rain on the previously open sky.

Mrs. Mac came by every other day to make him breakfast and drive him to school. Tim was given a card and allowance for groceries and food for dinner. He preferred to eat with Mother, and with his newfound currency, would bring meats delivered from the store to her and his siblings, who preferred chicken to beef and hated anything wrapped in plastic, so Tim began placing the raw, whole chickens in a woven bag the Tree elders and dryads crafted for him and lugged it to the forest to share with his siblings. Sister Fox would bring berry branches, and Mother would produce earthly vegetables like carrots and potatoes. 

Tim missed his days spent in the forest when he was locked within crafted walls, craved the laughter of the pixies and the sprites as they played, yearned to swim with his water sisters who always spoke of finding pure love one day, and longed for the whispered tales of a time long passed from the trees. Being trapped in a man-made fortress was a far cry from his days spent chasing dragonflies by streams, learning the languages of flowers and the earth, and nights spent learning the patterns of the stars. He hated it - the feeling of being trapped - and understood the fears of his animal siblings better than before.

Though, he was far from alone, far from completely cut off from his siblings. The sparrows and robins and crows and ravens often kept him company, with the corvids taking special care to always be within his (and their) vision. He liked the crows especially, enough to discuss their names further than Sister Crow and Brother Crow. (This was not to say he liked them more than his other siblings, no he loved them all equally, but the crows were some of the cleverest of animals and liked to have individual names, to share such things.) Gray was the largest crow, one who was largely unbothered by human activity, only becoming upset on the odd days. Stick and Swift were twins and liked to drop stones on the heads of the older young humans at his school for they deserved such treatment after they chased the crows from their food. Evening was the youngest of the murder, only a yearling, and preferred to avoid humans. The group was large, far larger than just those four, and Tim could scarcely remember each name, but he remembered those four well and they appreciated the effort.

Mischief was a large raven who often flew in teasing circles around him. She was only slightly larger than Gray and liked to perch on Tim’s head and shoulders, preening and picking at his hair and ears. He got the feeling she did not like humans much at all, save him, for she often took to yelling and squawking at them when they ventured too close, screeching out obscenities only Tim could understand. He learned a majority of his less than savory vocabulary from the corvids, colorful little things they were. 

Tim had few in the way of human friends. He was different enough that his high scores and grades were pushed aside and ignored whenever he came up in conversion. The ant queen outside the window had told him the human teachers spoke strangely of him when they thought no one was listening, and the pigeons that liked to flock towards the outdoor seating after lunch told him the other human children did much the same. 

He had one close human friend, a boy his age called Sebastian Ives, who preferred to go by his last name, which Tim readily accepted with the grace of a child used to his siblings' unique whims. He was glad to have someone to sit with during class, to partner with for projects, and to talk to at lunch. Ives wasn't bothered by Tim’s siblings though, which put him firmly above the rest of the humans at the Academy. It was through Ives that Tim learned of the Batman, or rather, learned his name along with his partner, who called himself Robin (the robins on the branches above them twittered their approval at the alias, so Tim chose to take the stolen name as admiration of the beautiful red-bellied birds, rather than rudeness. Names were important, after all, and taking a name without its wearers permission was rude, according to his Fair Folk siblings. Names held power, after all.)

School also gave him the opportunity to see more of the inner city - an interesting experience for Tim, who had grown up in the lush side of Bristol and the deep meadows of the New Jersey forest. The city was different and Tim could feel the uneasy magic holding the concrete jungle together, how the plants twisted in coils of unnatural magics and animals mutated under the tall buildings and crumbling concrete. The Fair Folk did as the Fair Folk do, at the very least, and adapted well. Junebugys sipped at the dense smog as they flew and Trayffles splashed in the muggy Harbor. Stray cats rubbed Tim’s legs, purring while they led him to their kittens and hideaways.  Roaches whispered to him of the happenings inside the homes they skittered within and rats warned him of the cruel men who sprayed them and theirs. The city kingdom creatures were not as picky about their food, and were happy to have whatever Tim brought them - lunchmeat and breads and whatever caught his eyes.

He had only seen the Bat and his Bird once, on a school field trip to the museum. A group of children with parents rich enough to pay for private education was too good a chance to pass upon, reasoned the crows when he asked them later. The men had appeared with guns and had locked the doors of the crystal and mineral room, holding the large weapons at every entrance. Tim’s class had all huddled together in the middle of the room, children whimpering and shaking, whispering for their parents and nannies. Tim was on the outside of a huddle, watching as dust sprites and pixies wove and played between his fingers and palms. He held back a giggle as they tickled his wrists. The little siblings had warned him and so he was not afraid, especially not when they stayed by side and showed their teeth to the men when they got too close. 

Tim knew the men couldn't see them, but that didn't mean their teeth and claws wouldn't hurt.

They hadn't been held long - at least not long by Tim’s standards, but he had learned that his standards were often unique and should be taken with a grain of sand most of the time - when the Batman burst in, his young bird following closely behind. His siblings landed on his shoulders as Tim watched them take down every man in the room. His head tilted as he considered. It was strange, how humans thought, how driven they were by currency. 

The fight was over quickly, and police rushed in as the vigilantes quickly hid in the shadows, up in the rafters. The pixies giggled and flew over to them, poking at Batman’s ears and tugging on Robin's boots - his pixie boots, which had them giggling when he whispered their name earlier. Tim quietly tilted his head as he looked at the duo. The shadows would not hide them from him at the very least. 

Robin startled, from his place tucked into Batman's side, when they locked eyes. He tugged in the dark cape around him, getting his father’s (and it must be his father for no creature or man would protect the young child as he did) attention. Tim quickly averted his eyes before that white gaze turned to him. His siblings twittered about, jumping on and kicking the handcuffed men. Tim had gone home that day, Mischief soaring at his side, with lips full of stories to tell his Mother. 

She had been horrified, ushering him close to her chest. It was only when he could not see did she let her eyes fill with a rage that had the skies darkening and the earth shaking and her children raised their heads from their work and their pillows to watch their Mother in trepidation.

It was that night that she began to teach Tim how to pull at the plants and the clouds. To manipulate the skies and to shake the ground. To listen and encourage the wind to extend his senses and push at his back.

Dream brought him home in the early hours of the morning, when the navy sky turned indigo and warm, and when Tim was far gone from the world. 

When he woke in the morning, Tim would find a pale blue sapphire wrapped into a thin, woven band necklace. But until then, Dream wove a soft dream for a young boy who was so unafraid of the day he just suffered.

Tim palmed the sapphire, fingers tracing the woven string wrapped around it. It calmed him, the feeling of the soft magic, the dreaming magic that was pure from the source, much in the same way the sound of rain against the pavement calmed him, the scent of petrichor, the sound of the earth. Mischief was happily asleep in his lap, his hand stroking shiny feathers. 

He was sat at an outdoor cafe table, coffee and blackberry danish on the table, watching the police cars surround the bank several blocks down the strip. No doubt the Batman and his newest Robin would be there soon enough, Tim sighed and shoved the rest of the danish in his mouth - a move that would horrify Janet Drake, so it was best that she was not here to see it. 

Mischief lifted her head as he shifted, and stretched out her wings before lifting to the air. She would scout out before following him. Throwing away the paper the desert had been wrapped in, Tim grabbed his coffee and headed in the opposite direction of the bank. 

He would prefer to avoid the Bats as much as possible, thank you. Frankly, Tim wasn't sure where he would fall when it came to humans or metas. He was born human, but nowadays he was not entirely sure. Normal humans couldn't speak to birds and play with fae, couldn't move plants and influence the winds. Normal humans didn't wear a stone with the power of a god around their neck. And considering Batman hated metas and magic in his city, Tim wasn't taking his chances. For the last twelve years, Tim had lived his life without Bat interference, and he didn't want to start now. 

