Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim thinks he’s officially hit rock bottom. Though, to be fair, it’s not the first time he's thought this.

He thought it when he tried to clone Kon—when grief hollowed him out so completely that reality stopped making sense.

He thought it again when Robin was taken from him, when the entire superhero community turned on him for going too far.

The third time should’ve been the charm, right? That time he lost his spleen and found himself at Ra’s al Ghul’s mercy—Ra’s, who had both a civilian hostage for leverage and the certainty that no one was coming to save him.

Turns out he’s wrong; there are lower places to fall.

Being chained up and sold to a kingdom he didn’t even know existed until five minutes ago is one of them.

A glowing green portal rips itself open in the middle of Ra's throne room before he's even done reeling over what he's been told is happening to his soul. Ra's takes one last look at him and says, “If only you’d been a woman. What magnificent things we could have done, had you chosen my side and given me a heir. As it is, you now serve a higher purpose. Goodbye, Detective.”

Then he shoves Tim through.

The portal spits him out onto a freezing floor that looks like cracked ice. His wrists are chained to the collar biting into his neck; his head hangs low under the weight, a gag cutting off his voice. Every weapon is gone, every piece of intel useless—he’s been thrust into a new reality where, apparently, his soul no longer belongs to him.

Others kneel beside him—how many, he can’t tell. Shapes linger in his peripheral vision, unmoving, statuesque.

The click of heels echoes down the line. A woman’s voice follows, cool and decisive, dismissing each kneeling figure one by one. When she stops in front of him, silence drops heavy and suffocating.

“Yes… this one has potential,” she says at last. “Take him to Frostbite.”

Hands seize him immediately, jerking him upright. Before he can grunt through the gag, they shove him into another portal.

The cold on the other side is worse. Biting, sharp. His teeth chatter as they force him down onto a slab of ice, the frozen surface leeching away what little warmth he has left through the thin clothes Ra’s dressed him in. A faint tingling creeps through his limbs, alien and unsettling. A massive, fur-covered figure looms at the edge of his vision.

“He is damaged,” a deep, rumbling voice says. “It will take time to heal him.”

Panic flares white-hot. He makes a muffled noise, thrashing against his restraints, but no one spares him so much as a glance.

Something presses into his mind—a soft, smothering weight, like a blanket drawn over his thoughts. Darkness sweeps in, and he’s gone.

When he wakes, the ache in his side is gone. So is the bone-deep exhaustion he’s carried since Bruce died—maybe even before that. He feels… good. Rested. Whole. Painless in a way he hasn’t been in years.

It’s so alien, so startling, that he just sits there blinking, quietly taking stock of a body that no longer hurts.

“Greetings,” the same growling voice from before he fell asleep rumbles.

Tim’s eyes shift toward the source—and land on a giant yeti. The creature is massive, fur thick and white, one arm sculpted entirely from ice. Startling, yes, but not the strangest thing Tim’s ever seen.

“You should be feeling much better now,” the yeti says. “Your body is healed of its ailments, and what you lost is now returned. The Great One deserves nothing but the best.”

Tim still can’t speak.

A sudden yank on his collar forces him upright. The hand belongs to a woman in centuries-old clothing. She’s beautiful, but wrong. Her skin carries a faint blue hue, her eyes glow faintly in the dim light, and her smile is edged with too-sharp teeth. Each of her nails curve into lethal points.

“Thank you, Frostbite,” she says. “I will take him to the castle now.”

“I wish you luck,” the yeti replies. “You will need it if you are to convince the Great One to finally take on a Consort.”

Tim goes pale.

The woman’s smile widens. “He will. This one has promise.”

A portal yawns open before them, shimmering like liquid glass. She tugs at the chain at his neck and drags him forward. “I’ll see you at the next meeting,” she calls over her shoulder.

The other side is slightly warmer—still cold enough to sting, but less brutal to human senses. This time, Tim is led into a room with a roaring fireplace, the heat washing over him in lazy waves. He’s pushed down onto a thick fur rug beside a plush couch.

“You will stay here while I fetch the King,” she says, as if he has a choice.

When she leaves, Tim tries to stand—only to find he can’t. His body refuses the command, an invisible weight is holding him in place. He’s trapped, waiting for whatever fate is about to step through that door.

He can admit, at least to himself, that he’s terrified.

An unknown land. Unfamiliar faces. No weapons. No way to call home.

He’s worse than flying blind—his wings are broken, and he’s lying crumpled on the ground.

He has no plan.

Batman would be disappointed.

Tim hears it before he sees it—something sliding into the room.

No footsteps. No creak of weight on the floorboards. Just a sound like silk dragging over stone, smooth and continuous, accompanied by the faint hiss of displaced air. Whatever it is, it doesn’t move like anything human.

The movement is fluid, deliberate, and carries a heavy presence that makes the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He feels his stomach clench, a quiver running through him that has nothing to do with the cold.

"What the—"

The voice doesn’t just speak. It coils around him, vibrating in his bones, threading through the air like a low chord in an endless song. “Who… is this Dora’s doing?”

Tim freezes, holding his breath.

The presence halts directly before him, a shifting shadow towering in his peripheral vision. Slowly—carefully—he drags his gaze upward.

The thing before him is huge. Easily twice his height, its silhouette shifting like smoke caught in a breeze or shadows flitting in and out of the light. The outline keeps changing—limbs multiplying, dissolving, re-forming—like it can’t decide on a single shape.

“What’s your name?” the creature asks.

Tim’s instincts scream at him to lie, or at least keep his mouth shut. He steels himself, jaw tightening as his chin lifts. "Shouldn’t you give your name first? It’s only polite.”

The creature goes utterly still. Then, unexpectedly, it laughs—a deep, resonant sound that rolls through the air like distant thunder.

“Fair enough. In short, I am High King Phantom, Ancient of Balance.”

Tim blinks. Ancient of—what now? His brain trips over the words, and then another thought bulldozes in.

“You’re Balance?” he says, incredulous. “Doesn’t immortality go completely against that? I’ve got an entire list of Lazarus Pits memorized that you should probably be dealing with, if you’re so into keeping the scales even.”

King Phantom tilts his head. Instead of offense, Tim catches a ripple of pure amusement radiating out from his shadowed figure.

“Well,” King Phantom says, smoke curling upward like a grin, “aren’t you a mouthy little mortal.”

For reasons Tim can’t explain, that faint glimmer of humor feels far more dangerous than outright anger.

A long, shadow-made arm unspools from King Phantom’s shifting form. Claws glint faintly within the haze—too solid to be an illusion—as they hook into the iron ring at Tim’s collar and pull him forward like he weighs nothing.

Tim stumbles, but uses the momentum to get his feet under him. The chain between them goes taut as he straightens to stare up at the towering figure with as much defiance as he can muster for someone still effectively on a leash.

A low, rumbling purr rolls out of Phantom, strange and resonant, causing the air to seem to vibrate. “Bold,” he murmurs. His shadows curl lazily around Tim, like a cat trying to decide whether to toy with its prey or keep it. “Most mortals kneel.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had enough people trying to make me kneel lately,” Tim says dryly. “I’m not here to be anyone’s ornament.”

The King’s many eyes—or maybe they’re just shifting points of light—gleam. “Then what are you here for?”

“Right now? To survive. Preferably by convincing you to send me back home in one piece. You’re Balance, right? I’m pretty sure ‘human trafficking’ tips the scales in the wrong direction.”

The purr deepens into something akin to a laugh. “You ask much of a stranger, little one. Collared like a dog, caged like a bird.”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, deadpan. “But you’re in a position to help, and I’m betting you don’t get that many visitors who can tell you exactly where the Lazarus Pits are. That’s leverage. We can make a deal.”

Phantom leans down, the shifting smoke bringing that alien face—or whatever approximation of a face he’s wearing—close enough Tim can feel the unnatural chill radiating off of his body. “And what would you offer in return?”

He swallows, but doesn’t look away. “…Depends what you want.”

There’s a pause, then a slow, satisfied curl of vapor around them both. “Court is… tedious,” King Phantom says at last. “Petty disputes. Endless politicking. My advisors are fractious, my nobles unruly. I require someone with a mind for patterns, a talent for strategy, and… a tongue sharp enough to cut through the noise.”

“You want me to play ghost court politics for you?” Tim says skeptically.

“I want you to win them for me,” Phantom corrects, that seemingly ever present amusement thrumming through his voice. “Do that, and I will see to destroying these pits you seem to dislike so much. Then we can discuss you returning home.”

Tim’s mind is already working three angles ahead. “…Fine. But if I’m going to play your game, I’m not doing it in a collar.”

The King’s purr turns into a slow, approving hum. “Negotiating already. You may do well here, after all.”

Phantom studies him for a moment, then the claws at his collar retract. The iron ring clatters to the floor between them.

The chains at Tim’s wrists remain.

“So sad,” Phantom muses, shadows reaching out from his form to curl lazily around Tim’s shoulders, “you looked gorgeous in a collar.”

Before Tim can bite out a retort, the shadowy claws return—two of them settling firmly at his waist. Another arm, long and wreathed in mist, unfurls from nowhere, raking through the air. Reality tears open like fabric under a blade, the edges glowing an unnatural green.

“Wait—” is all Tim gets out before Phantom manhandles him straight through.

They land on cold stone, and Tim blinks against the sudden scent of rot and minerals. His brain catches up just in time to register Ra’s al Ghul waist-deep in a Lazarus Pit, eyes closed, head tilted back like he’s enjoying a long soak.

Ra’s opens his eyes; they go wide.

“Your Highness?” Ra’s says, disbelief sharp in his voice. And then, "Detective?"

Phantom doesn’t answer—he looks at Tim instead. “Is this the one you wanted me to get rid of?”

Tim meets Ra’s’ gaze, lets the silence hang a beat too long, then nods once.

King Phantom snaps his fingers.

The Lazarus Pit shudders, then starts to boil. Steam hisses upward in great, sulfurous clouds. Ra’s gasps, then screams, scrambling to get out. The water clings to him like molten metal, burning straight through the arrogance in his expression. He collapses onto the stone outside the pool, smoking, clutching at his blistering skin. His skin sloughs off in disgusting smelling piles, exposing burnt muscle and charred bone.

Tim can’t move—half because of the chains, half because his brain is still catching up to the casual violence.

Phantom leans down, smoke coiling close until Tim feels that inhuman chill ghost against his skin. His voice drops to a low, pleased hum. “That was ten years working for me.”

Tim’s heart is still thudding against his ribs, but it’s not pure fear—it’s something sharper, hotter, tangled up in the dizzying realization that the King just boiled Ra’s al Ghul alive without so much as wrinkling his metaphorical sleeves.

Oh god. What have I gotten into.

Ten years puts him nearly into his thirties. Before this, Tim hadn't thought he'd even make it to twenty.

But panic isn’t going to get him out of this alive. And, honestly, fear has never been the best part of his survival toolkit—he’s always been better at weaponizing it. In for a penny, he thinks, shifting his stance so the chains clink softly between them.

Tim tilts his head up, just enough to catch Phantom's many-glinting eyes. “You know,” he says, voice low and steady, “if this is how you handle all your problems, I might just have a few more names for you.”

Phantom’s smoky form ripples, that deep purr returning like the roll of distant thunder. “Careful, little detective,” he murmurs. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to seduce me into murder.”

Tim lets one corner of his mouth lift. “Almost?”

Phantom's laughter is a soft, dangerous hum. A swirl of mist coils around Tim’s wrists, sliding up his arms in a way that feels far too deliberate to be just smoke. It feels like a caress, and it leaves a path of goosebumps that have a lot to do with fear. “You are intriguing,” he says. “Tell me the next one.”

Tim leans in—well, as much as the chains will allow—and names another Lazarus Pit location, voice deliberately smooth. “That one is bigger than Ra’s'. If you think his was worth ten years, you’ll love this one.”

Before Tim can blink, the world twists. The cold bite of Phantom's grip is at his waist again, and reality shreds open with that same unnatural green glow.

They step out into a dim, torch-lit cavern. The Lazarus Pit here glimmers an eerie emerald, the faint sound of movement echoing off stone.

Phantom glances down at him, his smoke curling like a smile. “Shall I destroy it for you?” The question is leading. It's laced with a promise Tim isn't entirely sure he understands; a contract he hasn't been given the time to read in full.

Ten years, echoes in his mind like a gong.

Tim meets his gaze, pulse spiking for reasons he doesn’t have the time—or nerve—to unpack. “…Yes.”

His grin turns feral, and the air begins to boil.

The torches flicker as he moves to open a portal as soon as Tim names a new location. Tim is guided through first, almost like he is a princess being escorted to her first ball.

Phantom isn't walking—more like gliding, smoke spilling outward to fill the cavern until the edges blur into nothing. At the new location, the Lazarus Pit starts to hiss, tiny bubbles breaking the surface as if it’s holding its breath.

Tim keeps pace at King Phantom's side, chains clinking with every step. The cold mist curling around him is almost a touch—brushing along the backs of his knees, coiling against his wrists, trailing up the curve of his spine. It makes his whole body hum, equal parts adrenaline and… something else.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Tim says, watching the green glow intensify.

Phantom glances down at him, smoke shifting to reveal a flash of sharp teeth. “And here I thought I was giving you my full attention.”

He arches a brow. “This is your version of full attention? I’m flattered. And maybe a little concerned.”

“You should be,” he purrs, voice like velvet over steel. One clawed hand—solid this time—rests lightly at Tim’s hip, guiding him forward a single step. The touch is cool, firm, and sends an uninvited shiver through him.

The Pit’s water churns harder now, sending waves lapping against the stone.

Tim leans slightly toward him, careful to keep his tone dry. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Phantom’s other hand appears—out of the smoke, from nowhere—ghosting up Tim’s arm until cold claws brush his jaw. “So are you.”

The Pit suddenly surges, a column of boiling green water shooting upward with a roar. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and the cavern fills with the sound of cracking stone. Somewhere beyond the steam, someone—or something—screams.

Tim’s pulse spikes. “That one was… fast,” he says, watching as the water collapses in on itself.

“I’m eager to please.” He leans down, so close Tim can feel the cold radiating off him, and breathes his words against his skin. “Where next?”

Tim swallows. He fixes his gaze on the largest eyes beside his face and holds eye contact. “If I give you another location, are you going to keep touching me like that while you work?”

Phantom’s grin is pure sin. “Try me.”

The next location leaves Tim’s lips before he can second-guess himself. King Phantom’s arm winds around his waist again, reality rips itself open—and they’re gone.

The portal spits them out into a temple hollowed from black rock. The Pit here is carved into the floor like an open wound.

“Three,” Phantom says, like he’s counting down a game, and the water begins to recede—not spill; it vanishes, sucked away into nothing as the stone hisses and steams.

Tim’s breath catches. It’s so quiet. So final. King Phantom glances at him, and his smoke-wreathed hand brushes deliberately across Tim’s lower back, pressing him just close enough to feel the unnatural cold radiating out from his form.

The next location is a cave glowing faintly green from the inside out.

“Four,” Phantom declares, dragging the claws of one hand through the air. The glow fractures—literally—like glass, shards of light scattering into the mist until the water below is nothing but black sludge.

Tim’s mouth is dry, but his pulse is pounding. He’s doing this for me. Not for Balance, not for some grand cosmic law—each destruction is a deliberate offering.

By the fifth Pit, in the basement of a crumbling fortress, Tim doesn’t flinch when Phantom’s claws settle on his hip.

By the sixth, in a rainforest temple choked with vines, Tim is leaning back against him while the Pit explodes into a violent geyser of green steam, his face half-turned toward Phantom's voice when he murmurs, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

It is.

By the seventh, Tim has stopped pretending he’s not affected by the way Phantom’s smoke curls around his legs like a living thing, or how the cold press of claws against his ribs makes his stomach flutter in ways he’s not going to examine too closely for now.

The eighth and final Pit lies in a mountain pass, where wind shrieks through jagged stone like the parting call of vengeful spirits. Phantom grips him by both hips this time, holding him steady while he tilts his head back and drinks the Lazarus water out of existence in a whirl of smoke and frost. Tim can feel the power thrumming through King Phantom’s form, can feel his own heartbeat tripping in response.

Before Tim can even catch his breath, they’re stepping through another tear in reality—back to where it all started.

Only, now that Tim can really look, it’s not a cold interrogation chamber. The space is warm, almost decadent. Deep blue walls. A thick, plush carpet underfoot. One corner piled high with pillows and furs, like a den built for lounging… or for holding court in a very different way.

The chains at his wrists clatter to the floor. Phantom turns away without a word, moving toward the nest of furs and settling into them like a cat claiming its throne.

Tim stands there, breathing hard. His body is still keyed up, his mind buzzing. In for a dime, he thinks, pulse leaping. If he's going to play this game, he's going to play to win.

As Batman would say, review, assess and execute.

Here is what Tim knows: he is alone in a world he knows nothing about. His soul is no longer his own. The being that rules this place is called Phantom and he has shown interest in Tim as a whole. Tim is to work for him; to help him win in court, whatever that may mean. When his sentence is complete, he may be able to return home—but will there be anything left for him by the time it occurs? This, he doesn't know.