He hummed a soft tune to the wind as he made his way down the street, not towards anything in particular, simply wherever the earth shifted his feet away from the impending chaos. 

The ground shook angrily, and Tim paused as the wind whispered fiercely in his ear. Screams erupted around him, harmonizing with the loud boom that echoed across the city. Tim whipped his head back, ears ringing. Something had gone very wrong, very quickly. Mischief screeched and Tim leapt to the side to avoid a slab of concrete from crushing him, dropping his coffee. A flick of his hand sent the now empty cup flying into a nearly hidden dumpster. 

Debris crashed down all around him, civilians running in all directions, some frozen. Tim cursed as a sylph yanked his head to the right, a young girl - she couldn't be older than five - standing frozen in terror with tears streaming down her round cheeks. The earth shifted under his feet, pushing his feet faster. 

Tim damn near didn't make it in time to grab her, rolling them both with her clutched to his chest. The concrete slab clipped his arm as he rolled, landing on his stomach. The girl was shaking under him and Tim quickly stood and lifted her up to hold her to his chest as he began to run. Tim trusted his siblings to guide his feet and footing as he kept his eyes to the sky and around him. 

Another explosion sounded behind him and Tim bit back another curse as the earth howled in agony and the wind screamed in rage. He tightened his grip around the girl as she screamed in tandem and leapt over a car, pulling at the dirt under the road to push his jump higher in the air. 

Somehow this day had gone from nice to horrid in two moments. Little hands clutched at his back; her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. 

Mischief cawed to get his attention, and Tim dove into an alleyway, just barely avoiding a long rebar pole slicing through the air and stabbing into the ground. 

His heart raced, as he slid down the wall to the ground, pounding hard enough that he felt it throughout his body. Sandwiched and protected by the two buildings as he was, Tim let himself breath for a moment, pulling the girl back to look her over. 

“Hiya, sweetheart. Are you okay?” He murmured softly, trying to copy Death’s voice - the one she used with the spirits of the deceased to calm them. He had accompanied her only thrice, before deciding he was not a fan of the process. 

She sniffled, cheeks and forehead flushed from her sobs, with new tears quickly wetting the dried tracks. Tim wondered absently where her parents were - her clothes were nice enough that she couldn't be an orphan, and he fought down the initial feeling of rage towards them. They could have been separated and looking for her, he had to reason. Tim tucked her head back into his chest and softly rubbing circles on her back as he peeked out, sirens racing down the road towards the bank. Mischief landed at his side, hopping closer and croaking softly. The girl (he should really get her name) turned her head with the tiniest gasp as she reached out to pet the raven’s head. 

Tim sighed softly, tilting his head as whispers filled his ears. Two bombs had gone off, though there apparently were more - 20 in total planted by men - which the Bats had dispatched. The last two had been hidden in the bank, which Spoiler and Signal evacuated. Only one human died, with many more injured. Flecks of debris floated down like rain.

It was only when the crows gave the okay (Mischief was still firmly planted at his side, playfully distracting the child in his arms, jumping back and forth just out of her reach) did Tim push to his feet and exit the alley. He had run easily 15 blocks away in his haste, and he unfortunately had to walk all the way back so he could find her parents. 

He took to the sidewalk as ambulances zipped by on the way to the hospital. Red and blue flashed in the air, bouncing off the building and glass. 

A hand landed on his shoulder as he came up to the closest cruiser. “Best stay back unless you need medical attention.” A deep, robotic voice was at his ear and Tim quickly moved away, brushing the hand off. 

“I need to find her parents.” Tim said simply, eyes tracking every shift and twitch the Red Hood made. Something was off with the vigilante - aside from the guns and weapons Tim could sense strapped to every inch of his body. A strange aura, a scent would be the better word perhaps, mingled with his natural one. Interesting, considering, again, the Bats normally snubbed magic and damn near banned it completely. Signal was a meta, however, and clearly the Red Hood (for all that he was only Bat adjacent) had been exposed to and absorbed some kind of magic, so maybe the Dark Knight had loosened his reins on the whole thing. 

Frankly, Tim wanted to pick at the nauseating green that mingled with Hood’s aura, instinctively wishing to be rid of it. He wanted to sink his fingers and teeth in and rip it out. It was unnatural, something that Mother would scorn with gnashed teeth and sharp eyes. Not because it was magic - no, magic was natural in nature - but it was tainted and wrong. Tim couldn't describe it as anything else, not without actually taking a moment to weave his own senses more thoroughly through it. Something he was not about to do, not with the scent already like acid in his nostrils and the green mist already reaching towards him as though drawn to him. Still, Tim eyed the man up and down, shifting the girl away as much as he could without turning his body away entirely. 

Hood held up his hands, “Alright, all good. You just grab ‘er and go?” 

“Not many options with concrete flying every which way.” He didn't have time for this, and he was disinclined to stick around. Normally, he would just head home. But the legs wrapped around his torso were still so tight with fear, that Tim was going to see her to her family. Fuck handing her off to the cops or local vigilantes, she was his until she wasn't.

The Red Hood nodded, telegraphing his movements as he dropped his hands, hooking his fingers at his belt. The helmet obscured his entire face, but Tim could feel his eyes on him, watching Tim just like Tim was watching him. 

Mischief croaked from where she landed on a nearby car, and the girl shifted and whimpered, hands going impossible tighter in his shirt. Tim turned and tilted his head at her in question before Hood spoke again, this time to the girl, voice gentle if not a little strange through the modifier. “Hiya, hon. Can you tell me your name?”

The girl turned her head to peek at him, “Maddie.” 

“It’s nice to meet ya, Maddie. Your friend and I are gonna help ya find your mom and dad. Can you tell us what their names are? What they look like?”

She shook her head minutely, and buried her face into Tim’s neck again. Tim sighed and adjusted her in his grip before looking back at Mischief. He clicked his tongue and she flapped over to perch on his shoulder opposite Maddie. He saw Hood startle at the bird out the corner of his eye.

“Maddie,” Tim hummed to get her attention, waiting until she shifted in response before continuing. “Do you remember Mischief? She’s going to help find your parents, sweet girl. She just needs you to tell her what they look like. She’s good at recognizing faces.”

Maddie reached out a small hand and the raven, in an uncharacteristic gentleness when it comes to humans, leaned forward to brush her beak against her fingers. “Really?” At Tim’s affirmative hum, she continued, fingers lightly stroking Mischief's beak. “My mommy’s name is Jenna and she has red hair and freckles.”

“Thank you, Maddie.” Hood said. He touched his ear, likely a comm, and relayed the words to whoever was listening before turning his head turning upwards to Tim. “Are you staying with her?”

Tim nodded, and Mischief took to the air, a pixie on her back. “Yes. Where should we wait?”

“You need med? Nasty cut on your shoulder there.” A wave towards his left shoulder. 

Tim glanced down dispassionately. A smiling sylph and water sprite were already working to clean up the area, kindly, he might add, for they didn't need to do so - Tim could heal himself - but he was glad for his siblings' kindness. Healing himself in full view of one of Gotham’s beloved Knights was not something he wanted to do. “It’s just a graze.”

“Lotta blood for a graze, kid.”

That comment earned him a look Tim learned from Dream - a disparaging thing with dead eyes, that kept even the worst nightmares in line. Tim turned, and made his way over to the sidewalk to sit while he waited. Maddie shifted off his lap to sit at his side, wrapping her arms around his right arm. Tim pulled out his phone (miraculously only lightly scratched) and pulled up YouTube for her before giving her free reign of the device.  