Here is what Tim can do: he can learn about this world and its strange ruler. He can perform his duties and make himself useful. He can increase his own standing by solidifying his relationship with Phantom.

He starts toward the corner, slow steps sinking into the carpet, letting his hips sway just enough to be noticed. When he glances up at King Phantom, it’s from under his lashes—an invitation wrapped in something that might just be a dare.

The smoke shifts around Phantom like he’s leaning forward to watch more closely.

Phantom's head tilts, the faintest curl of amusement ghosting over what Tim can see of his mouth. His words come like silk over a blade; a low rumble that makes Tim’s stomach tighten. “What are you doing, little mortal?”

He stops just within reach, his voice steady despite the way his pulse drums in his ears. He's done honeypot missions before and Phantom is not… awful to look at. The parts that he has seen, anyways. “I’m thanking you.”

A slow blink. Then a smile—not kind, not gentle, but indulgent in a way that makes Tim’s breath hitch. “And how, exactly, do you intend to thank me?”

“That,” he murmurs, taking one last step forward until the air between them is nothing but shared breath, “you’ll have to see for yourself.”

And then he lowers himself to his knees. The plush carpet swallows all sound as his gaze holds the sharp, knowing eyes above him.

He lays his hands on his knees, palms upwards in quiet supplication. He knows how to make himself look good. Knows to keep his shoulders back, back arched just so, chin lifted and knees spread. Ra's put him in silk harem pants with slits down the sides. The matching top is just enough to cover his chest, leaving most of his belly and hips bare. It's a suitable outfit for his intentions.

"I thought you said you'd had enough of people making you kneel?"

"You're not making me." Tim wets his lips, more out of nervousness than in seduction, but he can feel Phantom narrow in on the gesture.

A claw hooks under his chin, tilting his head up further. Phantom bends over him, shadows billowing out to obscure his vision. All he can see is those green eyes, pupil-less and lacking a defining sclera.

"This does not change our deal," Phantom warns.

He can feel his breath, like the breeze between glaciers. It brushes over his lips and makes his face feel numb. "I know," he whispers.

He is kissed. The mouth that presses to his own feels shockingly human; the teeth that hide behind it do not. He finds himself struggling to keep up as a mortal with the need to breathe. Teeth worry at his bottom lip, drawing blood and blooming pain that is dulled as soon as it occurs. A tongue slides into his mouth, dipping deeper than it should, until Tim chokes from the surprise of it.

Phantom withdraws to dip a finger into his gasping mouth. His claw alone is the length of Tim's finger. "Ah, I forget how delicate humans are. It wouldn't do to break you. Dora would be cross."

Tim blinks dazedly. He makes a muffled sound behind the finger in his mouth; he hopes it conveys that he's very much on the side of not breaking him.

"You're so small," he muses. His finger pulls back to trail down Tim's jaw. His claw is sharp; he doesn't make him bleed but the threat is there, making Tim swallow.

"Can I touch you?" Tim asks.

A second set of eyes appear above the first, focusing on his face while the others follow the path his claw takes.

"So polite," Phantom rumbles. The shadows around his eyes dip, as if he's given a nod of his head. "You may, little spitfire."

He doesn't let himself hesitate. He pushes his hands into the darkness. For a moment, it feels like he'll find nothing but cool mist; then there's a sense of solidity. He touches skin—or what he thinks is skin. He explores, mapping out what he can't see as Phantom touches him with gentle strokes of claws and smoke. It leaves him shivering. It's also very distracting.

Tim slides his hands down, searching for something familiar to aid him in figuring out Phantom's body. He thinks he comes across hips; the jut of bone feels familiar and if he follows it down—ah.

A low growl rumbles through the room, vibrating Tim's very bones.

He freezes; his eyes fly up to meet one of Phantom's many. "Okay?" he asks cautiously.

A hand settles on his head, claws caressing his hair. "Yes."

Still, Tim moves slowly. His hands are wrapped around what he thinks is Phantom's arousal. It's monstrously thick—his hands can't wrap fully around—and almost spongy. It moves in his grip, malleable and alive. There are little bumps up the shaft and a swelling at the base Tim isn't sure the purpose of; he just knows that when he touches it, Phantom's form stutters like static. The tip is tapered, and wet. He uses that wetness to slick his way as he shuffles closer.

The shadows close in around him, cutting off the rest of the room. It's a strange sensation; Tim can't see what he's touching even though he knows it's right in front of his face. All he can see are the dozens of eyes, blinking in and out of existence at all angles.

"Will whatever you're made of hurt me if I put it in my mouth?"

Phantom's hand slides to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Tim's face bumps against his arousal. "No, it will not." There's a pause and then a flash of fang. "No more than you being here in general will harm you."

Tim has questions about that but questions can wait until after he's solidified his place here. He opens his mouth and turns his head. His tongue drags up the side of Phantom's cock. He suckles at the head and hums at the taste. It's definitely not human; it's almost like static on his tongue. There's no specific taste, just that strange sensation and a faint warmth. He… doesn't hate it.

There's no way he can fit the whole thing in his mouth. Just the head stretches his jaw; a couple more inches and he's straining around the girth, eyes watering as he tries to fight back his gag reflex. Tim prides himself on control but he's never thought he'd have to train to take something Phantom's size. He doesn't think it's physically possible without dislocating his jaw.

Claws tear through the fabric of his clothes. Tim pulls his head off with a gasp, suddenly bare and apprehensive as to where this could be going. He hasn't had sex in a depressingly long time. Trying to take Phantom is going to take a lot of prep.

"I've finally scared you, I see." Phantom rocks himself against Tim's front, running the length of himself over Tim's bare torso. There are so many hands on Tim he can barely keep track. They're in his hair, scratching his scalp; on his thigh, teasing up towards his own evident arousal; on his shoulders, pulling him closer; on his back, petting down his spine; on his arms, guiding them up to wrap around Phantom's arousal in a mock embrace.

Tim's face flushes when he realizes he's essentially become a cock sleeve.

"You've scared me from the beginning," he says. "I'm just… apprehensive about the logistics of making this work."

Phantom laughs like glaciers breaking apart. "I said I would not break you. No, just stay like this. You're beautiful."

He shudders. He tells himself that it's because one of the hands has curled around his arousal and not because that voice purring praise resonates with something in him.

Growling purrs fill his ears as Phantom fucks into the embrace of his arms—because that's what he's doing, Tim realizes with a rush of heat. He's rocking his hips like he's fucking up into someone instead of just rubbing himself against Tim's body. The power behind it nearly jolts Tim's position and he moans imagining what it would feel like if it were inside him.

The many hands on his body pull him closer still. He's vaguely aware of eyes flickering in and out of the smoke as he does his best to keep his arms locked in a tight seal for Phantom to fuck. He laps at what he can, kissing and sucking on Phantom's arousal as his own cock is stroked.

He comes whimpering and is shaken at just how hard it courses through him. He nearly gets a face-full of come for his inattention, as Phantom follows him over with what sounds like a curse. The cock against his chest twitches and undulates, covering his chest and arms in waves of seed. It drips down his body in warm streams and splatters against his face. Tim barely gets a chance to loosen his grip before he's thrown into the nest of furs.

A tongue descends on him, licking between his legs and over his belly to clean his skin. He pushes weakly at what he thinks is Phantom's head, gasping with overstimulation. There's a rumble of a laugh and the gentle scrape of teeth before it moves higher, bathing his upper body in warm licks that he would probably find gross in another setting. Phantom settles beside him, still clothed in smoke but sporting only two eyes.

A clawed hand cards through Tim's hair as his body relaxes. The last of the spend is licked off his cheek and a tongue pushes into his mouth to kiss him, lazy and deep. Tim is half asleep and dizzy by the time Phantom pulls away.

The last thing he hears is Phantom's quiet rumble: "Sleep, little caged bird, I'll guard your dreams."

Chapter Text

Tim wakes with a start, not from an alarm or the prickle of danger, but from the deep, vibrating purr rumbling against his chest. For a breath he can’t place it—then the sharp glide of something distinctly not human traces down his back in slow, deliberate strokes. Pointed claws. Careful, precise. Teasing.

He shivers before he can stop himself, and the claws still immediately.

His eyes shoot open. The room is still drenched in shadows. The nest of pillows and furs holds an intoxicating warmth that leaves him loose limbed and heavy eyed. Above him—close enough that Tim can feel that impossible hum reverberate through his bones—Phantom is watching.

Not with the swirling storm of eyes from last night; this time there are just two. Two burning, sea-deep green eyes set where a face should be but isn't. There is only the deep black of space, as if a black hole has been made manifest.

For a moment, Tim forgets how to breathe.

Phantom purrs again, the sound low and indulgent, before speaking, his voice curling into Tim’s ear like velvet smoke. "Court begins soon, little bird. We’ll have to go."

Tim blinks, dragging himself back into reality. “Court?” His voice is scratchy, still raw from sleep—and other things. He coughs into his hand, pushing upright. “Right. Okay. Yeah. Just… one problem.”

Phantom tilts his head in a way that is far too amused.

Tim gestures helplessly at himself. “Clothes. I don’t suppose you’re planning on parading me around like this?”

The laugh that comes from Phantom is light, lilting, mocking in its sweetness. It sends a tremor racing down Tim’s spine. "Your royal garments will be prepared, pet. But for now… you may wear something of mine."

King Phantom reaches to the side, pulling from the shadows a garment that looks like it has been stolen from another century—an old-fashioned robe, long and heavy, its fabric thick and faintly shimmering in the dim light. He holds it out with a flourish, as if it's a coronation cloak.

Tim takes it, unfolds it—and nearly drowns in the thing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The robe is massive. It swallows him whole the moment he pulls it over his shoulders. It pools at his feet, sleeves so long his hands vanish. He looks like a child that has snuck into his father’s closet—something Tim has never once in his life done. From Jack, he'd definitely have experienced the lecture of all lectures, no matter his age—and that was if he'd been lucky. From Bruce… the thought isn't even a possibility.

Immune to his thoughts, Phantom’s purr deepens. His claws brush down Tim’s shoulder as if to settle the robe in place, voice dropping down into a near growl. "Perfect. Mine looks good on you."

Tim fights the heat creeping up his neck. He's a shapeless blob beneath all the fabric, there's no reason why Phantom should be so pleased. When he was at the mercy of Ra's, Ra's put him on display any chance he got—and that was without Tim agreeing to be his Consort or heir. “…You’re enjoying this way too much.”

"Endlessly," he rumbles, leaning closer. "Now come. Let them see who you belong to."

The robe trails behind Tim like a shroud, swallowing every step he takes. It's similar enough to a cape that it leaves him feeling nostalgic. The silk is heavy; weighted with a strange chill that clings to his skin even as Phantom’s hand presses, possessive and unyielding, against the small of his back.

The great doors of the throne room open with a groan, the sound echoing through vaulted stone. Conversation dies instantly.

Dozens of eyes fix on him.

Not kind eyes. Not welcoming. He feels the aggression radiating from them like static—disdain, hunger, outright hostility. The kind of attention that would have promised dismemberment were it not for the figure at his side.

Tim forces his spine straight anyway. He was Robin once. He survived the Joker's torture and the many attempts on his life from both friend and foe. He took over WE when no one else would. He led the League of Assassins and lived through training that boasted a five percent survival rate. He's walked into worse than this.

Everyone bows, low and shallow, murmuring as one:

"Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty, a pleasure to see you in court at last."

"Majesty."

Phantom does not acknowledge them. His purr only deepens, the low vibration carrying through Tim’s ribs in a reminder of exactly who holds the leash in this room.

And then, out of the sea of hostile faces, one stands apart—the woman who had chosen him. Her smile is sharp and feline, satisfaction glittering in her eyes like she's just won the bet of her afterlife. Tim’s stomach twists.

The room waits, breath held.

Finally, the great yeti from his initial arrival to the realms lumbers forward, towering above the crowd. Its voice rumbles like an avalanche as it drops to its knees. "Oh, Great One, we are pleased to see you."

The others lower their heads further at that, the reverence stark.

Phantom’s claws tighten against Tim’s back in subtle warning. His voice slides through the air, velvet and steel all at once: "Pleased to see me… and my Temporary Consort."

The word lands like thunder.

Tim freezes. Consort. It's exactly what he was aiming for when he propositioned Phantom the night before and still, to hear it out loud feels final. He's taken a step out into the unknown and has yet to find if there's something there to actually support him.

The shift in the air is immediate—murmurs, restrained outrage, a spike of cold hostility that presses in from every side.

Phantom only smiles wider, lowering his head until his lips brush Tim’s ear. His whisper is a growl, a caress, a threat all in one. "Stand tall, little bird. Let them look… and know you are mine."

The rest of Court passes in a haze of polished cruelty. Every time Tim tries to speak—every time he even dares to lean forward as though to contribute—someone cuts across him. Drowns him out. Dismisses him with a flick of words, or worse, a flick of their eyes, as if he is a child underfoot. He hasn't gotten that look since he left Gotham and Damian's sneering face behind.

He is ignored when he asks about the supply routes. Laughed at when he asks about the borders. Outright waved aside when he presses on strategy.

He doesn't have a title, they sneer. He isn't even a ghost. What is he doing here?

By the end, he can feel the heat under his skin; the familiar burn of fury gnawing at the base of his throat. He knows this game. It's WE and the LoA all over again.

When the last bow is given and the courtiers slither out; when only the echo of their derision remains, Tim stands frozen at Phantom’s side until the great doors seal shut.

Then he turns, every ounce of restraint gone. His voice cracks through the silence like a whip. “You set me up to fail.”

Phantom leans back lazily against his throne, still smiling with that haunting maw, as though the rage rolling off Tim is nothing more than a delightful perfume. “I let them see you,” he purrs, claws drumming idly against the armrest. “That is not failure.”

Tim stalks closer, oversized robe flaring out around his legs in yet another reminder of just how ridiculous a farce this whole thing has been. If his mother could see him now, she'd disown him. He didn't sit through all her lessons just to become the laughing stock of another Realm.

His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “No. You threw me in there like bait. You made me look weak—your Consort, your so-called equal—laughed out of your war council. Do you want me useless? Decorative?”

Phantom tilts his head, amused. “They already think you are.”

Tim glares at him, every instinct in his body screaming fight, fight, fight. But instead of breaking, he straightens his shoulders. The cold calculation his mother was known for settles in. “Then they’re wrong. If I’m going to war, I’m going to war.” He leans down and jabs a finger into Phantom’s chest, right where his ribs would be if he were even remotely human. “I need a tailor. And a library. Immediately.”

The throne room goes silent again, and for one terrifying second, Tim thinks he’s overstepped—until Phantom’s grin widens. Wide enough to show fangs. Wide enough to be dangerous.

“Oh,” Phantom purrs, voice dropping low, “there is fire in you.”

He barely has time to register the flicker in Phantom’s expression before cold claws curl into the hair at the back of his head and yank him forward. Tim stumbles, arms coming up to catch himself on Phantom's shoulders before he completely falls.

The kiss is brutal. All-consuming. Phantom’s mouth presses hard against his, parting his lips to slide his tongue inside; invasive, possessive—down his throat in a way that shouldn’t even be possible—wouldn't be, if Phantom were human. It's fire and ice all at once, and Tim’s brain short-circuits under the assault. His knees buckle; heat flushing through him to pool low and hot in his stomach, leaving him unsteady.

He clutches at Phantom’s arm, nails digging in to the skin he finds there. He whines despite himself as his body betrays him. By the time Phantom finally pulls back, Tim is panting, lips wet, legs trembling.

He's Timothy Drake, though; former Robin and CEO. So he still manages to rasp out, voice hoarse and defiant, “...is that a yes?”

Phantom laughs, rich and indulgent, before waving a lazy hand, as if Tim’s fire amuses him more than anything else.

“Yes. You will have your tailor and your library,” he purrs, releasing his grip and sinking back into his throne as though the entire exchange has been nothing more than idle entertainment.

"Krims."

A ghost appears at the name, clothed in a smart uniform that reminds Tim of Alfred. She bows, her dark black hair artfully braided back into a high bun without a single hair out of place. "Yes, your Majesty?"

"Take my Consort to Lawrence. Tell him to make him whatever he wishes. And little spitfire?" Phantom holds his gaze. "Try to behave."

Tim's eyes roll. "You're the one causing all the problems," he mutters, turning on his heel to follow after Krims.

There's a moment of trepidation when they get to the door and it comes time to leave Phantom behind. Tim forces himself not to hesitate or look back. Phantom put a target on his back by presenting him the way he had in Court; is leaving him to fend for himself a test? Ra's had certainly pulled similar schemes. The only problem is, Tim doesn't know how to harm a ghost.

As soon as Tim slips out of the throne room, Phantom is no longer alone. Dora appears with Frostbite by her side, her expression alight with satisfaction. “I am pleased, Phantom,” she says warmly. “It seems you’ve secured yourself a very cute Consort.”

Phantom tilts his head to the side, lips twitching, but before he can respond Frostbite lumbers forward.