Hood sighed and threw his hands up while he walked away, shaking his and muttering. Tim gave him the grace of privacy when he tuned the man out. 

The sylph nuzzled his cheek when she finished and flew away with the sprite. His shoulder stung dully, but a quiet check told him there was no longer risk of infection, so he left it be as he watched the GCPD and emergency responders' flit around the area, whisking people away on gurneys and gathering witness statements. 

Gray swooped down to perch on his head, with the twins landing on his knees. A quick glance told him Evening was perched further back on a bent light pole. They cawed about, and Tim smiled at their concern. “I’m fine, don't worry. Mischief is looking for someone and we’ll leave once we find them.” Gray let out a displeased croak and picked at his hair, and Tim huffed as little bits on concrete began to fall in front of his face and onto his lap.

Time passed by with the chirp of radios and sirens and the occasional crumbling of concrete. Eventually, a soft breeze curled around his ear, whispering. Tim smiled and looked down at Maddie, who was completely enraptured by a Minecraft video. “Maddie.” He waited for her to look up. “Mischief found your parents, sweetheart. Want to go get them?”

Her eyes lit up and she nodded fervently. Tim chuckled and pocketed his phone as he stood, taking her hand to lead her through the crowd. Swift and Stick flapped up to land on his head, and Gray took off to fly with Evening. Mischief circled high, and Tim weaved through the crowd following her. 

Nightwing was standing with a near hysterical red-haired woman, holding her arms gently as she sobbed and shook. Maddie gasped in excitement at the sight of her and Tim squeezed her hand as they neared. “Mommy!” she cried, releasing Tim as she bolted towards the woman who must be Jenna, who let out another sob and ran forward to grab her to her chest. 

Tim tilted his head and smiled softly at the scene. Mischief landed on his shoulder, and nuzzled Tim's cheek looking for praise. He was about to turn and leave when Maddie ran back up, Jenna in tow. 

“Thank you, thank you so much for protecting her!” she cried, taking his hands in hers. Tim forced himself to relax - he wasn't used to this much human contact - and nodded. 

“It was my pleasure.”

“Thank you, mister!” Maddie added, hugging his leg. Small as she was, she only came up to his hip. 

He ruffled her hair. “I’m glad you’re okay, Maddie.”

Jenna wrapped him in a quick, tight hug and lifted Maddie into her arms. They waved as they left, and Tim finally allowed himself to breathe.

Time to get home. Mother would be worried, for she no doubt already knew what had transpired, and even though she knew he was fine, she always preferred to have him in her immediate sight. Tim was going to give her the softened version. 

Tim was breathing in to hum again - the wind was never one to stay angry, no point in holding onto such strenuous emotions when there was a whole world to sweep over, it reasoned. Tim was inclined to agree with that mentality. His lungs were filled when another fucking hand touched his shoulder, causing him to jolt and choke on his air. 

Tim flinched away from the touch and whipped around as the crows began to caw angrily and he felt Mischief puff up in indignation. 

“Shit, sorry!” Nightwing exclaimed, jumping back with hands in the air, placatingly. Tim eyed the vigilante, heart racing, and let out a few soft clicks to calm the raging corvids. Nightwing’s eyes darted between Tim, the birds on his body, and the birds circling ominously above. “I’m sorry I startled you.” he began, voice gentle and soothing enough to chafe against Tim’s already alight nerves, sparking his annoyance. This was why he didn't get involved with the Bats - they latched on and couldn't leave well enough alone. “I just wanted to say thank you for the girl. Not everyone would help her, let alone stay with her until her parents could be found." He paused and glanced at the cut on his shoulder. "No doubt you want to get home, but I think you should at least get checked out.”

“I’m fine, which I already told Red Hood. Am I being detained or kept here?” Tim fought to keep his voice calm. 

Nightwing shook his head, “Not at all! I’m glad you took care of Maddie, though. A lot of people would just drop her off here for the police to take care of - or us, for that matter!" He chuckled and rubbed his neck, “Cool birds, by the way, - protective.”

“..thanks.” Tim bit back the retort of ‘they don't belong to me’ because that was going to require a longer explanation that he was disinclined to suffer through. He ran the back of his finger down the side of Mischief's head in a calming gesture. 

Nightwing watched the movement, looking hesitant, clearly wanting to say more. Tim looked him for a moment before turning away once more and speed walking away, ignoring the man’s calls.

That night, every news station was discussing the bombing - not simply about the bombing itself, no, this was a normal Tuesday for any seasoned Gothamite, but rather who was behind it. Many speculated the Joker - it was his crime of choice (one of many, but they didn't like to talk about that part) - while others suspected the Riddler. 

Tim knew, if not unwillingly, it was Black Mask. His siblings were horrible gossips.

He was, currently, sitting in his office, typing away at a report on his laptop, only half listening to the gossiping sparrows perched on his windowsill. John was ranting on the other end of the phone call in his earbud, while Mischief snored away on her perch - a converted cat tree that she had filled with trinkets that caught her eye. 

Tim hummed in acknowledgement so John would think he was still paying attention (he wasn't, but the older man needn't know that) and converted his now finished report into a PDF before sending it off to his client. 

Tim’s job required him to know things - to have information, or find a way to get it. PI work was interesting on the best of days and downright depressing on others. Everyday he was less and less surprised by the enthusiastic cruelty of man, and more and more resigned to it. It paid the bills, his work, even if he loathed his job relying on the nature of man. Honestly, one of the only positives of the whole thing was being able to talk with his siblings in the city more often, especially now that he lived in the heart of it. 

He had moved out last year into an apartment on the wealthier side of the city and never really looked back. Sure, he still made the drive out to visit the woods several times a week, but he hadn't stepped foot in Drake Manor proper or had a conversation with his parents that wasn't over the phone since. Janet...was doing better, interestingly enough, in her own way. She made a point to call him more often after he moved out, though Tim suspected that was because he was no longer a child she had to maneuver around. Jack was oblivious to the whole thing, as he often was. It didn't bother Tim, not anymore, not when he had others. Like his Mother and siblings, like his aunts and uncles…like his self-proclaimed human uncle, who was currently ranting and raving about a failed demon capture. Something about being called into the Watchtower mid-ritual, Tim wasn't sure. 

He disconnected his headphones and held the phone to his ear as he made his way downstairs for a glass of water. “That’s why I don't get involved with that whole…group. No matter how many times you say I’d be - and I am quoting here - ‘paid bloody well’.” Tim snorted when the man started up again as he made a cup of tea. “Speaking of, did I tell you I had a run in with a couple Bats the other day?” he hedged, quickly distracting the man from another drawn out rant. Tim laughed at the questioning noise and told him the abridged version

Tim maybe regretted mentioning it when the other end of the line went completely silent. 

“You bloody fucking what?!” 

Tim winced and pulled the phone away from his ear at the indigent screech. 

“At ease.” he muttered, “I’ve already gotten an earful or three from Mother. Not to mention, from the crows. Protective things, crows. Nagging too.” 

“Here’s to hoping you didn't peak their bloody interest, Pixie Dust. They go arse over tit if they think someone’s bloody dodgy. And no offense, love, but you’re about as dodgy as a fox near a henhouse.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” he snarked. “I’m not worried about it, honestly. Gothamites are weird, period. One guy with a couple of birds isn't exactly concerning.”

“Nah. It’s not the birds, twerp.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, mister ‘I solve all my problems by turning my carved-up soul into currency’?”