“Great One,” he rumbles with his usual reverence, “I am glad the small human fares better. When I first examined his body, I saw the missing spleen—and scars… scars much like the ones you bore after protecting the human world from our invasions.”

Phantom’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Dora waves an elegant hand, dismissing his confusion. “You should already know, since you now own your Consort’s name. His past should be no mystery to you.”

At that, Phantom’s composure cracks. His fingers fidget against his throne restlessly, betraying his discomfort. Dora, ever perceptive, catches the movement and arches an eyebrow.

“Do not tell me,” she says slowly, amusement heavy in her tone, “that you have not even asked for your Consort’s True name.”

Phantom coughs into his hand, suddenly very interested in the far wall. “We were… preoccupied.”

Dora smirks. Her laughter is soft and sharp all at once. “Preoccupied, indeed. How very royal of you.”

Phantom scowls at Dora’s smirk, leaning back in his throne with forced dignity. “At least my Consort is smart,” he shoots back, unable to stop the small curl of pride in his voice.

Dora’s eyes glitter like polished gems. “Of course he is. I would not have chosen otherwise.” She lifts her chin with mock haughtiness. “You think you found him? No, no, dear Phantom. I picked him. You are welcome.”

Phantom blinks, crosses his arms and pouts.

She only smiles wider, thoroughly pleased with herself, as if she has orchestrated the entire thing for her amusement alone.

Before Phantom can decide whether he’s been manipulated or blessed, Frostbite clears his throat, his massive presence gentling with concern. “Great One,” he says gravely, “do remember—the Consort is still human. He is adapting to our world. Please, do not break him.”

Phantom’s mouth drops open, scandalized. “Break him? What am I, a dog with a new toy?”

“Yes," they answer in unison, without a beat of hesitation.

He stares, caught somewhere between indignation and betrayal. “I… what—?!”

Dora pats his arm as if he is sulking. “Do not pout, dear King. You’ve always been the type to chew on the things you like.”

Frostbite’s icy breath mists as he leans in closer, voice low but firm. “Great One, the little one is a human. And as a human… he has human needs.”

Phantom blinks, tilting his head like he isn’t sure where this is going.

Frostbite’s brow furrows. “Have you given your Temporary Consort a place to rest of his own?”

Phantom opens his mouth confidently—only for the words to catch. His pride falters, and his shoulders slump the tiniest bit. “…Not… exactly?”

Dora gasps dramatically, one jeweled hand flying to her chest as though scandalized. “You didn’t?” She steps forward, her eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Oh, Phantom, you forgot something so basic! Humans require sleep. They require sustenance. They require clothing, and warmth, and books to fill those clever little minds of theirs.”

Phantom’s shadows twitch as he slowly begins to shrink into himself, his tall frame curling just a little smaller under her relentless enumeration.

“And let us not forget,” Dora continues mercilessly, ticking each point off on her fingers, “they require privacy. Conversation. Affection.” She leans in, smirking. “A consort cannot thrive on dramatic kisses alone, you know.”

Phantom covers his face with one hand, muffling a groan.

Frostbite adds gently, though no less reproachful, “He is not like us, Great One. You cannot simply leave him to drift. To him, this court is as familiar as the Far Frozen is warm.”

"Have you at least given him liquids? What about food?"

"I... Forgot he needed that." Phantom's voice comes muffled through his hand.

"Phantom! Have I need to remind you of how much of that Burger you and yours ate when you moved in in the first few decades?"

Phantom peeks through his fingers at the two of them, visibly wilting under the chastisement. His voice comes out quiet, almost sheepish. “…You’re both enjoying this far too much.”

Dora and Frostbite exchange a knowing look.

“Yes,” they say, in perfect harmony once more.

Phantom straightens abruptly; shadows flicker around him as he snaps his fingers. “Staff! Attend me!”

The nearest cluster of ghostly attendants scrambles over, bowing low as if the air itself has grown heavier. Phantom puffs up like a bird, his kingly tone rolling out like thunder. “My Consort requires everything. A full royal suite prepared at once! Ten attendants on rotation, no less! A mountain of books to rival Clockwork’s tower! A lifetime supply of—” he pauses dramatically, eyes glowing brighter, “—burgers!”

The attendants freeze, uncertain if they should write this down.

Dora pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting a laugh. “Oh, for Ancients’ sake.” With a flick of her wrist, she waves the wide-eyed staff back from Phantom’s grandeur. “Cancel that absurdity.” She turns to the nearest attendant, voice sharp but warm with authority. “Instead, prepare the studio next to His Majesty’s chambers. Make it comfortable, private, and human-sized. Bring in books from the mortal realm—history, science, perhaps some romance novels, we don't know what the Temporary Consort likes. And open a direct portal from that chamber to the library. He will need easy access.”

The staff nods eagerly, clearly relieved by her clarity.

Dora isn’t finished. “Arrange a careful spread of food and water—real food, not ectoplasmic concoctions. Vary it, but don’t overwhelm the poor thing. He is still adapting. And for Ancients’ sake, no parading in groups. Two attendants at most.”

The staff scatters to carry out her orders.

Phantom, who had been braced for his demands to stand, deflates with a groan. He mutters, “Whatever she says,” under his breath. His glow betrays him, a green halo radiating out from under his shadows until he looks less like a king and more like an embarrassed lantern caught red-handed.

Dora smirks, victorious. “Wise choice, Great One. A Consort is not impressed by grandeur. He is impressed when you remember his tea.”

"I will come by every week to ensure the little one is thriving." Frostbite adds. "He will need ectoplasm supplements while his body adjusts to regrowing his spleen. Have you explained what he will become?"

Again, Phantom shrinks lower in his throne. "…No."

He sighs. "I will explain, as his physician. Best not to overwhelm."

"I will stop by tomorrow, to begin his lessons." Dora's smile glitters with satisfaction. "Do try not to chase him off. He's special, I could tell when I first saw him. His soul is… unique. Surely you weren't so distracted that you missed that much?"

"No," Phantom says quietly. "I noticed."

Krims doesn't speak once on their way through the winding halls. This is just as well for Tim, who is busy mapping out their route in his head. When she finally comes to a stop outside a set of doors, she knocks briskly and drifts inside without waiting for a response.

Tim has to use the actual door, which is much heavier than it appears. Inside is a tailor's dream. There are shelves from floor to ceiling full of stacked rolls of fabric. They're color coded in every shade imaginable and stretch back into the depths of the room. A ladder you'd normally see in a grand library is set up on a track to allow access to the upper levels. Similar shelves dot the interior of the room, holding ribbons, lace and all other manner of embellishments. A huge table sits at the innermost center, where measuring boards and razor sharp shears sit ready to cut. Half dressed mannequins dot the landscape; any bits of wall that are exposed are plastered in skilled drawings of all manner of fashion.

"Lawrence!" Krims calls into the back. "New task from the King!"

There's a sound like something being knocked over and then a male appears who looks no younger than Tim. He's got a boyish face and a mop of short brown curls that extends into two long braids on either side of his face. His wide brown eyes take the two of them in before he breaks out into a beaming smile. "What're the orders?"

"His Majesty has instructed you to make his Temporary Consort whatever he wishes." She gives a sharp nod and spins on her heel, disappearing through the door before either of them can so much as open their mouth.

"Don't mind her," Lawrence says, floating close to offer a hand to shake. When Tim takes it, he leans in uncomfortably close. "Oh wow, your eyes are naturally that color? I can't sense much liminal energy on you yet, so they must be. Not a lot of ghosts with that shade. We can use that to our advantage."

He spins to grab a sketchbook off of the table, flips open to a new page and begins frantically cataloguing his ideas.

"So," he adds, without looking up, "what were you thinking?"

Tim takes a breath. He's used to excitable brunettes. He ignores the pain of loss at the thought of Bart and pushes forward. "I need a wardrobe fit for both a Consort and an advisor. Flattering silhouettes. Muted, tasteful colors that mean business. Silks and lace. Heels to match."

"Something that says 'I fuck your King and you'd better respect me'?" Lawrence says knowingly. He grins when Tim's eyes widen. "Yeah, I heard about the Court meeting. Tough crowd, especially for your first showing."

"How could you possibly know about that? It only just happened."

"I have ears everywhere. Trends change constantly and I have to make sure Phantom is always at the top, even if he prefers to be more of a floating cloud of eyes these days."

Tim zeroes in on the information immediately. "What did he look like before?"

"The way most ghosts look. Human, but not. Pure white hair that's great for making things pop. Freckles. Long legs—like, slightly longer than human long, you know? Pale skin." Lawrence looks back at him. "Wait, does that mean you became his Consort by having sex with him the way he looks now? As a human? That's brave. And stupid." He wiggles his hand side to side. "They're about even, honestly."

Tim flushes. He wouldn't call himself a prude exactly, but he's never been very explicit about his love life either—not that he's had much of one. Being a Drake and then Robin, he's had to live a very private life to keep his secret identity intact. Having everyone know him specifically due to his sex life is… jarring.

He tries to focus on that over the lick of jealousy he feels over not having seen what Lawrence describes.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it." At Tim's confused look, he adds: "Ghosts are empaths. The stronger the ghost, the more powerful the ability, but even baseline Ghostlings can sense your general emotions."

Thankfully, Tim is given time to digest that in peace.

He's humiliated all over again. That means Phantom felt it every time Tim was drawn to him, even during their first meeting. No wonder he always seems to be laughing at him. And then to put him in front of his Court without any warning…

Tim drags a hand down his face. "That motherfucker," he says darkly. He'd known everyone would be able to read him and he'd still sent Tim in blind. Tim had thought he was safe if he was outwardly put together; now he knows every single one of those ghosts felt his starting fear and boiling anger.

Spools of fabric fly around him, ignorant to his inner strife. Lawrence examines and dismisses a couple dozen before more move in to take their place. Eventually, they're left with two distinct groups. One in blues, grays and white and the other in greens and blacks.

Tim eyes the greens cautiously. He taps a shade that's much too similar to Joker green and shakes his head. "Absolutely not." He does the same with a darker tone that resembles Ra's colors. Now that he thinks about it, what's with villains and the color green?

Lawrence sends the two offenders away before pointing to the first pile. "Phantom has an ice and snow theme going on in the castle. He prefers the cold, I think it has something to do with Frostbite. They've got a close bond. He's also got a thing for space. So, blues, grays and white for the ice. Green and black touches for his personal colors."

"Personal colors?" Tim repeats.

"Every King has their own colors. Pariah—the King before him—liked red. Phantom likes green. If you want people to see you and think of Phantom, these are the colors to use. Plus, it'll make your eyes and skin pop. You're as pale as a ghost." Lawrence smirks at his own joke. "So! Let me take your measurements and we'll talk silhouettes. You'll have to take the robe off, though."

He takes a deep breath. Lawrence has been nothing but professional and Tim doesn't have much modesty left after years of close quarters with various teams. It's more the fact that he has no means to defend himself here and he's still raw from what Ra's tried to take from him.

"It's okay," Lawrence tells him, face gone soft and sincere. "This is my Haunt and no one can come in without my say when I lock everything down. Not even Phantom would trespass without an emergency."

"Haunt?" Tim says, jumping on the distraction like a starving beast. He disrobes and tosses the fabric aside. He feels strangely bereft as the chill that had accompanied it leaves him.

"It's what ghosts call their territory. It's a big part of politics—you'll hear a lot about it sitting in on Court meetings. It's pretty unusual for a ghost to share their territory but Phantom made an exception for me. This room connects to my coremate's castle, where my full Haunt is located."

Lawrence pulls out a measuring tape and looks up at him. "Ready?"

Tim nods.

This, he is used to. The familiarity helps settle his restlessness as Lawrence maneuvers around his body, a notebook and pen floating in the air beside him to jot down measurements as he goes. He measures everything. From the length of his neck to the circumference of his ankles and wrists. He even goes so far as to take the lengths of his fingers and their circumference, as well as his toes.

Tim focuses back on learning what he can.

"What's a coremate?"

"Oh, it's like the ghost equivalent of marriage—but much more binding and sacred. Ghosts don't have the same biology as a human. Our life force isn't based on organs and blood like the living. When a ghost forms, they form from a core." He points towards his chest. "If we're injured, no matter how bad, we can reform so long as our core is intact. A coremate is someone that you trust with your soul. Generally, ghosts will swap cores to show their devotion and to solidify the bond. I can feel my mate at all times and he can feel me too. We can communicate through it and we'll always be able to find one another. Not everyone swaps for good, sometimes they just do it for the ceremony and to form the bond. The longer you swap, the deeper the bond. But don't ask anyone if they're swapped. That's super rude—and grounds to get mauled."

"Phantom doesn't have one?"

Lawrence snorts. "Not for lack of everyone trying. You're the first person he's taken an interest in in centuries."

The confirmation that Phantom is much older than him is not unexpected but it is a bit startling. Tim isn't entirely sure why he keeps attracting ancient powers. He also doesn't want to tackle why the knowledge only further increases his curiosity where it might make others recoil.

"He needs a queen?"

"Ghost politics aren't like human politics. It's not nearly as rigid. The concept of kings and queens and heirs doesn't really apply—not to Phantom, anyways. The King is crowned when the previous is defeated. The strong rule over the weak. Thankfully, Phantom is a much kinder ruler than Pariah was—or so I've heard. I wasn't around when he was in power."

"So you—formed here? Don't take this the wrong way, you just seem a lot more human than any of the others I've seen."

Lawrence grimaces. He picks up Phantom's robe and holds it out to Tim to put back on. "Okay, clearly Phantom hasn't told you anything. Let's go back to my sitting room and I'll give you a run down before you end up causing a scandal. Honestly, he's as bad as Mal."

Tim wraps the fabric around himself. Instead of feeling cumbersome and huge the way it did the first time he put it on, it feels comforting. It covers him from the neck down and feels almost like armor. He follows Lawrence deeper into the room on quiet feet and sits on a plush green sofa when instructed.

Lawrence sits beside him, turned with his back to the armrest to face him properly. "Okay," he says, chewing on his bottom lip. "So, there are some things you need to know if you're going to succeed here. First, don't ever ask about a ghost's death. Ghosts are beings of emotion and whether they like you or not, the question riles them up with a lot of negative emotions. If they share on their own that's fine but if not, don't ask.

Second, don't ever give a ghost your True name." He must sense Tim's confusion because he goes on. "True names give ghosts power over you. They reveal your past and everything your soul has been through. They're also used for summoning—if someone uses your True name in a summoning, you can't refuse. A True name is who you are. For humans, it's your full name. And it doesn't count if they find out some other way. The soul itself has to give their name away in order for it to work. That's why titles are so important here."

Lawrence points to himself. "For example, I'm High Consort to the King of Briar, Tailor of Kings, Curse Breaker, Friend of Dragons, Fabric Weaver, Many Ears, and Secret Keeper. These titles can be used by anyone who wishes to speak to me in a respectful manner. Phantom and the staff here know they can just use Lawrence because I've given them permission."

"So my title is Temporary Consort?"

He laughs when Tim's nose wrinkles. "Yeah, not very flattering is it? You'll earn titles as you go. How would you like me to address you?"

"Tim," he decides, after a pause. Lawrence has been kind to him and Tim does not feel the need to demand respect.

"Okay, Tim," he says easily, "I'm going to ask you a question now."

"Okay?"

Lawrence's face grows serious. His eyes begin to glow green around the edges, skin taking on more of a green sheen as his hair moves as if underwater. For the first time, he looks truly otherworldly. "Do you intend to hurt Phantom?"

For a moment, Tim is left speechless. Hurt him? He hadn't even known that was an option.

"I… don't understand the question. If you mean physically, I don't think I could—or, I'm at least unaware of any way to do so. He's been—kind to me, I think. Or as kind as someone like him can be? I don't really have any desire to hurt him, past earning my freedom back. If you mean emotionally," Tim scoffs. "We hardly know one another. He doesn't even know my name and so far he's only treated me like a toy to parade around. There's nothing there to harm him with."

"And your intentions?"

"To earn my freedom," Tim repeats.

"By climbing into his bed?" It's said without judgment, but he bristles all the same.

"I'm a human at the mercy of a world of beings much more powerful than me, who as far as I know, cannot be harmed by a mortal," he says harshly. "Phantom owns my soul so yes, I'll fuck him if it means I'm in a better position."

The glow recedes from Lawrence's eyes. It's as if a spell has been broken.

Tim realizes that he hasn't blinked once throughout the entire conversation. There are tears rolling down his cheeks from where his eyes have strained. He sucks in a breath and tightens a hand around the front of Phantom's robe. He feels untethered; he doesn't know why he said all of that.

"Sorry," Lawrence says, holding out a tissue. "I had to make sure you told me the truth. I won't do it again."

"You—compelled me?"

"Not a lot of people can do it and I'll make sure to put enchantments into your garments to make sure you're protected from it. It's just—you have to understand that Phantom is beloved. He's kind to us and though he is powerful, his nature makes him easy to take advantage of. He doesn't understand humans anymore. You'll probably get annoyed with him when he forgets that you're different and don't follow the same rules; or when he thinks something is obvious that really isn't. He doesn't think the same way that you do. I needed to make sure that you're not a part of a bigger plot."

"You worry for him," Tim realizes.

"Yes," he admits, "we all do. That's why I'm glad you're here and why I hope you'll consider staying once your service is up."

He cleans his face and takes a deep breath. He doesn't have the time to sort through everything he's learned here. But he does still have questions.

"You mentioned a bigger plot. What did you mean?"

Lawrence's eyes drop. His hands twist as he takes on a more melancholic tone. "It wasn't always like this. Phantom used to prefer his more human form but it's not as powerful as his shadow ones. After the last time the Observants tried to throw a Coup with Vlad, the King's godfather, Phantom ended up hurt badly. He decided to stop using his lesser forms then, to keep himself powerful and menacing.

In the beginning, I could still dress him, you know, but then he turned into his shadow form and there wasn't really anything I could do. I haven't made clothes for him in a long time; you're the first real request I've gotten in centuries."

"He turned into what he is now after one Coup?"

He scoffs. "One? Try one century of Coups maybe. It was bad back then, there was an assassination nearly every day. Phantom was hurt constantly and a lot of the staff was dismissed to keep any accidental casualties from happening. I refused to leave."

Tim's stomach twists. He tries to imagine Phantom weak and bleeding but finds himself shying away from the image. Phantom has his soul but he hasn't been needlessly cruel to him. Tim doesn't want him hurt, regardless of how infuriating he can be.

"I don't know how much help I'll be, but he gave me a task and I'm going to do it." His chin lifts, eyes flaring with defiance. "No one gets to treat me the way his Court did."

Something small and fast appears. It zooms over to Lawrence to pause by his ear; he tilts his head to the side to listen before it vanishes just as fast as it came. He grins. "Seems Dora is whipping Phantom into shape and reminding him about human care. Let's finish up while she works."

His sketchbook appears out of thin air. "So, I'm seeing lots of eye motifs; reminders that Phantom is watching and you're under his protection. Constellations; birds?" He squints at Tim. "Robins? Huh, okay. Everything will be armor grade, of course. Lots of silver accents; mostly white jewels."

"How can you tell?" Tim asks. "About the, uh, Robins?"

"It's my purpose. Every ghost has one. I can look at people and just kind of see what would best represent them. Then I translate that into clothes." He hums to himself. "Tasteful cutouts. Very eye-catching. The Jewel of the Court. We want everyone to see why Phantom covets you. There's nothing more enticing than something that's beautiful but off limits."

He looks over his notes and gives a satisfied nod. "I'll have a catalogue of designs over by tomorrow. Once you give me the okay or any changes you want made, I'll start production. By the time Dora has walked you through etiquette and you've gotten some hard hours in at the library, you'll have a wardrobe fit for a High Consort. We're gonna wow them all."

It's a lot, put like that, but Tim didn't become Robin by shying away from heavy workloads.

"Thank you, Tailor of Kings," Tim says sincerely.

"Oh, call me Lawrence." He beams over at him. "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. Now, let me walk you back to Phantom's room."

Chapter Text

The door to Phantom’s quarters swings open with a dramatic creak. Lawrence leans against the frame, grinning with a glint in his eyes that suggests nothing good.

“Here you are, Temporary Consort,” he says with far too much cheer, “Phantom’s room. Do come see me whenever you’re free and want to talk. It’s so nice to finally have someone here who understands.” His voice drips with faux-innocence, the kind that promises gossip, conspiracies, and endless teasing. Before Tim can even open his mouth to respond, Lawrence pokes his head inside Phantom's chambers and yells, “Your Majesty! I brought your Consort back safe and sound!”

The shout echoes; Tim barely has time to wince before he's ushered inside.

The door shuts neatly behind him.

In the middle of the chamber, he finds Phantom, not sitting on the elaborate throne-like chair by the hearth or even pretending to look busy. He's just… there, stock-still, every shadow around his body betraying the sharpness of surprise. His clawed hands hang awkwardly by his sides, shadows curling and uncurling around him like restless smoke. The green glow of his eyes flickers in thousands of different directions where a face should be, betraying nerves that his carefully blank expression can't quite mask.

For a long beat, he looks exactly like someone who has been caught practicing a speech in front of a mirror.

Phantom clears his throat, the sound low and rough like stone grinding against stone. “I… hope your time with the Tailor was everything you wished for.”

Tim’s lips press together, holding back the urge to smirk. The formality of his words sits on Phantom like an ill-fitting costume—he looks less like a King and more like a person trying desperately not to look startled.

“It was,” Tim answers softly. "Thank you."

He takes a long, steady breath then, when Phantom seems no closer to relaxing. His shoulders ease as if he is about to approach a startled alley cat—every step measured, slow, deliberate. His gaze stays steady on Phantom, open but careful, broadcasting one simple message: I’m not here to scare you.

Phantom’s glow brightens despite himself, and the faintest twitch of his shadows betrays how much effort it's taking not to fidget, however that might look for a ghost.

Tim tilts his head to the side, studying Phantom with open curiosity. The eyes on Phantom's 'face' track the motion like a cat following a thread, luminous and unblinking.

"You're nervous," Tim observes, though the words carry a hint of surprise. He's not sure why Phantom is the one nervous in this situation. "But why?"

The words are enough to get Phantom blinking again. He draws in a breath that seems to serve to settle his whole frame. His hands sink into the swirling shadows at his sides, shoulders stiffening with forced composure.

“I have been made aware,” Phantom begins, voice carrying the tone of someone repeating a lecture word for word, “that humans like you require certain accommodations… which I have failed to provide until now.”

The words taste like defeat on his tongue, but he delivers them with all the solemnity of a royal decree. Then, without waiting for a reply, he drifts toward the far wall. The air shimmers faintly, and with a sound like cracking ice, a door appears where there was none before. Phantom places his hand on the handle, hesitating just a fraction of a heartbeat, and then swings it open.

Tim’s eyebrows raise as he steps forward, curiosity overtaking caution. One glance inside makes his lips part in disbelief.

The adjoining chamber looks less like a king’s afterthought and more like something out of a luxury catalogue. A proper bed—a real bed, large and plush, sheets spilling over the edges in pristine folds—commands the center of the room. A low fire crackles in the hearth across from it, painting the walls in warm light. A small sitting area is arranged with cushioned chairs; the kind that invites reading until you fall asleep mid-page.

In the corner stands a desk ringed by bookcases, its shelves already laden with volumes in different bindings and sizes. Another door rests beside it, suggesting even more space beyond this unexpected suite.

But what catches Tim’s attention—and makes him snort before he can stop himself—is the long table off to the side. It's set with chairs and lined with food in a strange but generous spread: plates of fruit gleaming with frost; platters of meat steaming faintly in the cold air; pitchers of jewel-colored drinks. And sitting proudly among the offerings, like a crown jewel, is a familiar six-pack of Zesti.

Tim blinks, then glances sidelong at Phantom. “You… gave me a room?”

Phantom’s glow flickers again, betraying the nerves beneath the stiff mask. “It was… suggested.” He fidgets, the smoke curling around him a touch defensive. “You are human. Humans need… things.”

Tim steps across the threshold, but the moment his boots hit the polished stone, suspicion prickles down his spine. No one gives gifts freely—ever. Not in Gotham, not in the League, and certainly not in a place like this.

Phantom doesn't follow him inside. Instead, the King lingers in the doorway, his presence filling it so completely that Tim has the unsettling impression of a wall. Too large, too still, too final. A predator blocking the only exit. The thought creeps in unbidden: a gilded cage is still a cage.

His eyes flicker toward the far side of the room. Another door, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the firelight. He lifts his chin. “Where does that one take me?”

Phantom inclines his head, slow and deliberate, as though even that gesture carries weight. “That will lead you to my private library.”

Tim’s throat goes dry. No door to the outside. No hallway. No escape but back through him. If he wanted to leave, he’d have to walk through Phantom’s chambers first, past that impossible figure standing sentinel. The room is generous, yes, but generosity can still be a leash. He catalogues details, looking for hidden traps, while his mind supplies a dozen worst-case scenarios.

He circles slowly, fingertips brushing the surface of the desk, the spines of the books, the back of a chair. His steps are careful, deliberate, like testing for tripwires.

Behind him, Phantom clears his throat—a sound almost hesitant, almost human.

“I would also desire,” Phantom ventures, voice low but carrying easily across the chamber, “to know your name.”

The words slam Tim into high alert. Every instinct screams danger. Names carry weight, Lawrence had said. Names have power. He turns sharply, chin lifting in defiance.

“I was told,” Tim says evenly, “of the customs and power names hold.” He isn't going to hand over leverage that easily.

To his surprise, Phantom actually flinches. The glow in his eyes dims; shoulders dipping as though struck.

“No,” Phantom says quickly; urgently. “Nothing like that.” He raises both bony hands slightly, in a strange gesture of surrender. His voice softens, low and raw. “I just… want something to call you that is not ‘Temporary Consort.’”

Tim presses his lips together, but decides that he might as well try and trust the creature who is holding his new reality hostage. The alternative is too bleak to consider right now. "You can call me Tim."

"Tim," Phantom says carefully, like he is trying a new dish and deciding whether it is to his taste. A small smile creeps across his face before it's swallowed by darkness once more. "You are… displeased. It is not to your liking?"

Tim stares at him. This is the being that currently owns his soul; the one with unimaginable power, who rules over this strange new world. And yet, he has not hurt him. He did not even expect sex until Tim came on to him.

He remembers Lawrence's words, about misunderstandings and empathic abilities. He supposes that should Phantom prove to be cruel, he should find out now.

"You have given me a room with no exit or escape. The only way out is through yours and we both know that I cannot overpower you." He gestures to the generous spread of food and furniture. "You have given me gifts with no defined cost. I would like to avoid waking up chained to a wall again, so I would have you name the terms before I accept. Not to mention the fact that you have not explained what being your Consort means, past warming your bed."

There are more things, of course. But these are the most pressing and Tim can't bear to reveal himself further, no matter what Phantom must read in his emotions.

Tim is scared and still repressing the trauma he suffered at Ra's hand, among other things. He is exhausted, physically and emotionally and just once, he would like something to be easy. He would like someone to tell him the truth; to not play games or perform tests.

Phantom does not move for a long while. The shadows at his feet curl and uncurl, restless, as though reflecting his thoughts. His head tilts, green eyes glowing like foxfire in the dim light.

Finally, he exhales—a sound like wind through hollow bones.

“You speak as if I mean to bind you,” Phantom says slowly. His voice is careful, not cold, though it holds a weight that makes Tim’s skin prickle. He sounds... dejected, and ashamed. “As if I do not know what chains cost.”

Tim swallows, keeping his chin high. Don’t flinch. Don’t show weakness.

The High King lowers his gaze— making him look weakened and something disturbingly close to uncertain. It startles Tim; even if he doesn't know the specific rules of this world he does know a King, a High King at that, should never lower his head to others. “I thought to give you safety. Warmth. Food that will not turn to ash in your mouth. I thought these things would ease you.” His hands flicker out of the shadows again, clenching and unclenching like someone trying to remember how to hold. “I now see you think them a trap.”

“I think everything’s a trap,” Tim answers, sharper than he means. The words bite, but they’re true.

Phantom studies him, still as ice. “Then I have failed you already.”

Tim blinks. He expected anger, maybe even mockery. Not this.

Phantom lifts a hand, hesitates, and lets it drop before it can reach him. “The terms are this: you are free within these rooms. You will never wake chained by me. You may eat and rest as you wish. If you desire company, you need only ask. If you desire solitude, I will honor it.” His gaze flickers, faint light sparking at the corners of his eyes. “And should you wish to leave, I will not hold you here. Not by force. The only thing keeping you in the Realms is the deal you have with me.”

The words land heavy, but not cruel.

Tim searches his face, desperate for a lie, some sign of the trick. Something to make Phantom's kindness make sense. “And being your Consort?”

Phantom’s throat bobs. For a moment, he looks like a boy trying to remember how to explain something obvious. Then:

“It means you are… mine.” A pause, then softer, rushed, “Not as in owned. Never that. You are the name I call beside my throne, the soul who steadies my crown. In time, it means partnership, not as lovers but as a trusted advisor. But here, now…” He falters, a King left unsure on his own dais. “It means safety. Even from me. Calling you the Temporary Consort gives you enough leverage to keep yourself safe in the Court, as my subjects will have to respect you as they respect me.”

Tim’s breath stutters. He doesn’t know if he can believe him, but the sincerity tastes different from Ra’s sweet poison.

For the first time, Tim realizes Phantom is almost as lost in this arrangement as he is.

Again, he remembers Lawrence's advice. Again, he is forced to acknowledge the fact that Phantom is one of the only beings here who is trying to be an ally. His gaze flicks back to the spread of food.

He makes a decision.

"Do you eat?" he asks quietly.

Phantom's eyes flicker in and out of existence for what seems to be a couple of minutes. It almost feels like he's blinking in confusion before only two eyes remain in the general location of his face. "I can, though I have no recollection of when the last time I ate was. Probably a century ago," he answers tentatively.

Tim nods to himself.

He turns but cannot quite allow himself to give Phantom his back; he approaches the table at an angle, keeping that shadowed figure in his peripherals. He picks up a Zesti instantly and cracks it open to take a sip while he examines the spread. It's all human food, from what he can tell. No blatant smell of poison, not that that means much. The drink doesn't have any immediate effects that he can tell.

"Will you eat with me then?" Tim looks up at him. "I can't eat all this by myself and—I think we should have a discussion. A further discussion, I mean."

Phantom looks around before he nods, pushing into the room. To Tim's absolute surprise, his form seems to condense around him. He is still the shadowy monster he's always been, but for some reason his shadows seem to remain closer to himself, rather than spilling into the room to fill the space. He almost seems to be mindful of how much room he takes up; a fact made obsolete considering his sheer size. It's like an adult bear approaching a kitten; there isn't any way to truly mask their size difference, no matter how much he hunches in on himself.

He remains in Tim's line of sight as he settles close to the table. A long tendril of shadow reaches out towards Tim and pulls the chair closest to him back. Phantom gestures to it. "If we are going to talk, we shall do so sitting."

The corner of Tim's mouth twitches. In the spirit of cooperation, he doesn't tease Phantom for his attempt at manners. Instead, he sets a plate in front of them both and takes the offered chair, adjusting the folds of his cloak until he's comfortable. He waits until they've both filled their plates and eaten a few bites before finally forcing himself to speak.

"You knew what I was doing last night; Lawrence told me you're all empaths. Which means you know exactly why I did what I did and you still let it happen." He doesn't do either of them the disservice of asking why. He can guess easily enough and that's not the point of bringing it up.

He lets that sit between them for a moment, before continuing. He hopes Phantom can see the parallels he's about to make without having to spell it out for him.

"The man you boiled alive was named Ra's Al Ghul. He claimed to be immortal and has been running an eco-terrorist group called the League of Assassins for centuries. I was looking for someone I lost when I showed up on his radar. He was my only option at the time, so I made a deal. I ran his organization and took down the competition in exchange for his resources.

Eventually, he decided that he wanted to name me his heir and Consort. When I refused both positions, I woke up chained to a wall with the purpose of being a sperm donor. Unwilling, of course."

He chews on a piece of chicken as he lets the truth of that statement settle into the silence of the room. Huh. Perfectly seasoned; he'll have to give his compliments to the Chef.

"I escaped. Lots more happened." He waves a hand dismissively, as if to say 'trauma, amiright?' "I think he planned to kill me and throw me in a Lazarus Pit—it wouldn't be the first time some mad man has tried to fuck with my brain—but then he realized his pits were drying up. He sold me off to gain favor, I assume. His last words to me were lamenting my lack of a womb." He finally looks over at Phantom. No matter the emotions inside, he forces his face to remain blasé. "So. I hope you can understand my hesitance here."

The silence stretches only a beat before it shatters—Phantom’s growl rips through the chamber like a crack of thunder, startling him. The sheer, visceral sound is aggressive and makes the presence of the High King seem menacing until words, low and seething, fill the space.

“Should’ve made him scream longer,” Phantom mutters. His shadows are no longer still; they curl like smoke against the walls, as if restless. “Should’ve boiled his Pits dry with him inside.”

Phantom sounds almost disappointed he didn’t get creative with Ra’s.

The tension in Phantom’s frame shifts and softens as he seems to remember that he's not the only one in the room. His glow dims until only his eyes hold light, both focused wholly on Tim. For once, his voice gentles, cautious in a way Tim hasn’t heard from him before.

“…May I touch you?”

Phantom’s jaw flexes, as though weighing each word before he releases it.

“Dora says humans need affection,” he continues carefully—almost shyly, even. “That reassurance matters. When I was small, my sister’s arms around me meant… safety. Warmth. The kind of happiness that doesn’t fade, even in the dark.” His hand hovers, claws dulled back into a faintly human outline despite the skin looking like they are made from scales rather than flesh. “I would like you to feel that. To know you are safe here. That you are wanted.”