“Watch it, you little bugger.”

Tim laughed at the indignant tone, filling a glass of water. The air shifted. The soft, comfortable neutrality shifting ever so slightly to the side, to something colder, tenser. 

Someone was inside. 

“I’m gonna call you back.” Tim lowered his voice and quickly ended the call, silencing John’s protests. 

Most of his siblings avoided staying inside, Tim’s house included. Save for Mischief and a Brownie sibling that Tim only saw when he worked late into the night - when the moon shone through the fog and smog and his more nocturnal siblings took to the streets - most of the time, Tim’s home was empty.

Not tonight. 

He pocketed his phone, steps near silent as he pulled at the air to lighten them. The air was still, so unnervingly still, coiled like a spring in anticipation. Of what, Tim had no idea. He slipped through the hallway, following the temperature of the air. 

Cool.

He glanced into the living room. 

Lukewarm. 

He walked back towards the stairs. 

Warmer.

He walked up the stairs. 

Hot.

Tim reached for the doorhandle of his bedroom when the air turned near scalding. Mischief glided in on silent wings to perch on his shoulder. He pulled at the plants on his nightstand and windowsill, waking them and having them ready if needed. 

With a deep breath Tim threw open his door, hands raised and Mischief puffed up on his shoulder menacingly, wings out ever so slightly. 

He locked eyes with a now frozen Robin. Small kid, Tim thought idly. He wondered briefly at Batman's parenting to allow such a small child to be on his own. Humans grew so much slower than any of his siblings, and should be watched over accordingly. 

Robin stood stiffly, hands paused from their digging in his drawers. Despite the mask and hood, Tim knew his gaze was locked on Robin’s, knew it was intimidating enough to spike fear into the boy’s blood. He was his Mother’s son after all, a fact which applied to both the woman who raised him at her feet, and the one who gave him life. Both of whom had perfected a gaze of pure ice (the former of which quite literally if she was upset enough).

“Did your father never teach you to knock?” Tim said lowly as Mischief croaked in the same tone, equally as threatening. 

Robin slowly removed his hands from Tim’s...underwear drawer? Hm. Yeah, not sure what he was thinking he’d find in there, but Tim felt weirdly violated as Robin slid the drawer shut before dropping his hands to his sides. Not exactly any more comforting considering he had a fucking katana sheathed, but Tim could feel his snake plant quivering in anticipation and his cactus’s spines quietly sharpening and lengthening. He wasn't afraid of a little boy, a child on his own. Especially not with his siblings around him, ready to follow his instruction and movement. His window was cracked enough that he could call in more help if needed. 

Honestly the only thing that Tim was really focused on was the green that tinted the edges of the kid's aura. It was the same green that had mingled with Red Hood, but that had intertwined with the guy's very essence - his being - like he had drowned in a lake of it until it filled his lungs and bloodstream. This green dusted only the edges of Robin, like he had been sprayed with a hose. Still, it was drawn to Tim, visibly reaching for him. Creepy. Mischief saw it too, talons tightening on his shoulder. 

“Metas are not to be within Gotham.” Robin hissed. 

“Fascinating tidbit, kid. I’m not a meta.” Tim tilted his head, at least he didn't think he was. 

“Do not lie to me, craven. We have you on camera.”

“No idea what you're talking about. Get out of my house.”

“It is my right to investigate those who intrude upon the city.”

“Intrude? I was born here, you little shit, unlike some people."

“Meta or magician, I care not, intruder.”

“A little hypocritical, don't you think? Calling me a magician when you're practically dripping in that nasty ass green of yours.”

Robin flinched near imperceptivly before his face hardened and Tim knew he had, rather unintentionally, hit a nerve. Interesting. So Robin was aware of the green. Tim really should ask John or one of his aunts and uncles. Mother would be a last resort.

The sharp hiss of his unsheathing katana seemed to echo in the silent room. “State your name and your affiliation, intruder. Do not test my patience.”

Mischief let out an enraged croak, but Tim just crossed his arms. It was cute, to be honest, how this child with a stolen name was pointing this weapon made of earth. It couldn't harm Tim - Mother had long ago taught him the languages of metal. 

It rapidly lost all cuteness when Robin shifted the blade in his grip and began to move forward. Tim raised an unimpressed brow even as he felt his body tense in preparation. He’d rather not drop a literal child, but if Robin attacked him all bets were off. His pendant warmed under his shirt - he’d have that as a last resort. Tim couldn't weave sleep like his uncle, couldn't wield nightmares at his fingertips and mold dreams like clay in his palms, couldn't change reality with a swipe of his hand, but he could knock the kid out as a last resort. 

“Keep walking and that pretty blade of yours gets confiscated.” Tim warned. 

“Stand down, Robin.” 

Tim damn near left his physical body as he leapt to the side of the room. The deep voice at his back had appeared out of nowhere. Mischief flapped angrily in the air, her own anxiety matching Tim’s pounding heart. Batman loomed in the doorway, shoulders near touching the frame. He moved like a living shadow (not exactly uncommon in Tim’s line of work, nor in his personal life, but still unsettling considering Tim knew very well how human Batman was, how human his brood were. Yes, Tim was well aware of his ‘secret identity’. Not exactly hard when the wind itself was one’s constant companion.) He stopped just inside, eyes on Robins.

“Father he-”

Robin cut himself off when Batman turned to Tim. A clear dismissal if Tim had ever seen one. 

Tim locked his jaw and shifted his stance. He had ended up on the wall opposite his dresser (and Robin) with Batman to his left. His fingers pressed to the wall behind him, tapping nervously as he glanced between the cracked window and the vigilantes in his home. Robin was one thing - he could handle a kid no matter how trained, not to mention his dreamstone pendant - but Batman? 

Tim, for the hundredth time, avoided the Bats. Batman was highly trained, had endless gadgets, and connections across the globe. And Batman had basically outlawed all the traits that made Tim, Tim. Gotham was Tim’s home, and he didn't want to be pushed out by a traumatized furry with too much time on his hands. And that was the best route. Worst being the Batman arresting him - locking up and away from his siblings and Mother. 

Tim would rather die than be taken. 

“Timothy Drake.” Batman rumbled, drawing his gaze to the cowled head. Mischief slipped out the window before he continued. “We need to talk. I had hoped to do this differently.”

“What, you hadn't planned to break into my house and have your youngest threaten me with a fucking sword? Shocking.”

Tim shifted his toes. The window was going to be his best bet at this point. The Bat shifted with him - fuck, he totally knew Tim was going to book it. 

Okay, new plan. 

Batman began to speak, that deep, rumbling, growl of his even and flat. Tim forced his conscious deep underground, kneading and twisting and whispering and encouraging his more sessile siblings. Tim searched for a foothold, forcing his face blank and his eyes tracking the vigilantes invading his home, but his mind was deep underground. 

And then, Tim pulled. 

The earth shook and the breeze giggled in delight as concrete cracked like thunder and split open. Enormous vines broke through, twisting and reaching for the smog covered sky near City Hall. Far away from Tim’s home near the Diamond District. Tim brought himself back to body just in time to see Batman tense and listen to the tinny voice in his ear, frantically saying something. 

He growled and turned to an already protesting Robin, making his way out the window. Robin paused on the sill and looked back at Tim, glare hot enough to be felt through the mask lenses. “Remain here, interloper. This is merely a distraction that will be dealt with swiftly. We will return.”

Tim, feeling just a tad petty, broke his blank facade and allowed a ghost of a knowing smirk to pull the corner of his lip. Robin scowled at the mocking expression and opened his mouth to respond when he was yanked from the sill and out the window proper. Tim slammed the window shut and locked it as the Batmobile tore down the road. 