Tim's ears feel like they're ringing. He stares at that hand, both hearing Phantom's words and somehow not. He can't remember the last time he was held by someone he actually wanted to be held by. He can't remember the last time he felt actually wanted, let alone safe. Has he ever?

"Okay." His voice comes out hoarse, as if he's been screaming for a very long time and has only just stopped. "You can... okay."

Phantom extends his hand and catches Tim’s, his grip gentle, almost reverent, before drawing him forward out of his chair. Shadows rise around them, thick and soft, obscuring the room in a cocoon of black. Before panic can take root in Tim from the blindness, something else presses against him.

Arms. Careful. So careful, as if they're holding something delicate.

Phantom wraps him close. The darkness folds over them both until Tim is pressed against a broad, solid chest. Except—solid isn't the right word. The hold is tight, yes, but there is give beneath it, similar to being pulled against a warm cushion. Phantom has been cold this entire time—corpse-cold, the kind of chill that seeps into marrow. But this… this is startlingly warm.

Almost human.

The steadiness of the embrace; the faint thrum against his ear like a heartbeat but more of a purr; the quiet stillness in the air, as if even the Realms themselves are holding their breath. It all feels like a quiet reassurance that he can relax.

He is being held. Tight and safe.

Tim isn't sure who's more surprised by what comes next.

He learned silence from a very early age; from forgotten dusty halls and shushing hands to nannies that were ordered not to come at his cries. His parents used to always boast that he was such an easy child but the truth of the matter was that Tim was simply a fast learner. Noise was scolded; silence was praised. Tim learned to cry silently fast.

He can't seem to find the skill now.

Ugly, wretched noises spill free from his lips. He clutches at the warm skin beneath his hands like it's the only thing tethering him in a storm. His knees give out but Phantom is there, keeping him secure. His arms tighten, anchoring him, cradling him with a steadiness that feels undeserved, terrifying and desperately needed all at once.

Tim cries for his dead friends. He cries for the loss of Robin and the relationships that were torn apart. He cries for Bruce who he'll never see again but who he gave everything for. He cries for Z and Owens who deserved better. He cries for himself and the cruelty he endured under Ra's hands. He cries for his lost soul.

Phantom holds him through it all. His embrace doesn't falter, even as Tim shakes apart in his arms. The shadows curl close, soft instead of suffocating, until the rest of the world is nothing but a muted blur beyond their cocoon.

Tim feels it then—a soft breath ghosting against his ear, almost imagined, like Phantom is trying to soothe without daring to speak. A hand slides up, cool fingers brushing against his cheek with uncharacteristic care, wiping away the salt of his tears as though each one matters.

It takes a long time before the sobs quiet, breaking down into hiccups and shivers. The silence that follows is thick, not empty but full of the ache of release. Finally, Tim shifts slightly.

Phantom notices. Slowly—carefully—his grip loosens, easing just enough to give Tim space. An unspoken offering: You can pull away if you want. I’ll let you.

And Tim should, is the thing. It's what is proper. His dignity lays in tatters on the ground and he should get to work on stitching it back together. But Tim is so tired. He's been strong for so long; has kept a mask in place for what feels like his entire life. He is, after all, only human.

He rests his forehead against what he thinks is Phantom's shoulder and closes his weary eyes.

"I'm going to be very embarrassed about this tomorrow," he tells him. "But—"

I don't want you to go, lingers on his tongue unsaid. He is touch starved at best and so tired of being alone. He doesn't know Phantom, should not trust him, but in this moment of weakness he wants to be stupid enough to try.

Phantom huffs—something startlingly close to human—and shifts Tim in his grasp. The motion is smooth, practiced, until suddenly the ground is gone and Tim is fully lying against him. Shadows fold around them like a blanket, muting the world to nothing but warmth and the steady hum beneath Tim’s ear. Horizontal, weightless, he can do nothing but cling.

Then he hears it: not the eldritch growl or the chorus of a thousand voices he has come to expect, but a single sound. A voice. Low, human, achingly kind.

“It’s fine,” Phantom murmurs close to his ear. “Everything will be fine. You don’t have to worry. I'm here. I will protect you.”

A hand traces slowly up and down Tim’s back, steadying his breathing, grounding him with every pass. Beneath it all, Tim can still feel the vibration of Phantom’s purr, a rhythm in his chest that soothes the ache like a balm.

He thinks someone said something similar to him once. Maybe Nightwing, or Batman, in one of his rare shows of affection. The thought hurts like a wound lanced to let out infection; the relief comes with the knowledge that Phantom has the ability to follow up on his words, should he need to.

He sighs, long and heavy and feels years of tension flee his body. It's sure to return in the morning but for now, he can bask in this. He can soak up Phantom's attention like a starving flower without feeling guilty. After all, Phantom is much more powerful. If he wants to leave, Tim can't stop him.

It's the first time the thought is comforting. He can accept the excuse to spare his own pride and sense of self flagellation.

He falls asleep with that voice in his ear, promising his safety and the warmth of a human embrace.

He sleeps deeper than he has in years.

Chapter Text

There is a knock on the door.

At first Phantom ignores it, but the sharp sound pries its way into the quiet, and he blinks awake with a start.

Awake; that in itself is strange—he hasn’t slept in over three decades. The sensation of drifting back from unconsciousness, of the heaviness in his limbs and the sluggish pull in his core, is almost alien. His last sleep had been the day Jazz set out on her crusade to unite the earthbound ghosts, when she'd sworn she’d return for a rest before tackling Reality NF-1935. She's still somewhere in NF-1934 with Fright Knight, her promise dangling like a ribbon tied across time.

The knock fades, replaced by silence.

Phantom shifts, then stills. There is weight on him. Warmth. Breath against his collarbone. He looks down—and panics, just for a second—because he's still in his human form. Skin and bone, lungs and heartbeat, a fragile body he hasn’t worn without thought in years.

And yet… the weight is Tim.

The boy is curled close against his neck, still fast asleep, one arm hooked loosely around Phantom’s middle. His lashes brush his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow smoothed by slumber. Human. Mortal. Trusting.

Slowly, carefully, Phantom lets the tension ease from his chest. He exhales, shadows slipping like ink across the floor. With a ripple of intention, he begins to shift—his form unraveling, replacing fragile flesh with something older and truer: scales that gleam faintly with spectral light, a body of ectoplasm threaded through with starless void. The weight does not slip away; Tim remains cocooned in his shadows, shielded from the transformation.

Phantom is about to gather him up and set him gently on the bed when the door slams open.

“Phantom!”

Dora strides into the room, arms piled high with scrolls and books, her cloak flaring dramatically behind her. She looks like she’s just raided a forgotten library and is prepared to weaponize every single tome. “I do not care if you are brooding or sulking or… whatever this is,” she declares, stomping across the threshold without hesitation. “I have a schedule, and as your appointed temporary big sister, I demand respect!”

Any hope of keeping Tim asleep is promptly lost in the wake of her arrival. Vigilante instincts yank him into alertness. Weeks of dodging assassination attempts have him throwing himself backwards even with his eyes still closed. He hits the floor and rolls automatically, coming up crouched and ready, weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, the sides of Phantom's cloak clutched in his hands like it's his normal cape. He has no weapon, no hidden blade, but he can do a lot with just his body.

Assess, distract, disarm runs through his mind as he zeroes in on the assailant. He's left frozen in place as he takes in Dora and her armful of scrolls. His head turns slowly to look back at Phantom, who he has unconsciously placed at his back, as if he can protect him better than Phantom can protect himself.

Dora’s eyes find him immediately, slit pupils narrowing with unmistakable draconic interest. Smoke curls from her nostrils as though even his very existence delights her, faint scales ghosting across her skin before she turns her attention to Phantom.

Tim straightens with a flush, pulling the cloak back around his body.

“You were cuddling with the mortal while the Observants languished in court?” she demands, her voice carrying the weight of centuries, imperious and sharp as the scrape of steel on stone.

“The Observants can wait a bit once in a while.” Phantom’s reply vibrates with the chorus of a thousand voices, the inhuman timbre erasing all illusion of frail mortality. “And have you not heard of knocking? Were this my Haunt, I would have mauled you for your insolence.”

“Were this your Haunt, you would be too busy zipping about in hyper excitement to consider sleep,” Dora counters without missing a beat. She spreads her arms and lets the scrolls and books tumble to the floor in a neat collapse of knowledge. Then, her posture straightens, regal and commanding, as she inclines her head toward Tim.

“Good day, Temporary Consort,” she intones. “It is only proper I introduce myself. I am Queen Dorothea, Matriarch of all Dragons, Keeper of Diplomatic Fire, Advisor to the High King, Mediator between Realms, Guardian of Ancient Pacts, and Instructor of Consorts. There are more titles besides, but you may choose any among them to address me—for now. I have already informed Phantom that your education must begin swiftly, for—”

Phantom’s voice cuts through hers with abrupt finality, sharp enough to still the air. “Not today.”

Dora tilts her head, bowing slightly, though her golden eyes gleam with challenge. “My King?”

“Not today, Dora.” His glow flares faintly, shadows trembling like smoke. “Assist the Consort instead in choosing something suitable for Sam’s gardens. He will be visiting there today.”

Dora’s eyes narrow. Smoke curls from her lips. She turns to Tim, arms crossed over her armored chest, assessing him with the slow scrutiny of a predator.

“What does the Consort desire?” she asks, the regal tilt of her chin daring him to stammer. “You should not bend yourself to Phantom’s wants simply because he is King. A Consort must speak his own will—or risk being nothing but decoration.”

Tim meets her gaze. He is wary of the woman; he still remembers her voice deciding his fate as he knelt in that chained line.

He's sure he looks a mess, but he pulls his shields up around himself all the same and responds unflinchingly, "I desire your instruction, Advisor to the High King. However, I am not fit for it at the moment. A day in the gardens will clear my head and ensure you have my full attention the next time we meet."

Dora lets more smoke curl out from her nostrils before she smiles, all sharp teeth and satisfaction. It's the kind of smile that promises she has already calculated five possible ways to test him and has decided to allow his answer to stand—for now. “I knew you would know how to handle the etiquette faster. I will accept it. Now, please—let us find you appropriate clothes to meet Mother Nature.”

Phantom groans and collapses back into his heap of pillows and blankets, his eldritch edges blurring until he looks more heap than monarch. The shift is almost comical—one moment he is all scales, green flame, and terrible gravity, the next he is sulking into the sheets like a teenager refusing to get up for school.

Dora’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, pupils narrowing again before she turns smoothly. Her footsteps are soundless as she approaches the adjoining door, the one that separates Phantom’s bedchamber from the dressing rooms beyond. She stops just short of it, spine straight as a spear, and inclines her head toward Tim.

“Consort,” she says, the word heavy with formality, “may I enter?”

The question is polite. The tone, however, makes it clear that she is not in the habit of asking permission from anyone but the King—and only because tradition demands it. Her eyes fix on Tim as if weighing his soul, smoke whispering from her nostrils with each slow exhale.

Behind them, Phantom makes a muffled noise into his pillow, something between ‘just kill me already’ and ‘please ignore her, she’ll talk herself to death eventually.’

Tim ignores him. Instead, he gives a short nod and crosses the room to follow after her. "You may. I would appreciate your help in finding something less... unwieldy than what Phantom gave me to wear yesterday." The words are more exasperation than criticism. He's starting to see what Lawrence meant about Phantom not understanding things.

Dora sweeps ahead of him into the dressing chamber, tall and regal, her claws clicking faintly against polished stone. She opens the vast wardrobe with a single pull and begins shifting through rich fabrics, humming a low tune under her breath that sounds more like an old battlefield song than anything sweet.

“You will want something that is not heavy,” she says, her voice floating back toward him as if she is addressing the room itself. “The Goddess’ garden is quite warm during this season. Something not too long, as cloth dragging will catch on the branches. Something regal for your first presentation… and something that cements your status as Temporary Consort.”

She turns her head slightly, one eye gleaming at him, sharp and assessing. “Lady Sam is Phantom’s oldest and closest friend. You must impress her if you want the support of the Spring nobility in court. She is also one of his Saviors. Her approval weighs heavily on him.”

Her claws finally still. She draws out three garments, each draped across her forearm like the weapons of a general. She turns and presents them with a predator’s smile.

“The training starts now, even if Phantom will not allow me to take you to the training chambers,” she says smoothly. “Which garment would best serve this moment? All three are good. But only one is right.”

Tim's smile is as knowing as it is tired. She reminds him of Bruce and Janet both and it makes what might otherwise be irritation turn into almost amused resignation. He steps closer to look at her choices, taking each garment from her arms, one by one, to examine each critically.

There is a cloak, shorter than the one he currently wears with red laces. He immediately dismisses it.

The second is a black dress shirt made of loose, flowing fabric. He holds it up to his body and determines that the hem of it would fall around his thighs.

The third is some kind of jacket. He flushes when he realizes it would leave a good portion of himself bare.

"The cloak features one of the old King's colors. The jacket, while breathable, is also revealing and while I do not know your fashion I am not quite ready to bare myself to the world. The shirt is similar to Phantom's color palate and short enough not to catch on anything. I choose that one."

Dora sighs in what can only be described as weariness. "The Tyrant King did love his reds." She passes him the shirt before putting the other two back into the closet again. "Do you need help getting ready or shall I leave you to it?"

"I should be able to manage. Thank you, Instructor of Consorts. I appreciate your time."

Her smile is sharp. "I chose you for a reason, Temporary Consort. Do not make me regret it." She sweeps out of the room then, closing the door gently behind her.

Tim exhales a sigh. He looks around the room wearily and then down at himself. He needs a shower.

A door materializes on the other wall as if answering his thoughts. He approaches cautiously and finds that it leads to his rooms. When he steps through and closes it, it disappears as if it was never there.

"Huh," he mutters.

Across the room he finds his bathroom behind another door, with what appears to be normal running water. There are human products inside, all in various languages. He turns on the shower and sniffs out his favorites before taking the first hot shower he's had in ages. The LoA didn't bother with heaters. The desert meant most of the water is lukewarm as is and Ra's didn't pamper his pet assassins.

It takes genuine effort not to linger. He washes quickly, examines his face critically in the mirror for any residual effects of his breakdown the day before and gets dressed. He finds sturdy boots and a pair of stockings waiting for him. Where they came from, he doesn't know. They're comfortable though, and the stockings give his skin some protection.

He hesitates at the door that joins his room to Phantom's, aware of just how much of a wreck he must seem after the night before. He'll have to apologize and prove that he is more than a weeping mess.

"Phantom?" He calls, stepping through the threshold gingerly.

No longer in his nest, Phantom stands in the center of the room like a statue left behind by some forgotten God. Shadows pool unnaturally around his figure, as if the stone floor itself has bent inward to cradle him. His eyes are closed, almost like he has fallen asleep standing there. But no—there is no rise or fall of breath, no shift of weight, nothing. It's as if he has gone so deep into thought that his body has become an anchor point, tethering something vast and endless far away.

The air feels heavier near him.

Tim reaches the edge of his shadows and—without warning—Phantom’s eyes snap open. For one dizzying heartbeat they are startlingly human: wide and blue, warm with a boyish confusion.

The moment shatters.

The blue flickers out like a candle flame, replaced with a slow, creeping bloom of green with no sclera and no pupil. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of glowing green eyes surface from the shadows around him, layered atop one another, crowding the shadows, spilling across the floor like dropped jewels.

Phantom’s gaze—or what passes for it—turns toward him. Multiple eyes blink open all at once, overlapping and folding in on themselves, as though the universe itself has turned to give him a once-over. One particularly bold eye opens directly in the stone by Tim’s boots and slides upward, crawling through the shadows with languid inevitability until it aligns with his face.

Tim doesn't flinch and he owes his training for that. He stands firm in the face of such an unsettling image and instead of horror finds himself weirdly flattered by just how much of Phantom's attention he seems to hold. He's never made someone's eyes literally fight to focus in on him first.

“Tim.” The word is not a word, but a chorus. A thousand voices layered over each other—high, low, whispering, roaring—yet every one of them nervous, stammering.

“You look…” the voices hesitate, as though conferring with themselves before reaching consensus. “Good. You look good.”

The shadows shift, curling like smoke around Tim’s outline, and every eye seems to narrow in on him at once.

“You feel nervous, though. Ashamed.” The voices soften, curious rather than accusing. “Is something the matter? Did Dora do something?”

Tim directs his gaze to the singular eye by his face and offers a grimacing smile.

"I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I'm not normally so... emotional. It's been a stressful few years and I did not intend to make you deal with it. I appreciate you asking the Instructor of Consorts to give me time to regain my composure and what little dignity I have left. If you have more important things to be doing, I would understand."

All but four of the eyes blink out at once, leaving them hovering on the vague outline of Phantom’s face. They don’t blink—just stare, uncomfortably steady, before tilting in unison as if the entity itself is cocking its head like a curious cat.

“I thought your behavior last night was… more than justified,” Phantom says, his voice soft but still threaded through with overlapping echoes, like a choir murmuring in a cavern. “You were placed in a situation of extreme duress and survived. Such conditions heighten mortal reactions. Your emotions were logical.”