“Shit.” he muttered, dropping to the ground and putting his head on his knees. He felt tired all of a sudden, no doubt from enchanting his plant siblings to grow that large, from calling them so far away. He had wanted to emulate Poison Ivy’s work and had to do so accordingly. Mischief landed on the floor in front of him, quiet for once, and he felt her gaze, trusting and patient. He reached out a hand and stroked her head softly. “Looks like we’re leaving, sweet sister.” 

He couldn't stay here, not now that he had their attention. They latched on like a botfly in the skin, and Tim had no tweezers to extract them. Not yet anyway. He was going to have to lay low for a while. 

Tim sighed and pushed himself to stand, and pulled his phone back out. He had it silenced so he had missed the 20 calls from John after he had hung up. Tim redialed as he flicked his hand to pull his duffel out from under his bed. He turned to his closet and started pulling out his go-jeans and preferred hoodies as the bag settled on his bed.

“What in the seven bloody fucking hells just happened?” John shouted in lieu of greeting. 

Tim sighed, throwing underwear atop his packed clothes and moving to the bathroom. He had to be quick, and really, he didn't have to bring anything. Material possessions are a human luxury after all, and Tim was raised in the wild. Toothpaste, he thought when he began packing his toiletries, was nonnegotiable, however. “I need to stay in the House for a bit. Is that alright?”

John sputtered a bit at his distracted tone, “‘Course. Pretty sure the damn place likes you more than me anyway. Why? What happened?”

“Bat invasion. Most likely because of the bank bomb the other day.”

“Lucifer’s left ass cheek, love. You think it’s ‘cause of the lil’ moppet you grabbed?”

“Likely.” he muttered, slipping the bathroom bag next to the clothes. He grabbed his laptop and his chargers and stuffed them in too before zipping the duffel up and slinging it over his shoulder. “Robin was going through my drawers and Batman was trying to talk to me. I may or may not have faked an Ivy attack to get them out.”

A snort. “Smashing,” he replied dryly. “I ain't home yet, prolly gunna be a minute. Finishing up some purchases.”

“I’m offended, John. You know how much I’ve always wanted to go to Diagon Alley.”

“Oh fuck off you cheeky lil’ twit. You know you glow like a bloody beacon ‘round people like us.”

“Like you,” Tim corrected absent minded as he shooed off a nosy sibling, it had no form, more cloud than figure, but Tim knew word would reach Mother from it quickly - if she didn't know already. 

“Like us,” John insisted. “Just because you’ve got half the primary beings wrapped around your pinky, doesn't mean you aren't just as human as I am.”

“You aren't entirely human either, soulless wonder.”

John cackled, delighted, and changed the subject. Tim appreciated the words in his ear - they kept him grounded against the rising panic that bloomed the longer he stayed. 

Tim quickly made his way downstairs towards his kitchen pantry. He slipped inside, Mischief perched on the closed bag under his arm and shut the door. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark - another gift from Mother, a teaching she insisted upon for the child she raised wild - and he offered his thumb to the raven. Mischief reached over and delicately sliced a thin cut down the bottom of the digit, which Tim immediately used to grip the doorhandle. 

When he first moved in, John had insisted Tim have a way to the House of Mysteries in case of emergency (or for a casual visit, though he would never admit that part aloud). Tim agreed. The knob reacted to his blood, absorbing the liquid and forming a glowing blue circle around his wrist. Delicate strokes of icy blue revealed runes within the circle and it was only once Tim felt the zap of electricity that was tied to magic did he turn the knob and push open the door. 

The House welcomed him like a beloved, anticipated relative, floorboards flattening and carpet straightening. A cool breeze shifted his hair and Tim murmured a soft greeting as he made his way to his designated room. 

He had spent a good amount of time here over the years - Gotham was home, but the House was a place where he could exist without dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. Mother did not often visit him here, a house was still a house and that meant a confined space - not a pleasurable thing for a being of her greatness- but this was where he most commonly saw Dream, where he and the Endless being would cross over to his realm and explore the mist-like magic of the Dreaming. The air was always easier to breathe here, and in all honesty, cleaner, no doubt, but it was likely because of how woven in the magic of the House was. Tim took in a greedy breath as he walked, letting the air in his chest settle into pain before releasing it again. The entire building was held together by will and the arcane, having developed a sentience of its own several hundred years before. 

The House led him down the hallway, opening his door politely for him to enter. Mischief happily took off to swoop further down the hallway - content he was dropped off and safe enough for her to do as birds do. She always thrived here. His most constant companion was born of similar woven threads, made of dreams and nightmares and created especially to act as Dream’s own raven companions did, though Mischief was never, and never would be, human in any sense unlike his uncle's ravens that acted as his eyes and ears. Still, she was his and he was hers until Tim’s body aged and withered and his soul was claimed by Mother to immortalize in a new body - such as she had sworn to do since the moment, he began inquiring about what the word ‘death’ meant - and even then, the raven was likely to follow him.

His pendent hummed, low and warm, and Tim dropped his bag as he dropped onto his unmade bed, groaning as he sank just enough to wish to never leave or move again.

Tim woke to the soft creaking of the shutters - the House trying not to startle him - and a blanket thrown over his back. John was back, and Tim wondered how long he’d been asleep. 

He made his way down the hallway and then stairs, letting the House shift the floor to guide him. It was easy to get lost in a place like this, hell, the House encouraged intruders to die aimlessly wandering her halls, and Tim’s general philosophy was to allow himself to be guided. 

The smell of pancakes and syrup wafted out of the kitchen and Tim grinned at Mischief, who was perched on the doorframe. John sat at the counter, cigarette perched between two fingers and held away from his body as he flipped through what looked like an ancient book. Smelled ancient too, Tim noted, that stale small of old paper and bindings mingling with…smoke? He didn't want to know. 

“Morning.” Tim greeted, walking up to inspect the pancakes cooking in the pan - three small ones, just as he preferred. The House’s doing, most likely, as John had a tendency to set the food and himself on fire every time he tried to cook anything that wasn't microwavable. 

Said man grunted out a greeting and placed a mark in between the pages of the questionable book in front of him. “You slept like the dead. Dream come in?”

Tim shrugged, plating the pancakes and opening the fridge to pull out blueberries and whipped cream which he topped the breakfast with along with syrup. “Not that I know of. I didn't even mean to crash, honestly.”

The conversation moved on from there, easy and flowing in the way it often did with the man. He couldn't stay long, he explained, was tracking some cult that had caught the attention of the Justice League and thus was now his problem.

“What about Zatanna?”

“They’ll call her when shit hits the fan after they ignore every warning I give.”

“Ah.” 

John left Tim with aggressively ruffled hair and an eye roll. The quiet of the House was both comforting and disconcerting. Tim was used to his siblings twittering around and causing mischief, laughing and loud. The House, existing in the thin boundary between dimensions, had little to none of his siblings save the occasional traveler or merchant. It was unnerving in a good way - Tim adored his siblings, don't get him wrong, but at the end of the day they were siblings and sometimes Tim wanted to light them on fire, just as anyone with siblings sometimes does. 

Mischief swooped down and nibbled at the syrupy berries on his plate and Tim leaned back with a sigh. 

What to do now was the question. 

He could go to the Dreaming, but as much fun as Lucienne was, she was busy and Corninthian, for as much as Tim knew he wouldn't hurt him, honestly freaked Tim sometimes. It was a gamble on the Nightmare's mood, a gamble on how he would act regardless of mood, to be honest. He always felt better with Dream there, so that was probably a no. He could call for his uncle, but he knew he was probably busy as usual.

He could make a trip to see Mother - it had been a while since he saw her, about two weeks, which was a long time for Tim who preferred to visit at least every three days. But that would mean her pointedly waiting for him to tell her about why he was staying in the House. How she knew, he had no idea, probably never would. Every time he commented on her seemingly endless knowledge she would smile that kind, if slightly condescending smile of hers and would inform him that mothers know everything and she knows all. There is a difference, of course, between everything and all. And Tim would rather not have to tell her about the Bats. Just because she already knew, doesn't mean she would be any happier - would probably be angrier hearing it from him. 

He giggled a little at the thought of Mother’s wrath focused on the Bats. But yeah…that’s not happening. Mischief looked and cocked her head at him judgmentally. He rolled his eyes at her and stood, dropping the plate in the sink and making his way back to his room. Work it was then. 

Woohoo. 

Writing the reports was the least fun part of his job, Tim thought as he typed, notepad open next to him. He was midway through already, at least. Honestly, when his phone vibrated, Tim was embarrassed at how quickly he jumped to grab it.

“All right, don't be mad.”

Tim froze at the flat toned accent. John never started a call like this. Out of breath and chanting? Sure. Calm and resigned. Maybe. Harried and flat. Near never. That knowledge had the hair on his neck rising before he even continued. “John-” he started warningly.

“Blimey, just - Okay.” a resigned sigh. “Remember how I told you about that cult?” a shout came from further away from the speaker, muffled enough that Tim couldn't make out what it said, and John cursed something nasty, “How fast can you get here? Could really use your eyes on this shit show.”

Tim looked between his notepad and his screen, contemplating. He groaned, standing up. “Alright, where are you?”

The door the House opened dropped Tim, who had woven light around his face to obscure it, off at, surprise, a dusty warehouse - why was it always a warehouse. Underground too, if Tim’s senses were correct (they were, the earth around the outside the metal walls rumbled a greeting). Mischief perched on his shoulder as he made his way towards the center of the room where the floor was painted with runes and overlapping circles. What the hell were they trying to summon?

Something nasty by the smell of it. The room smelled like smoke and sulfur - that sharp, faintly garbage - like smell. Tim tilted his head and reached out to touch the painted floor. The dreamstone warmed beneath his hoodie.

A door creaked loudly on the back wall and the protesting metal swung open to reveal a very harried looking John Constantine. The man met his eyes and gave a relieved grin, hurrying over. “Kid,” he murmured, wrapping an arm across Tim’s shoulders and giving him a half hearted noogie. Mischief moved to the top of his head, grumbling something fierce. “Good to see you. Well -” he gestured to Tim’s general face.

“Yeah, so, uh, what's happening here? It freaking stinks,” Tim muttered, scrunching his nose, and pointedly ignored the waving hand in front of him. He moved out of John's grip. “It seems handled to me. Considering the distinct lack of screaming and glowing runes.”

“Trust me. It’s not.” he grumbled. The magician turned back and walked to the door, waving a hand in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Tim obligated, if only out of curiosity. 

The door opened up to a similar looking room as the one he dropped into, but this one was occupied. Four men in long, cloak-like robes sat on the ground tied up, another was lying on the ground, and standing off to the side was Superman and -

“You son of a fucking bastard.” Tim hissed, and turned to leave. John caught his arm, causing Mischief to caw in a clear warning. “Batman? Seriously?”

“I know. I know! But I couldn't exactly warn you about the bloody bastard without him getting all broody and suspicious. It’ll be fine, not like he'll recognize your face!” John replied in a whisper. 

Tim glared and pointed to the raven perched next to his head, who, like the shit she was, preened and nibbled his finger.

John groaned, “Fucking hell. You don't have to answer anything he says, kid. I just need your eyes for this and then you can fuck right off.”

“Constantine.” The Bat rumbled, and both men turned to look at the Dark Knight. He turned his head to look at Tim and if Tim hadn't been watching him so closely he wouldn't have even noticed his posture change. Recognition. John took a swig of his whiskey flask. Tim, for once, mourned his lack of liquid courage. This was going to suck. Royally.

“Yeah, yeah, Bats. This is an associate of mine, as I said.” John led Tim over to the group on the floor. “Take a gander at ‘em?” He turned to Tim who furrowed his brows in confusion but squatted down close to the nearest man and looked. Really looked. 

Here’s the thing - everything living had an aura. Humans, plants, animals, even the Fair Folk. The more magic one had, the more tied to the arcane one was, the brighter they glowed. Souls wrapped in magic could not be contained within a physical body, after all. John called Tim a glowstick for a year after first meeting him, and it was only once Tim learned to mask his aura did the older man stop. Humans, as separate as they had become, were not dissimilar to a dimming lightbulb, only noticeable if you searched for their light, their aura. Even when masking one’s aura it could be found if one searched, and yet -

These men had nothing. No glow, no aura, no magic. Souls were formed, were born, from magic - couldn't exist with it - and yet these men had nothing. It was eerie, the darkness, the significant lack. Tim could feel that his aunt had yet visited, her smell of lavender and incense was nowhere to be found in the room, not to mention the fact that Tim could sense their souls rapidly cooling in their bodies.

He turned to John with a questioning look (not that the older man could see it through the masking). John sighed, “Yeah, you see it too?”

Tim hummed an agreement and reached over to tilt the cult member’s head up. Tim gently peeled back his lids to look at his eyes. 

A gaping hole greeted him and Tim cringed back.

“What were they summoning?” Tim asked, dropping his grip and stepping back away from the group. That smell was back, and the air was stale. 

“We don't know. The hope was that you would.” Superman replied, before pausing and shaking his head as though he just remembered something. He brought his hand in front of him. “I don't believe we’ve met. Superman.”

Tim looked at the hand for a minute before lightly shaking it. “I know. Hi.”

The hero’s brows furrowed at the deliberate lack of name, but he didn't push. Points for Supes, then.

Tim hummed softly as he turned to walk back to the previous room. Looking down, he traced the runes and circles with his feet, tracking the pattern like a dance. There was no rhyme or reason for it, more that it was something to do with his feet while his mind spun and worked. 

Eyes. The windows to the soul. One could survive with their eyes, rarely did they survive having them removed entirely, however. Eyes. The word felt right - like it was a starting point, the right starting point, the entrance to the forest.

Eyes..

Souls.

Windows.

Tim froze. Eyes. 

He sped-walked back into the other room, ignoring John's calls, and grabbed the arm of the same man from earlier, lifting it to see his hand. His fingers and palms were black, the color of burnt flesh. But it wasn't burned, it was stained. Marked like a punishment. Coupled with the eyes, Tim was pretty sure these men got caught with their hands in the metaphorical cookie jar. “They weren't summoning anything, I wager. They were opening a door - trying to, at least.” He held up the hand to show John, who tilted his head in thought, before his face twisted. 

“Bloody hell.”

“Wrong realm,” Tim said dryly, “Little to the left.”

“Explain.” Batman growled.

Tim shared a look with John. A silent conversation that ended with Tim agreeing to speak with his uncle through a single nod, and John turning to catch up the two heroes currently staring holes into the side of his head.

The Dreaming was a realm of beauty and terror, an alive thing that was effectively an extension of his uncle's consciousness, which meant Tim was welcomed as his feet hit the stone path. The sky was watercolor, filled by purple and pinks and pale yellows in the evening hour, and the breeze was warm. It was always strange at first, to not have the wind whispering in his ear, and the earth silent beneath his feet. Morpheus’s castle stood tall and proud and intimidating. Tim had run within its halls since he was small, but he never failed to stand in awe of the great building. 