He pauses, and the eyes narrow—not unkindly. It's as if they're trying to squint their way through a concept. “And we have important things to do. The Goddess of Nature’s Garden is expecting us. Unless you do not wish to spend your day there. Or with me.”

The phrasing is blunt, so guileless it almost comes across as insulting, but there is a strange sincerity under it. Phantom’s hands twitch at his sides, restless, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them.

“In that case,” Phantom continues, “I can summon the Tailor of Kings to… occupy you. Or the Instructor of Consorts, if you would rather begin training. Or—” his voice dips oddly, as if he is unsure if this is the right suggestion, “you may remain in your chambers. The library is open to you. You have permission to go there.”

Another beat. The last four eyes hold fast to Tim as though his answer carries the weight of worlds.

It is mystifying. It has to be mystifying, because the only other word Tim can come up with is endearing and he isn't capable of dealing with what that particular revelation means about himself just yet.

It's also particularly strange to suddenly deal with a Phantom who seems cautious. Before Tim demanded a tailor and a library, Phantom never hesitated in laying a possessive touch to his body, or in teasing at his skin with shadow. The new behavior makes Tim wonder where they stand now.

"No. I know it's a bad idea to cancel on a Goddess." A small sad smile curls Tim's lips as he thinks back fondly on Cassie, even despite the hurt of her turning him away when he needed her the most. "I would like to accompany you."

"I would appreciate that too."

Phantom lifts his hand, and the shadows bend to his will. A portal rips itself open in the center of the room, edges hissing faintly as if the air itself objects to the sudden tear in reality. He reaches out to rest his palm against Tim’s back, long fingers spreading until it feels like he could curl them around his waist in one effortless motion if he wanted. The touch is steady, guiding, almost identical to how he had directed Tim through the cave the night before.

"Sam does await us," Phantom says, his tone measured, as if repeating instructions he’s practiced. "She can be prickly, so please do not feel discouraged by her spiky behavior."

It's so clearly meant to be a joke. Phantom seems pleased with himself for making it, the corner of his multiple mouths twitching like he has almost mastered humor.

Tim offers a soft sound of amusement and steps through the portal.

Immediately, his lungs fill with damp, fragrant air so fresh it nearly stings. The other side opens into a rain forest oasis, more alive than any place he's ever seen. Towering trees arch overhead, their canopies a cathedral of green. Vines loop down in glistening braids, heavy with flowers in impossible shades—cobalt blue, molten gold, soft violet that seem to shimmer if Tim tilts his head.

The underbrush is thick with bushes flowering in wild abundance, petals larger than his hand glowing faintly, as if some carry a light of their own. Rivers wind between the trees, their surfaces scattered with floating blossoms like living constellations. Birds with long, jeweled tails sweep past overhead, their calls weaving music into the air.

It's a dream given form, the kind of living paradise that might’ve tumbled straight from Ivy’s most extravagant fantasies. And yet, instead of being threatening, it feels… benevolent. Almost as if the garden knows it's being seen, and approves.

Phantom’s hand remains steady at his back, anchoring Tim as he guides him into the forest.

"Wow," Tim breathes, unable to contain his awe. He's been to all manner of places, including several planets, space and that one notable time where the universe almost broke and he saw several different realities. He's seen a lot of things, but he thinks this might be one of the most beautiful. He longs for his camera, shooting finger twitching for the familiar capture button.

"When Ra's said he was sending me to the Land of the Dead I figured there wouldn't be anything living," he admits. "But this is... incredible."

Phantom growls low at the mention of Ra’s, a rumble that vibrates through Tim’s ribs as he pulls him closer, protective in a way that is comforting and intimidating all at once. “Don’t mention him in my presence.”

The words come out sharp as a blade, but after a heartbeat, Phantom’s shoulders ease, though he doesn't loosen his hold. Instead, he keeps Tim pressed to his side, as though proximity alone steadies him.

Tim leans into his body almost unconsciously. The return of previous behavior is a relief; it tells him he hadn't ruined things last night.

After a moment in which he seems to ground himself, Phantom lets out a breath and lifts his head. His lips curve into something between a smirk and a smile, a flicker of pride cutting through the earlier edge. “The Land of the Dead is not a wasteland,” he tells him, voice carrying warmth and gravity in equal measure. “It is a kingdom. Life and death are not enemies here—they are threads in the same tapestry.”

His hand spreads a little wider at Tim’s back, fingers flexing once, deliberately; a grounding touch. “The plants you see here are all extinct. Gone from the mortal plane, yes—but here? They remain. Death is not the end. It is continuity.”

And indeed, the rain forest shimmers around them, a dreamscape of impossibility. Pale orchids glow like lanterns beneath the canopy. Trees tower; their leaves a silver-green that catches ghostlight instead of sunlight. Vines cascade down in shimmering waves, coiling and unfurling as if alive with their own will. Strange flowers burst open in slow motion, as though the forest itself is breathing.

The air is heavy with fragrance—jasmine and loam, rain and ozone. Somewhere in the distance, water trickles like laughter. It is lush, alien, and achingly beautiful; a place that feels eternal.

Not far ahead, the soil shifts. A figure rises seamlessly from the ground, her body woven of bark and branches, her skin a lattice of polished wood shot through with veins of green fire. Her hair falls in a cascade of foliage so dark it borders on black, the leaves shivering though there is no breeze. She carries herself with the lazy confidence of someone rooted in the land itself, every step echoing like roots splitting stone.

Phantom’s entire frame vibrates with something close to a purr. “Sam.”

“Phantom!” she greets, her voice crisp as crushed leaves, tone fond and exasperated all at once. “It’s been a while, you absolute disaster of a man.”

Then her gaze shifts, and the flowers that make up her eyes turn toward Tim. Their petals dilate, sharpening focus, and her mouth curls into a thorny grin.

“Is this the Temporary Consort who dared to fuck you the second he met you?” she asks, voice lilting with scornful amusement. Her head tilts, leaves brushing against her shoulders. “Huh. Thought he’d be taller.”

If she expects him to be insulted, she is left disappointed. Tim lets out a soft laugh before he can help it, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners in his amusement. "I've been called worse," he admits easily, before bowing his head low. He doesn't know the customs here yet, but he saw the way everyone bowed to Phantom. He isn't sure where he falls as far as status goes but regardless of whether he is not meant to lower himself, he knows this decision is the right one. "Greetings, Goddess of Nature. I have heard many great things about you already in my short time of being here and I am honored to be allowed to see your gardens. They are... Well, words do not do them justice. I would be honored if you would call me Tim."

His eyes are bright as he lifts his head once more, eyes shining with the curiosity that has haunted him since he was a little boy.

"I know someone from my world who would kill to meet you, were she aware of your existence."

Both Phantom and the Goddess of Nature freeze at Tim’s small action. Her eyes—those strange blossoms that bloom where pupils should be—remain fixed on him, while Phantom’s shadows ripple as a dozen more eyes blink open, all staring in astonishment.

Then she turns back to Phantom, her entire form thrumming with sudden excitement, leaves trembling like laughter. “Like him. How much for him?”

Tim's breath catches in his throat. For the first time, it occurs to him that Phantom can give away his soul. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t considered it until now—of course souls can trade hands. He knows of the Hells; souls are basically currency there.

The thought of being given away like livestock terrifies him.

He steps back away from her, moving further into Phantom's shadows even before they move to protect him. He doesn't know what it would mean to belong to the Goddess of Nature but he knows he doesn't want it. As stupid as it is, he wants to stay where he is, where he's starting to find his footing and make tentative friends. He wants to learn more about the strange being that has named him Temporary Consort and why he's so kind.

Beside him, Phantom bristles instantly. “No.”

She steps forward, branches creaking with the motion. “You’ve given me others before. Come on, name your price.”

“I don’t share.” His voice is sharper now, edged with static. He pulls Tim closer, until he's half-hidden against Phantom’s chest. Tim allows it and grips him like a child trying to keep their favorite teddy bear after being told they're too old for it.

“I can give you Kryptonians,” she presses, smiling like vines winding toward sunlight. “Didn’t you want Kryptonians? A whole race—it seems fair.”

“He is mine.” The words rumble out in something deeper than speech. His shadows curl protectively around Tim while their edges sharpen into jagged spikes aimed squarely at her. The growl that follows isn’t human—it's the sound of something ancient baring its teeth.

Unfazed, she leans in closer, her foliage shifting with eagerness. “What about your own forest? Know you always wanted one in the library gardens. Could make it grow—make Haunt beautiful.”

“BACK. OFF. SAMANTHA.” Phantom’s snarl rips through the air, the force of it rattling the ground. Three ghostly arms wrap around Tim, hauling him firmly against his chest and off the ground as if daring her to try again.

For the first time, she pauses. Then she huffs, leafy hair shaking as if in a breeze, and steps back with a pout. “Fine. Keep human, stupid ghost boy.”

The words deflate the moment. Phantom’s shadows ease, the dangerous spikes withdrawing, though his hold on Tim remains fierce.

Calm and apparently in good spirits again, she turns her back on them and starts to glide into the forest as if nothing insurmountable has just occurred. "Come, I'll give you both a tour."

Tim does not share her sentiment.

He's breathing hard and shaking minutely. He hates himself for the weakness, hates that he is so powerless. But more than anything, he hates Ra's Al Ghul for putting him in this position in the first place.

He closes his eyes and ignores his pride. He ignores his mother's voice in his head, screaming to get himself together. He has no leverage and no real power here yet. This is his only choice.

"Please," he whispers, forehead pressed to Phantom's shoulder. "I'll make another deal, I'll give you more years, just don't—don't give my soul away to anyone else."

“Not giving you away. Never giving you away,” Phantom growls, voice rough with static. He lowers his head until his crown of shadows brushes Tim’s hair. He rubs his cheek against him with a low, vibrating purr meant to soothe.

Frowning at the two of them, the Goddess of Nature finally turns away, foliage rustling with her disappointed huff.

Phantom’s growl follows her retreat.

“Stupid high-king killer… thinks she can take my Consort. You're mine. I’ll tear her garden apart if she so much as lays a finger on you. She can try to kill me as many times as she wants, she won't succeed in taking mine.”

His purring deepens, a thrumming tide that tries to steady Tim’s heartbeat, while his many arms curl him close—holding, hugging, caging him in warmth and shadow. Yet, still those bright green eyes track the Goddess’ every step until the forest itself parts, opening a path for her departure.

Tim shudders. It should feel suffocating surely, being held so tightly by so many arms, but instead it feels safe. Then again, Dick used to joke that nothing about Tim is normal. He thinks this entire situation is probably proof of that.

He forces himself through one of the breathing exercises B ingrained in him. Phantom's touch, the resonate overlay of his voice, the way his chest vibrates, it all helps to ground him. Cats purr to self soothe and comfort others, Tim remembers. Is that what Phantom is doing?

...Tim's always wanted a cat.

He lifts his head to look up into Phantom's face. It's close, due to the way he's folded in on himself to hold Tim. Their faces are only inches away, those green eyes glowing faintly.

"I need your word," Tim says hoarsely. "I need—" His breath shudders in his chest; his fingers tighten their grip as he grimaces as if in pain. "Please."

Phantom’s purring deepens until it shakes through every shadow coiled around him, wrapping him up in a cage of warmth and possession. Two hands cup his face with almost reverent care, tilting it upward, while others roam greedily—tangling in his hair, stroking his sides, mapping every inch of exposed skin like he can’t bear to leave any part of him untouched.

A guttural growl reverberates low in Phantom’s throat, primal and certain. “Promise… my Consort. Only mine. Your soul is mine. I will never give you away.”

The words are like a chain settling around both their wrists; the forest shivers and sighs with recognition before falling still once more.

Then his mouth is on Tim’s, crushing, hungry. The kiss breaks past every boundary. Phantom’s tongue thrusts forward, long and insistent, sliding into Tim's mouth with a heat that sears. It presses past his lips; deeper and deeper, filling his mouth, curling into his throat with a claiming intimacy that is both suffocating and intoxicating. Warm and slick, it moves against him in deliberate strokes, possessive and unrelenting, as if Phantom is trying to root himself inside him through the kiss alone. Every caress of shadows only heightens the sensation, holding Tim in place while the Ghost King devours him whole.

Tim shakes under the attention, overwhelmed by Phantom's onslaught of affection. It hurts to be wanted so blatantly after years of always being ignored and forgotten. The aching, lonely thing in his chest cries out where have you been?

His knees would send him to the floor if Phantom wasn't already clutching him to his chest. One set of hands wraps around the backs of his knees while another supports his thighs, lifting him further into the air and holding him tight to Phantom's body. Tim wraps his legs around him on reflex, though instead of hips he finds himself higher, closer to his chest. His hands clutch at Phantom's wrists, following his arms down to clutch at his shoulders for support.

His head is dizzy, both from lack of air and from the sheer proof of Phantom's want. He threatens to choke on the tongue down his throat as the angle shifts, as he is made taller than Phantom, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his chest heaves once before simply giving in. His noises are eaten by shadows and mouth alike; involuntary tears roll down his cheeks before they're wiped away by one of many gentle claws.

He is drowning and finds that he has no desire to reach for a life raft.

After what feels like hours—but is most likely no more than a few minutes—Phantom finally relents. His tongue withdraws with a slow, deliberate drag, leaving Tim’s lips wet, swollen, and aching from the relentless claim.

Tim immediately gasps for air. He coughs once, twice, face flushed from both lack of oxygen and sheer surprise. His eyes stay closed as Phantom uses the same inhuman length of his tongue to lap at his cheeks, gathering the salt of his tears up with languid strokes. Each motion is tender, almost feline; each content little purr vibrating through Tim’s body where they're pressed together. Gone is the aggravated edge; these purrs are soft, pleased, indulgent—like a predator that has finally caught what it's been craving and now has no intention of letting it go.

Phantom’s many arms remain curled around Tim, not in aggression but in shelter—an unyielding cocoon of strength and shadow meant only for him. He can breathe again, but only because Phantom permits it.

And then—because the universe clearly has no sense of timing—the bark of a nearby tree groans, splitting just enough for a face to emerge. From the twisting arc of its trunk, Sam’s sharp green eyes and scowling mouth take shape, her expression dripping with exasperation.

“Have you finished fucking your Consort?” she snaps, voice as dry as rustling leaves. “Because I would very much like to show him the plants now.”

Phantom stills, green eyes narrowing in faint irritation, then slowly, deliberately, he sticks out his tongue in her direction—long, obscene, and still glistening. A low, mischievous rumble comes from his chest as he tucks Tim tighter against him, arms drawing in close like he's sealing a treasure away.

She scowls even harder, bark crinkling into a frown. She mimics the gesture, sticking out her own tongue with the same childish defiance, before the wood creaks, swallowing her visage back into the tree’s trunk.

Phantom makes a smug sound, brushing his cheek against Tim’s damp one again. He was not giving up his prize—not now, not ever.

"You—" Tim finally opens his eyes to find dozens of Phantom's focused up on him, watching avidly, as if he is the most interesting thing they've ever seen. He flushes darker. He is suddenly aware of just how achingly hard he is; he thinks, with horrified embarrassment, that he might have orgasmed from Phantom's hands and mouth alone if he hadn't stopped.

How do you look away when the being before you can have as many eyes as he wants? The answer is you can't.

Tim tries again, using all his control not to arch into touch like a cat. "You've got to stop with the—hands. I can't concentrate."

Phantom’s eyes seem to tilt, like a head cocked in silent amusement; watching, waiting. His voice rumbles low, vibrating through Tim’s ribs.

“Do you wish to be put down?” he asks, deceptively gentle.

The question should be merciful, but every syllable is wrapped tight, cloying and impossible to slip from.

The hands stop moving, no longer stroking his hair, tracing his sides, caressing the soft skin under his borrowed shirt. Now they only hold him—everywhere at once. The weight of their stillness presses into Tim’s nerves like shackles. He can feel them at his back, his waist, the bend of his knees, his thighs, like Phantom can't bear to let go but can't decide which part of him to claim first.

It isn't fair, Tim thinks. It isn't fair that Phantom can be so obviously inhuman and yet still make Tim want him. It is especially unfair that he's all too aware that Phantom can sense this. Can he see how touch starved Tim is? Can he read the desperate words etched into his heart? Hear the wailing voice that says please, just a little longer, don't go—

“Do you need help?” he asks, quieter, though no less intent. Half of his eyes fix unwaveringly on Tim’s face. The rest—far too many—drop, sharp and consuming, toward the heat pressing against both the fabric of Tim's make-shift dress and Phantom's chest.

Tim, still lifted and held in place by all his hands, shudders from the pure weight of those eyes.

He's used to being a living ghost. He is frequently ignored and forgotten; that is just how he's learned things work. He takes the spotlight when no one else wants it and then slips into the shadows like a tool put away until its next use. He is not used to being seen; not by something other than cameras or enemies looking for weaknesses.

When Phantom looks at him like this, it doesn't feel like he's wearing clothes. It doesn't even feel like he's wearing skin. It's as if Phantom is looking right into the center of him, at his—well. At his soul. The fact that he seems to like what he sees is astounding. Horrifyingly baring. Embarrassing.