Lucienne met him at the entrance, her face kind and smile soft. Tim was not surprised by her appearance - Lucienne knew everything that happened within the realm, as was her purpose alongside maintaining the libraries. She led him through the ornate hallways and to his uncle, who stood in front of his office window - a massive thing reminiscent of the rose window of Notre Dame. Tim wondered idly which came first. 

“Hello, Uncle.” Tim greeted me.

Morpheus nodded at him in that slow, steady way of his. “Nephew. What brings you to me?”

“I was asked to consult on an incident by Constantine.” Dream tilted his head at the name. The two, Tim was aware, had a strained but professional relationship. Dream acknowledged the man’s abilities and skillset, but disapproved of his lackadaisical approach to, well, everything. “A cult summoning that results in the primary member’s hands becoming stained black and his eyes being removed from his head.”

Dream hummed, “The Corinthian, then, is your first thought?”

Tim nodded, “I know he has been remade and is under your word, but the incantation runes resemble that of a doorway - an opening between realms.”

The shadows shifted and formed, with a wave of Dream’s hand, lengthening and growing until the Nightmare stepped out of them. “Master.” he said with a nod of his head. 

“You encountered a cult not long ago.” Dream tuned the words as a statement rather than a question. 

Another nod, “I did. They had attempted to break into the library when Lucienne was out. The Dreaming burned their hands and I took the intruder's eyes. His memories revealed his intentions and thus I stained the rest of the cult as well. Was that wrong?" the nightmare purred

Dream turned to Tim, “Does this answer your question, young one?”

Tim dipped his head, “Yes, thank you. What does the stain do?” He directed his words towards the Corinthian. 

The blond nightmare grinned devilishly, “It is not an easy life to live when one is blind and powerless.”

Ah. 

“So, there is no crime here, rather a consequence." Tim murmured, relieved. “Thank you both, that is all I needed.”

Lucienne walked to the doors to lead him out, but Tim paused at the call of his name. “I recommend seeing your mother soon, boy. We will speak soon as well.”

The foreboding in the Endless being’s voice sent goosebumps down his arms as Tim quickened his steps.

Tim was not pouting, absolutely not. He was expressing his discontent, no matter what John tried to claim. 

The older man had dragged him to the Watchtower because, according to the disgruntled warlock, the Bat had insisted Tim explain in person for the report. Tim naively thought he could fuck right off the second he was done explaining that no, Mr. Batman sir, their hands were burned because they got caught in the cookie jar and yes, they almost caused an inter-dimensional incident, but no. He was asked to stay here, sitting at the circular table in a very comfortable chair, Mischief on his lap, clearly affected by his own shitty mood by the way she was practically vibrating with aggression. Tim stroked down her head and neck calmingly as he glanced around. 

He hated it up here - in space, so far removed from the earth and wind. His sibling nowhere to be-

Oh.

Oh, hello.

Tim grinned up at the vent as tiny hands waved from behind the bars. A Boggart or three, round and small and mischievous, had gathered around the vent opening to watch him. Tim held in a snicker. At least this could be entertaining. Boggart was a general term, it should be noted, like ‘big cat’ or ‘bird’. There were different types of Boggarts just as there were different types of birds. Yet, Boggarts, like all his Fair siblings, had a penchant for mischief. 

“Have fun.” Tim mouthed silently upwards. 

Such words were not simply permission, rather encouragement. Wreak havoc, was another way he could phrase it and the meanings would be the same. IF he was going to be stuck here for a while (Tim was leaning towards yes with how the main JLA members - Batsy, Supes, Arrow, Wonder Woman, Glowstick, Aquaman, Timeline Fucker-Upper, and Martian Manhunter - were all gathered in the same tight circle that they had been in since he finished talking), he was at least going to find something to distract himself. 

He had no idea how his siblings got up into the fucking Watchtower of all places, but Tim wasn't going to complain, he’d just bring them back with him when he left. John groaned from his seat next to him, having followed his gaze upwards to see the flicking of tails as the Boggarts disappeared, hearing the tiny laughter that always preceded chaos. When Tim met his gaze with a brow raised in challenge, John had shaken his head in acceptance. “Not my problem. I tried to let you leave; they chose this.” Superman looked over with his brows furrowed, glancing between the now innocent faced warlocks (For Tim really wasn't human, not anymore at the very least. John was only designated as a warlock at this point because of how many oaths and deals he had made over the years, and Tim worked so closely with his siblings) before hesitantly turning his attention back to the murmuring group. 

It wasn't long before his siblings struck. A pop preceded a fizzling and suddenly the sprinkler system erupted to life, dousing the entire room in water. Tim sniggered meanly as the heroes sputtered, Batman racing over to the computer to shut off the fire system. Mischief let out a sound that sounded suspiciously like a sigh and slipped under his hoodie to hide from the spray of water.

Then the lights turned blue, casting the rooms in cerulean light and having the interesting effect of making it look like they were underwater. A barely there music began, sounding suspiciously like a certain Disney song. 

Tim cackled so hard water shot up his nose, hand coming to rest under the bundle under his clothes to support Mischief’s weight as he shook.

Green Arrow stormed over, nearly slipping on the wet flooring. “Knock it off, you little shit!” he snarled, reaching over to grab at Tim’s collar.

“Arrow.” Superman scolded, having zipped over to deescalate. He turned to look at Tim imploringly, “Tim, will you please stop?” Oh yeah, Batsy, the prick, had let them all know his name. He was lucky that brownie of his was so protective, else he’d be receiving a mice infestation in that nice house of his. 

Tim sobered with a grin still splitting his face, “I would. But I, in a fascinating turn of events, have nothing to do with this. Can I go home now?”

Ah. A stare off. Tim could do a stare off; he was great at them - learned from the best. 

A certain Rick Astley song came over the speakers and coupled with the now rainbow shifting lights and slowly flooding the room, Superman broke and groaned and looked away. 

“I think it is best we let Tim go. Don't you think, Batman?” Wonderwoman asked pointedly.

Batman signed, hands on the desk to support his weight, and nodded without turning to face them.

Tim had spent his entire life successfully avoiding Bats, yet the past few months had him running into them at every fucking street corner. He was well aware he was being stalked, surveilled, but come on, guys, your whole schtick is supposed to be never being seen - being the embodiment of living shadows. Tim had a whole debate with the shadows on whether or not they should find the whole thing offensive (opinions were mixed, the deep shades that lingered near the Hill found it hilarious and happily hid the mere mortals, the dark pits of the Bowery found them all repulsive save Red Hood, and finally the shadows in the Financial District were unbothered and ignored the Dark Knights - too busy mimicking the people they clung to, too busy and stressed to care much about humans mimicking their nature, so jury’s still out on the consensus.)

Either way, Tim could see every last one of them. Somebody should set up a skill-class or something because clearly, they need to brush up on being invisible.

Tim damn near groaned at the next shadow to shoot across the buildings parallel to him. Subtle, real subtle. Honestly, Tim was just going to keep on his happy way, humming a song of the wind, his shopping bags over his arm and his raven sister gliding above him, but he felt unfamiliar eyes on him, and it was starting to become uncomfortable, tiring.

The crisp evening air had goosebumps on his skin and his breath fogging with each exhale, and he fumbled with his keys before unlocking his door. Tim turned, ever so slightly to glance over his shoulder at the dark lump on the rooftop of the apartment across the street. He gave a single, sharp nod towards his foyer before making his way inside and shutting the door. 

They’d get the message - Tim wouldn't offer twice. 