Tim has to resist the urge to hide behind his hands like a child.

"Do you want to help?" He counters weakly. "Or are you just enjoying embarrassing me?"

Phantom’s many eyes blink all at once—unnerving, synchronized—and then a mouth appears where shadow should be. It stretches wide; glowing green and curling into something that can only be described as a smirk.

“Both,” he intones with a disturbingly playful lilt before leaning forward, hauling Tim closer, his legs nearly thrown over Phantom's shoulders. His face presses against Tim’s stomach, nuzzling in, a deep rumble vibrating through flesh and fabric alike.

“Frostbite said… be mindful of human humanity. To remember what it feels… to be human.” His words are halting, stripped down, as if meaning itself is difficult to hold onto. Each syllable grows simpler the more insistently he buries himself against Tim’s belly, cold breath puffing over sensitive skin.

“I don’t remember,” he admits in a low huff. “I ask.”

Another exhale. Another purr pressed into Tim’s hips.

“Humans like touch,” Phantom murmurs, “but you feel nervous. Feel… ashamed.” His claws flex, careful, trembling on the edge of restraint. “I can give touch. I can help. Let me help?”

Part of Tim's heart breaks for this strange, lost creature, who speaks like he was once human but has forgotten who he was. He remembers Lawrence's words, about how Phantom used to appear human, and then thinks back to the warmth he'd felt the night before and the voice that had sounded singular and all too mortal.

He threads careful fingers into the shadows that drift off of Phantom's head. They act almost like hair, so he treats them like it, stroking gently.

"I'm not ashamed because of you," he says quietly, insistently. "I'm not... most of my life, I've grown up suppressing my emotions. It's what I was taught. And now I'm here and apparently everyone can tell how I feel, regardless of how I act and look on the outside.

I'm a liar, Phantom," he confesses, feeling the weight of the confession leave his shoulders, "I'm known as the Robin Who Can Lie to Batman. I know that that doesn't mean anything to you but—it means I'm good at it. Or was. Now I have to... deal with my emotions. Because other people see me. And that terrifies me."

He tugs gently on Phantom's hair, lifting his head up so he can look down at that face of watching eyes. He runs a careful finger under one of them and swallows.

"It scares me, thinking of what you must see when you look at me. I don't understand why you would want me, seeing all you do. But I... I want to be selfish. I want to let you touch me."

Most eyes disappear, as if responding to Tim's words. Only the one under Tim's finger remains, as well as its twin. It gives Phantom's face an appearance almost human, as there are now two eyes in the general area of where eyes are normally found and a maw opening slowly to let his long tongue out.

"Soul is beautiful," Phantom murmurs, as two hands pull Tim's borrowed shirt up around his hips. "Blue."

He leans forward once more to press his tongue against the soft skin of Tim's belly. Tim's breath hitches when it traces over his splenectomy scar; a scar now made obsolete, due to Frostbite's healing. It's still sensitive in its newness, nerves not quite settled. Phantom growls lowly at its existence before he travels lower.

His tongue traces over the bone of Tim's hip before it pushes against the top of his underwear and slides beneath the fabric. It moves slowly, almost waiting for Tim to call a stop to the whole thing. It's so different from how sure Phantom was that first night that Tim isn't sure what to say to reassure him.

Hands have gone back to holding him. Restraining him from moving too strongly; keeping him safe and contained within Phantom's embrace. The ones at Tim's forearms squeeze a little; the ones at his hips are definitely leaving fingerprints with how hard he's being gripped. Tim, who has always loved the bruises given through passion, moans and shifts his hips just to feel those long fingers tighten and adjust.

Phantom's tongue curls, far more flexible than it should be and leaves a wet trail up the length of his dick, causing Tim to jerk in his grip.

"Oh!" he gasps, hands fumbling to get at the band of his boxers. "Wait, I need to—these are the only clothes I have with me."

Phantom withdraws; Tim's stomach goes hot as he watches the impossible length of that tongue disappear back into his mouth. Something like a question rumbles in Phantom's throat when he catches Tim looking; Tim flushes and turns back to his task.

Phantom's hands help him pull his briefs down. He seems to lose patience with the stockings and rips right through them with a claw, leaving a hole that bares him from his ass to his inner thighs; Tim gasps, pupils blown wide at the simple show of deadly precision.

He's pulled back in as that tongue returns to wind around his arousal. It ripples over him like a snake and Tim tugs at Phantom's hair with a loud moan, hips bucking before he can help it.

More clawed hands join the fray, sliding up Tim's thighs to grip his ass. A knuckle brushes against his entrance, whether on purpose or not and he whimpers, suddenly struck with thoughts of Phantom's cock stretching him wide. He took Kon once, and he was huge by human standards. Maybe Tim could—it would take time but—maybe he could ask Lawrence, or the Instructor of Consorts? Surely there are toys in the Ghost Realm. If he could get something to practice with…

"Excited," Phantom rumbles. "What?"

Tim blushes so hard it reaches his chest. Hands chase after the color, stroking over his collarbone before dipping lower to run over his nipples; Tim bites his lip and arches into the touch.

"Just thinking," he gasps out, as Phantom's tongue ripples up his length.

"About?"

"I—oh fu—" Tim nearly bends double when claws pluck at his nipples at the same time that Phantom turns his head to bite marks into his inner thigh. The hands on his body tighten, keeping him in place.

"Tim," Phantom says insistently, eyes glowing bright from between his legs. "About?"

"You!" He gasps out, hips twitching with how close he already is. His eyes nearly cross when Phantom presses a knuckle up against his perineum and rolls the pressure. "I just—I was—I'm close! Please!"

His tongue lets up; his knuckle eases back despite Tim's desperate sob. "Tell."

Tim tries to throw a hand over his face only for it to be caught; his fingers tangle with clawed ones. He's not allowed to hide from this.

"I was thinking about you inside me," Tim confesses, words heavy with defeat. "And how I could make it happen."

Phantom purrs, so loud it feels like distant thunder. It vibrates his tongue and has Tim sobbing out a moan, eyes slamming closed as his mouth drops open. That knuckle is back, rocking against his perineum before sliding further back to press to his entrance. Tim comes like that, to just the ghost of pressure and Phantom's tongue wound around him.

"Good," Phantom rumbles, as he licks Tim clean. "Good Consort. Mine."

Tim is dimly aware of being lowered onto a flat surface. He thinks it might be the forest floor but he doesn't feel any leaves or sticks poking into him; just the familiar kiss of shadows. At some point, a pair of hands pull his shirt over his head as Phantom leans down. He catches Tim's ankles in a hand and pulls him closer, until he can rest Tim's legs against his chest.

It takes him a second to open his eyes and register the world around him; by that time Phantom is holding his thighs together and pressing his cock into the tight space between them. He looms over him, wreathed in shadows with eyes glowing so bright they light up the space around them.

When he slides forward he brushes over Tim's cock, making him twitch with overstimulation.

"Can't break you. Promised. Safe here." Phantom sighs, eyes slitting with pleasure as he gives a testing rock of his hips; Tim's entire body moves along with him. "Too small. But like this…" He gives another thrust, harder this time, using Tim's body like a toy. He grins wide at Tim's answering moan. "Compromise."

He sounds far too victorious, almost like a child, but there is nothing childish about what he does next.

Tim is helpless to do anything but hang on to the hands offered to him as he is jerked back and forth by Phantom's powerful thrusts. The drag of their skin together has his cock stirring again in interest. It has to be magic, how ready he is to go again. Tim is young but he's not that young.

And then Phantom practically folds him in half and leans down to purr right into his ear, "Would fill you up. Keep you in my nest until you're full of me. Until everyone can smell that you're mine. No one would dare ask to take you then."

Tim goes shivery and weak all over.

"Mine," he breathes, like an order, like a prayer, teeth nipping at Tim's neck and shoulders, leaving behind bruises in the shape of his teeth. "Mine, mine, mine—"

Tim comes to that chant in his ear and Phantom follows shortly after, painting Tim's stomach and chest in his spend. The amount is just as much as last time; it drips off of him and into the shadows, painting his skin a pale sheen of green.

Phantom finally lets Tim’s legs slip down to the shadowed floor. One clawed hand slides deliberately over Tim’s stomach, spreading the mess across the flushed skin of his back as well. The motion isn't hurried—it's ritualistic, almost reverent. A deep, satisfied rumble reverberates out through his chest, vibrating against Tim's body like a purr with teeth.

Claws trail upward, teasing at the peaks of Tim’s nipples just to savor the way his Consort shivers; just to watch him squirm and swat weakly at hands that are too many, too persistent, too unwilling to leave him untouched.

Phantom’s eyes glimmer with unearthly satisfaction. He has fed, he has given, he has marked. His Consort is pleased. Dora cannot lecture him for this—not when the bond is honored and fulfilled—and Sam… Sam will surely understand her boundaries now.

When at last he is satisfied with how much of himself he has managed to soak into Tim’s skin, Phantom bends low and laps up the excess with a long, slow drag of his tongue. His care is almost practical, as though he wishes to spare Tim the discomfort of stickiness, though the sound he makes while swallowing betrays a far darker satisfaction.

Shadows peel away from him in sheets, like mist torn from the night. They curl outward and reform into what can only be described as a cape of stars—each pinprick of light is scattered in the folds like a sky gathered into cloth. Phantom holds it out towards Tim with all the ceremony of a knight offering treasure.

“For you,” he murmurs, voice rich with static, thrumming with want. “Wear it. Or clean yourself. Or—” his grin splits wide, full of teeth and too much delight— “wear it and clean yourself.”

He doesn't wait for an answer before crowding closer again, unable to resist the gravitational pull of his Consort. His hands—too many hands—remain restless, brushing Tim’s hair back, cupping his jaw, circling over his hip, his thigh, his ribs. Never still. Never sated.

“Do you wish to explore the garden still?” he asks, though his focus is entirely on Tim. Then, as if the thought has just occurred to him, Phantom’s eyes narrow, a dozen of them glittering sharp. “I can tell the goddess to fuck off.”

The words should be crude. They come out like a purr, possessive and promising, as if nothing in the world—or beyond it—can stand between him and Tim’s next desire.

Tim does his best to breathe.

It's—a lot, all at once and his head is still spinning, legs still shaky. He's not used to this much attention and touch.

He pushes gently at Phantom's chest, careful to keep his voice soft so that it's clear he's not rejecting him. Just asking for a moment.

"Humans need to breathe," he reminds lightly, "and I can't get dressed when you're touching me everywhere.

Don't think I don't know what you're doing with the marking, either. You said people would be able to smell you. How much of an insult did I just participate in, having sex with you in the Goddess of Nature's garden?"

Phantom’s laugh is low, pleased, curling around Tim like smoke. “Sam can’t complain. She killed me twice—I get to fuck in her garden.” His words are unrepentant, though his hands finally withdraw, shadows slipping off Tim’s skin like silk.

Dozens of eyes linger, unblinking, drinking him in. Some fix on his face, soft and indulgent, while others trail over his bare chest, his thighs, the mess Phantom has rubbed into his skin.

He tilts what could be called his head, a grin stretching across the shifting shadows. “Besides… she grows flowers. I grow stars. If she didn’t want them to watch, she should’ve closed her petals.”

Phantom spreads his hands—or perhaps his shadows—wide, offering Tim the cape of starlight once again, though his voice drops low with mock solemnity. “As for insult? You are my Consort for the time being. You are above her. You are above everyone. Let her smell it. Let them all smell it. They’ll know you're mine.”

The last words rumble with dangerous satisfaction, though his gaze softens immediately; a clawed finger brushes against Tim’s cheek. “But breathe, little human. Dress. I’ll wait.”

Tim can't help the way he leans into that touch, cheek turning to press into it like a cat, even despite his previous words. It's been so long since someone has touched him kindly.

"I have so many questions," he mutters, taking the cape from Phantom's hands at last. It's beautiful, magical, and he can't bring himself to dirty it. Instead he sacrifices his boxers to scrub at the come still on his skin, grumbling all the while about "it not being sexy when it starts cracking off his skin like a bad paint job."

Finally, he dresses—sans the underwear—and finds himself at a loss as to what to do with the dirty cloth. A shadow takes it before he can open his mouth, vanishing it into the darkness as if it never was. He wraps Phantom's cape around himself next, relaxing into the familiar almost-chill he's starting to associate with Phantom's influence.

He looks up then, taking in a deep breath as he meets Phantom's many eyes. He's starting to think privacy is going to be a hard won thing outside of his room; good thing he's had most modesty trained out of him.

"Thank you," he says, gesturing to the cape. He takes a half step forward before his eyes narrow as a thought occurs to him. "Wait, if you could do that from the beginning why did I wear that awful cloak to Court?"

Phantom tilts his head, eyes blinking out of sync, confusion radiating from every angle. What comes next is said with the certainty of someone pointing out the sky is blue, utterly baffled that Tim would think otherwise.“What awful cloak? It was mine. You looked beautiful wearing mine.”

A hand presses lightly to Tim’s lower back, steadying, guiding. The garden seems to shift in response, vines curling aside and blossoms bowing open as though welcoming them deeper. The path unfurls ahead of them in a slow, deliberate reveal, each flower exhaling scents too rich to be natural, daring them to touch.

"I looked like a child playing dress up with the King's clothes!" Tim says hotly. "None of your Council could even pretend to take me seriously!" He huffs, crossing his arms even as he allows himself to be guided. "You might think I look good in your clothes but the rest of the world certainly doesn't."

Still, it softens something in him to know that it wasn't a deliberate sabotage on Phantom's part.

"...if you like it so much, maybe I can wear them when we're in your rooms. But not outside, where people can see, unless it's something reasonable like this. I'm going to have a hard enough time fixing my image as is."

Phantom’s many eyes glitter, and his smile multiplies, appearing all over his face, split wide, fangs glinting. “In my Haunt, I want you naked,” he purrs, bending to say the words warm against Tim’s ear, “but wearing mine is a good compromise.”

Tim flushes hotly. He shoots Phantom a glare, despite the smile trying to break through his facade. "You're not charming, you know." He informs him, even as he lets himself be guided through the forest.

Chapter Text

The garden shifts around them. Lush greenery sinks into shadow, bright blossoms curl in on themselves. Vines thicken — barbed and heavy — their flowers black as ink. Skulls gleam faintly where stone lanterns once stood, and the air is perfumed with the sweetness of rot.

Tim isn’t sure if this is meant as a threat display. If it is, he isn’t intimidated — not after Phantom held him like a jealous child refusing to share his favorite toy and promised not to give anyone else his soul.

The knowledge that he outranks her sits heavy at the back of his mind. He can pull rank if she becomes difficult — but does he want to? She matters to Phantom, clearly, and alienating Phantom’s people will not endear him to anyone.

He marks it as a last resort. He will avoid it at all costs.

Phantom’s hand stays steady on Tim’s back as he guides him across the threshold. The change feels like stepping into another world — or another graveyard — except this one pulses with life. Dangerous, predatory life.

At the center of it all, Sam sits with regal poise before a low spread of fruits and goblets, draped in vines as if the garden itself dresses her. Her expression hovers between amusement and irritation, her lips twitching with a smirk she hasn’t quite allowed.

“You took your time,” she drawls, eyes sliding from Tim’s face to Phantom’s utterly unrepentant grin. “He smells like you.”

“I fucked him in your garden,” Phantom replies without a beat, voice smug enough to curdle milk. He nudges Tim onto a seat beside him and flops down with the indolent sprawl of someone who has never once cared about propriety.

Sam arches a brow. Vines curl tighter around her wrists, like living bangles. “Rude.”

“Deal with it,” He shoots back, already reaching for something from the spread. His claws pluck up a small, shining fruit — red and perfect, like a jewel. He holds it out to Tim with mock innocence. “Apple.”

Tim accepts the offering with a dry, “Thank you,” and raises a brow when they simply stare. He takes a deliberate bite. Chews. Swallows.

Phantom practically beams. Tim resists the urge to pat him like an excitable dog. He lifts the fruit for a second bite just to see if the shadows will start wagging, but the garden shifts again.

He sets the apple down and looks up at Sam as she leans toward them, chin in her palm, her stare sharp enough to pry bone apart. The garden stirs around her, vines tightening, black flowers unfurling like carnivorous mouths.

“So,” she says at last, voice smooth as a noose pulling tight, “Temporary Consort. Tell me — are you a monsterfucker?”

Of all the interrogations he expects, that is not one of them. Maybe that is why it lands so directly in his sternum.

He barks a laugh before he can stop it — sudden, sharp enough that his shoulders tense, bracing for the familiar spike of pain. His vocal cords are supposed to be ruined — laughter used to mean knives. Except Frostbite healed everything broken in his body.

He didn’t heal his mind.

Tim’s hand flies to his throat as if he can shove the reaction back down. He clamps his jaw shut and bites his tongue until he tastes metal just to stave it off. He hasn’t had one of these since before Bruce disappeared — why now?