Turns out, he was right. Tim had just dropped into his recliner, Mischief flapping in to perch atop the fridge in the kitchen (she had a stash of treats there - for a being that was made from woven dreams she sure did like to eat), and he had just pulled out his phone to look through emails when multiple dark figures slipped in through the window. Tim sighed and leaned back. This was his playing ground now - he set the rules. 

Batmen, cape covering his body entirely, stood at the front of the ensemble. Red Hood, evidently by the blood red helmet against the shadows, dropped onto his sofa and crossed his heel onto his knee in a faux relaxed movement. Nightwing and Robin sat tense behind Batman, and it took everything in Tim not to leap out his skin when Black Bat dropped onto the coffee table in front of him, having appeared out of nowhere. She tilted her head at him; a gesture Tim returned with furrowed brows. 

He liked her, he decided.

Tim sighed, turning his gaze back to the Bats - okay, let’s get this over with.

 “First off,” Tim held up a finger, “I was born and raised in Gotham city. I will not be leaving no matter how much my existence irritates you. Get over it.” A second finger. “Second, I want you to stop trying to stalk me everywhere I go. It’s been two weeks since the Watchtower thing and you need to get over it.”

Batman let out a grunt, “You are a magician?”

“Warlock is closer and even that is not accurate. I am me and me is I.”

“You told Robin he had ‘green’; what did you mean by that?” Red Hood tensed minutely, such a small thing Tim wouldn't haven't noticed if he hadn't been tracking every move the Bats made. Interesting. 

“What I said. Hood has it worse though. Whatever shit you got into is nasty, let me tell you.” Tim shuddered and it wasn't entirely dramatic. Shit was creepy, was reaching for him even now. “Ironic you got some of that shit going on considering the whole ‘magic is bad, grr’ thing you got going on.” Tim lowered his voice mockingly.

Hood leaned forward, “Nasty how? Signal hasn't mentioned it, so it can't be an aura thing.”

Tim raised a brow, “Signal is a meta, a human with a unique gene that allows them to evolve abilities the average person cannot possess. If he can see ‘auras’ that is likely the light moment around a person that can help determine movement and emotion. True auras are the excess of magic intertwined in the soul and that escape to orbit or hover around the body. Everyone had them, but those who are more closely tied to magic have an excess. You, for example,” he pointed to Hood, “have a bit more glow than the average human, but that is exacerbated by an intermingled green magic - foreign magic - that is quite literally tied to your soul. If normal magic is a clear stream, the green is polluted sewer pipe, in simple terms. It's half alive too, so you also got that going on.”

“And Robin?” Nightwing asked, sounding distressed.

Tim glanced over at the smallest Bat. “He’s been around it. Not directly exposed, I suspect, like Hood had been, but around it enough that it tainted his edges.”

Nightwing's shoulders dropped and Hood let out a mechanized breath. Batman continued. “Are you able to remove the…green?”

“I could physically see the italics there, just so you know. If you have a better name for it, I’m all ears.” Tim rolled his eyes. “And no, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. It’s not hurting Robin, and it’s very much tied into Hood’s lifeforce at this point, so removing it could kill him if done incorrectly. That said, it's more of a symbiotic relationship I imagine, considering you have yet to be completely taken over and turned into a meat puppet.” Silence. Tim tapped his chin and crossed his legs loosely, “Or it’s biding its time until its most beneficial. So.”

Nightwing was the most expressive of the bunch, his face twisted in growing horror at Tim’s words. Honestly, he had to fight back a giggle at the face he was currently pulling.

Robin tsked and drew Tim’s attention. “And you will not assist in its removal?” It was more a statement than a question, and Tim almost cooed at the attempt to sound intimidating. Robin was precious when he wasn't threatening Tim with a sword - he wanted to wrap the child in a blanket and give him chocolate. 

Tim smiled and shook his head, “Nope. Not without a parent present! And all my guardians are either busy running their respective realms or ignoring my existence until I’m halfway dead, so.”

Batman twitched, “Your human parents?”

What about them, Tim wondered idly as a brownie crawled into his lap. His sister swung her legs as he began running his fingers through her frizzy hair to tame it enough to braid. Was he asking if that was who Tim was referring to in his previous statement, or was he asking about their whereabouts? He shrugged, “Don't count! Neither does John. Mother made that one clear last time there was an…incident.”

Tim had finished the second braid in his sister's hair and was moving onto the third, so he almost missed the quiet glances between the Bats. “What are you doing?” Nightwing asked, looking at his hands.

Tim smiled a secret smile, “Braiding my sister’s hair.” He pointedly did not elaborate further - would not unless they were able to see his sister. 

Batman sighed, “Do you believe it is even possible to do something about the magic?”

He shrugged again, “No idea. I’d need a closer look, and again, not allowed to.”

Black Bat turned to look at Batman, glancing from him to Red Hood. Tim watched them all exchange looks. There was a tension in the room, one that Tim was choosing not to be a part of. His sister hopped off his lap and scurried up the stairs. “So, uh, is this going to be a problem? Me being here? Because if we're going to have an issue, I need to know.” His voice hardened, losing the light tone Tim had adopted since sitting down. 

Nightwing shook his head, “No. Our main concern was more about what you were doing in Gotham - we hadn't known about you before a few months ago. It’s just covering our bases, you know? Right, B?

Batman grunted an affirmative, though he seemed more resigned. Good, Tim thought. He’d be damned if they tried to force him out. Would happily tattle to Mother and his siblings about the whole thing. Would laugh as they took care of matters. 

“Great. So, we’re done here?”

Black Bat stood to leave, motioning Robin to follow her, which the kid hesitantly obliged. Nightwing dropped down on the sofa next to Hood who growled and shifted away. Batman stayed put, “You live alone?”

Tim paused and looked back at the larger man. “My siblings come through. Mischief stays with me. No, I don't. Why?”

“You're about 18, and you've lived alone since last year.”

“Congrats, what about it? I could tell you about yourselves if we’re sharing shit we learned while stalking each other.”

Every vigilante in the room tensed at his words and Tim grinned, proud of himself. 

“You know who we are.” Batman grunted. 

“Of course, B.” he purred, “Not hard to figure out when your family gossips like it's a full-time job. And I'm a PI, so.”

Red Hood snorted and took his helmet off as he descended into mocking cackles. “He’s got you there, B.”

“Hood!” Nightwing scolded, “He could be -”

“I don't tend to make a liar out of myself, Mr. Grayson.” The room froze at Tim's nonchalant words. “And either way, he’s wearing a domino under that helmet, no?”

Batman sighed, shoulders dropping, looking exhausted. “You are safe and have no plans to become a Rogue or an otherwise nuisance?”

Tim bit back a retort and opted to nod simply, a gesture the Bat returned before moving to slip out the window. 

Nightwing sighed and went to follow his father out. Red Hood stayed back when Tim lifted a silent hand. He waited until the wind shifted to show they were out of hearing distance before speaking softly. “If it becomes a problem - the green - come back to me. I will speak with my Mother about it. She is wise and all knowing, so she will have a solution, if not advice.”

Red Hood paused before giving a slow nod. “Thanks, kid.”

Tim hummed, “Do me a favor? Leave an opening of some sorts in Nightwing’s apartment in Blüdhaven - an unlocked door, a window, whatever. I don't appreciate being stalked, and I know for a fact the last time he broke in he took one of my books.”

“Sure, I was going to drive though anyway. Need a ride there?”

“No, no. I should ask though, does he have any allergies?”

“Uh. Not that I know of…why?”

“The pixies are fond of pollen-bombing.”