The apple rolls away as his other hand flies up to join the first. Laughter tears out of him like a faucet turned to full — not joyful, not ever. It is the sound of an animal caught in a trap, aware of its own imminent death. He has heard it before. It sounds like screaming more than laughing, which he always thought was a kind of poetic spite from the universe.

He can’t stop it. He can only ride it out. Can only fight to breathe through it with two people who have no idea what is happening to him.

They both panic.

“Hey, hey! Stop! Look! Flowers!” Sam blurts, snapping her hands out. Blossoms detonate from the ground in frantic waves, vines and petals blooming desperately as if beauty can smother a nervous system in revolt.

Phantom whirls on her, every single one of his eyes blazing. “You hurt my human!”

“I didn’t!” she cries, her own distress thick and trembling. It only makes him snarl.

His shadows flare outward before collapsing in close. He seizes Tim’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. Blue eyes—glassy with tears—lock on to star-speckled green.

And then Phantom sees.

Just a glimpse, a surface-level memory that tears through him: Tim, staring into a mirror while he laughs that same broken laugh. His face is painted white, his hair dyed a grotesque shade of green. His mouth is slashed into a Joker’s grin with red lipstick and nasty jagged cuts. Behind him looms a man dressed the same way, a gas mask dripping pink vapor in his hands as he rasps out a name: Junior.

Phantom recoils, shadows rippling violently before he drags Tim forward, crushing him to his chest. He wraps around him in a cocoon of darkness, voice breaking into a guttural growl. The air splits with a soundless crack, and space itself bends. He tears open a doorway, ripping them away from the garden and the Goddess’s desperate cries.

They fall into silence.

The lush sounds of nature are gone, replaced with the suffocating quiet of Phantom’s Haunt. Shadows still press close, curling protectively around Tim as if daring the world to touch him again. Phantom holds him hard to his chest, not purring for once, but humming. A strange, fragile thing—human, low, a half-forgotten lullaby. The sound rumbles through Tim’s bones, soft where Phantom’s arms are iron.

For what feels like an eternity, Tim is stuck laugh-sob-screaming. It is comforting that it is in the dark, where none but Phantom can bear witness.

The first time he registers the hum, he tenses, expecting Harley’s voice to follow. When it doesn’t, he listens hesitantly between the waves, doing his best to focus on Phantom instead of the attack. Eventually, he manages to stop, voice hoarse and cheeks wet with tears.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says, weak and barely there.

Phantom’s humming tapers off, the last note unraveling into silence. When he answers, it isn’t with one voice but with all of them—a thousand overlapping tones and volumes, whispers and roars, soft choruses woven into distorted echoes that scrape against the edges of sanity.

“Meeting who?” the chorus asks. “It is only you. Only me.”

The shadows loosen at last, retreating like an ocean tide. What they reveal is not the garden, nor Phantom’s room, but a vast hall.

Rows upon rows of shelves climb impossibly high, spiraling upward into darkness pierced through by stars. Tall arches cradle the room, their pillars carved into faces—some serene, some grimacing, some so lifelike they seem to breathe. The light is strange, a cold shimmer as if the Milky Way itself has spilled across the ceiling, casting galaxies in place of chandeliers. The space hums with quiet, as though every book pressed against its bindings is whispering knowledge meant only for the dead.

Phantom does not set him down. His arms lock tight around Tim, as though letting go might mean losing him back to that memory. The starfire in his eyes flickers low, almost pleading, even beneath the distortion of a thousand voices.

“You better?” he asks at last.

And beneath it all—under the thunder and the chorus, the echo of worlds ending—there is one note, quiet and trembling, unmistakably human. Deeply concerned.

Tim doesn’t fight it when a second pair of arms catches him behind the knees, scooping him up and pulling him fully into Phantom’s embrace.

“Define ‘better’,” he says, before sighing. Phantom doesn’t deserve his bitterness. “I’m okay now. I don’t really get attacks that often anymore—I was just taken by surprise. I did say I’m used to mad men trying to drive me insane, remember?”

Again, the humor falls flat. He blinks tiredly at their surroundings without really seeing anything, head leaned against Phantom’s chest.

“…where are we?”

“My Haunt,” Phantom answers. His thousand voices roll together like surf on a distant shore, but the cadence is deliberately soft, careful, as if too much sound might crush the fragile quiet between them.

Tim’s breath catches in his chest, but this time it’s in awe instead of panic.

Phantom moves slowly through the library, as if letting him soak it in, a quiet sound that is faint against the marble floor. The shadows bend aside with each stride, parting like respectful attendants until they reach what might pass for a sitting area. It’s strangely familiar—an echo of Phantom’s bed in his normal room—but stretched into something older, grander.

A wide nest of pillows and blankets lays pooled beneath two tall windows that arch like cathedral glass, except instead of stained panes, the cosmos spill through—nebulae drifting lazily, stars winking close enough to touch. Beside it stands an old brass telescope, greened in places with age. Its tripod is buried in a scatter of paper, charts littering the floor in every direction. Each one is hand-painted, constellations joined with careful lines, taped together into a sprawling map that reaches across half the room before abruptly stopping mid-pattern, like someone has abandoned the work mid-thought.

“The door there leads to your room,” Phantom says casually, pointing toward a carved archway where another door rests closed.

Then, with infinite care, he sinks down onto the mass of pillows and blankets, never loosening his grip. As though setting Tim anywhere but against his chest is still unthinkable.

“You give me access to your Haunt?” Tim finally breathes, eyes wide with wonder. He doesn’t know much, but he knows what Lawrence has told him. From what he understands, Haunts are a big deal. For Phantom to allow him access… Tim doesn’t know what it means exactly, he only knows the weight of that decision is not lost on him.

His eyes flicker from place to place as he becomes more alert, cataloging what his human eyes can see from Phantom's lap.

"It's beautiful."

“You need a safe place,” Phantom says quietly. His hand ghosts over Tim’s hair, carding gently through before settling into a slow, absent petting motion. The touch is tentative, like he isn’t sure if he's allowed to do it, but can’t stop himself either.

“You can’t—” he hesitates, his many voices stumbling over one another until they tangle. “You can’t create a Haunt to be safe.” His words come out clipped and rough, almost brittle, but the texture is more shy than sharp. “So… I give you mine. My Haunt. To be safe.”

He shifts just enough for Tim to feel the deliberate looseness of his hold. A careful invitation: you can leave if you want. But at the same time, Phantom’s hand never leaves him, the steady rhythm of touch anchoring Tim in place. A promise: you don’t have to go.

“No one can enter here,” Phantom murmurs. The words have the weight of law, not reassurance, like he is reciting a truth carved into the bones of the universe. His thousand eyes fix on Tim, all of them patient, unblinking, unyielding. “No one can touch you here.” He pauses, and softer, almost pleading, adds: “You are safe here.”

Tim lets the truth of that settle around his shoulders like the cape Phantom made him. He feels suddenly stupid for being afraid of his room not having any doors to the outer hall; he can see now that Phantom placing the only exit in his own room is a way to protect him, not trap.

He doesn’t know how to return the gesture. What can he give this being that he doesn’t already have?

Tim’s hands lift slowly, carefully, giving Phantom’s eyes a chance to move out of the way before he cups his face between his palms; then he lifts himself up to press a sweet kiss to where Phantom’s mouth hides in the darkness.

“No one’s done that for me before,” he admits, forehead pressed to Phantom’s own. “I don’t... I don’t know how to thank you properly. Tell me how your customs work so I can.”

Phantom goes very still. For a heartbeat, the whole library seems to still with him, like the stars themselves are holding their breath. Then the shadows around his face stutter—flickering, collapsing inward—until only three luminous green eyes remain. Every other eye winks out, retreating as though they have all been caught staring and are too flustered to be seen.

There is a glow under the shadows, pulsing faintly like a blush, betraying the storm of something not unlike panic. Or embarrassment.

“I—” his voices trip over themselves, collapsing into a warped hum that sounds more like static than language. “You… don’t… you don’t need to—” He shifts, words breaking and reforming, awkward in a way no eldritch being has any right to be.

Finally, he manages, in a rehearsed voice almost like muscle memory: “Custom says… gift does not bind. Whatever you think its worth, you can… return what feels equal. Or… what is within your reach.” His claws flex as if he is physically trying to hold the thought together, his voices drop to something low and intimate that rattles in the bones. “It is you who decides.”

And still, his three eyes don’t blink, don’t look away, as though waiting to see what Tim will choose.

Tim’s lips purse in thought. He stares up at Phantom thoughtfully, considering all that he’s learned in the short time they’ve spent together. Phantom is eager to please, as if he hasn’t had someone to take care of in a very long time. As soon as he touches Tim and Tim does not push him away, he seems extremely reluctant to part again. He is incredibly protective and possessive in a way that should ring alarm bells—but he is not human. Is it fair to hold him to human standards?

Tim runs his fingers over the slope of Phantom’s face; despite what appears to be a formless void, he can almost feel the outline of a cheekbone.

“Would you like it if we do this again?” he asks slowly. “Not the breakdown part—the spending time together part. We could share meals—or dinner, at least—and nights together, maybe visit your friends. And I will do my best to learn from the Instructor of Consorts as quickly as possible.” He offers a tentative, teasing smile. “Compromise.”

Phantom echoes the word back like he’s testing the weight of it. “Compromise.”

The shadows around his face tighten, the glow beneath them flaring sharp and bright for a breath before it pulses unevenly, betraying tension he can’t mask. His claws curl faintly against Tim’s body, as though he wants—needs—something to hold onto.

Then his voices fracture, rippling with a purr that hums through the space—half self-mockery, half desperate attempt at playfulness. “Compromise,” he rumbles again, the sound too low, too warm. “Like how I used your legs in the garden?”

Tim flushes at the reminder but doesn’t let it dissuade him. Bolstered by Phantom’s own flustered behavior, he smirks and leans up to press a testing bite to his jaw. “Exactly,” he purrs back, far less impressively than Phantom’s rumbling vibration.

Phantom freezes beneath, every eye going wide. Then, with a sharp poof, he dissolves into shadows, dropping him unceremoniously onto the cushions below.

Before Tim can blink, the shadows pull back together across the room—by the door this time. Phantom reforms there in a flickering mess of too many eyes, winking in and out like startled stars. Strange streaks of light that can only be described as blushes shoot across the darkness, glowing and vanishing like meteors.

“Well—look at the time!” he blurts, voice pitched higher than usual. “Dora’s waiting for me! Yep. Court. Frosty. Very important.” He fumbles with the door, trying to seem regal even as his hands betray him. “Stay here or don’t—if you need me I’ll… uh… be… not here!”

In his rush to escape, he smacks his head on the doorframe. “Ouchie,” he hisses, dignity dissolving entirely as he slips out and slams the door shut behind him.

Tim is bemused. He's never seen someone flee so fast from one of his advances. He might have let it hurt his pride if he didn't have bruises from an encounter that was a mere hour or so before. Which begs the question: is Phantom only confident being the aggressor, so to speak?

He finds it very hard to believe that no one has ever tried to make a move on Phantom, knowing what little he does of Ghost hierarchy and having been privy to seeing Phantom in all his glory. For an eldritch monster, Phantom is a very generous and well endowed—too well endowed, in the Tim's case—creature. He's strong and strangely beautiful. It's… kind of adorable that a simple bite would cause him to grow so flustered.

He debates staying where he is or chasing after Phantom but his curiosity wins out. He emerges from the nest to poke around, hoping to learn more about the High King.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize where he is.

Not geographically—he’s long since given up on that—but existentially. The place hums around him in a low, thrumming frequency that vibrates at the edge of hearing. Every brick and column glows faintly from within, like veins of light threaded through marble. The air itself smells faintly of paper and ozone, old dust and something like lightning.

 Tim knows this energy. It’s the same one that prickles under his skin when Phantom—the Great One, as everyone insists on calling him—looks at him.

He’s in Phantom’s Haunt.

A Haunt is the metaphysical reflection of Phantom's essence and territory—his everything. To be allowed unsupervised access is proof of how much Phantom is opening his world, his home, to him.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

Because standing before him, stretching out into eternity, is the goddamn Library of Alexandria.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

The sound echoes back in soft whispers from the endless rows of shelves. He takes a hesitant step forward, and the floor responds—patterns of light ripple out from beneath his boots like ink dropped into water. The air is alive with faint murmurs; words spoken centuries ago. He can hear pages turning themselves.

“Oh my god, it’s real,” he says, almost laughing. “Jason is going to be so jealous.”

Realization slowly melts his excitement, like ice left under the sun. He has to take a deep breath to steady himself. He doesn’t want to think of that, he doesn’t want to remember the life he has left behind. He needs to focus on the now, on the here.

He half expects the library to vanish into smoke for daring to believe in it, but it doesn’t. The scent of parchment and age-old ink deepens, and the whispers seem to come closer, as if curious about him in turn.

There are scrolls stacked beside bound manuscripts. Clay tablets arranged neatly beside codices that should have been lost before language as he knows it even existed. Shelves climb higher than his eyes can track, reaching into a ceiling lost in warm golden mist. Floating lights hover midair—spirits of knowledge, maybe—guiding him deeper inside.

One cannot be sad for long in a place like this. Tim’s hands itch. His brain lights up like fireworks despite the dragging exhaustion that comes after an attack.

He grabs the nearest scroll, and his breath catches. Greek. The script’s old, but his mind fills in the missing lines, years of training firing on all cylinders.

“This is… Aristotle’s Meteorologica? With commentary! Oh my god, with original marginalia—”

He sets it down carefully, reverently, before moving to the next shelf. Egyptian hieratic script. Then Babylonian star maps burned into bronze. Sanskrit treatises on medicine that predate the ones preserved in Indian monasteries by centuries. There is also a complete map of constellations made by NASA in 2020 that has been annotated with a green marker. He stumbles into a section of astronomical records and nearly cries.

“Phantom, you beautiful eldritch son of a—” he laughs breathlessly, dragging a stack of manuscripts into his arms.

He’s already planning on how to categorize this. Digitize everything. Translate the lost languages. Reconstruct what was lost to time. He’s grinning like an idiot, darting from shelf to shelf, muttering half-formed theories about cultural diffusion and mythic parallelism.

“Okay, this one’s Mesopotamian. This one’s proto-Coptic. This one’s—oh my god, that’s pre-dynastic Egyptian! You shouldn’t exist!”

He cradles the book like it’s made of glass, heart pounding.

Somewhere between a shelf of Atlantean water-bound texts and a stack of Mayan codices perfectly preserved in crystal, Tim has what can only be described as a full-blown nerd meltdown. He laughs out loud, delirious with glee, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by scrolls, clay tablets, glowing shards of what he thinks are memory archives encoded in pure ectoplasmic light.

Every few seconds, something else catches his attention. A celestial map that doesn’t match any known sky. A treatise on “soul resonance harmonics.” A handwritten note, signed simply “Hermes.”

“God, Bruce would have lost his mind.” He says it softly this time. And maybe a little sadly.

For a moment, he imagines showing this place to the League—the collective gasp, the sheer academic riot that would follow—but the thought burns out fast. This isn’t his discovery. It’s Phantom’s Haunt. A living extension of the ghost’s being. He’s a guest here.

Still, the itch to know won’t let him go.

Tim gathers his armful of treasures and starts the trek back toward the cozy corner Phantom calls his “nest”—a massive circular space piled high with furs, books, pillows, and blankets that look like they were stolen from every era of human history. It feels safe here. Warm, even in the spectral chill of the realm.

He spreads everything out in neat piles, already cataloging them in his head. He’s halfway through deciphering what looks like a Sumerian grimoire cross-referenced with modern quantum theory when there’s a knock on the door.

He freezes.

The sound echoes strangely here, dull and deliberate.

He blinks, glances down at the book in his lap, then at the light coming in from the windows. It’s… dinner time.

Of course it is.

He had promised Phantom to eat together—promised—to spend time knowing each other.

And Tim wants—god, he wants—to ignore it. Just an hour more. One more discovery. One more scroll, one more lost text, one more secret pulled out of eternity’s ashes.

But he doesn’t. Not this time.

Because it’s the first night. And the promise matters.

He sets the grimoire down with care, brushing his fingers across the faintly glowing surface. The words shimmer under his touch, alive, almost aware.

“Later,” he whispers to it, as if it’s listening. “I’ll be back.”

The knock comes again—polite, but firm.

“Coming!” he calls, standing and brushing off the dust that doesn’t really exist. He half expects Phantom himself to be on the other side, that lazy smirk in place, but when the door swings open, he stops dead.

Two figures stand there.

Both humanoid. Both clearly not human.

The first is tall and elegant, dressed in robes that shimmer like water, their eyes twin stars behind translucent lenses. The second is shorter, broader, armored in what looks like obsidian glass and frost. They both bow.

“Temporary Consort,” the taller one says. Their voice is musical, like a dozen echoes layered in harmony. “Dinner is prepared.”

Tim blinks. “Thank you?”

“By decree,” the armored one says, tone matter-of-fact, “we are your attendants. You may call me Ardan.”

“And I am Lys,” the other adds with a faint smile. “We are honored to serve.”

Tim just stares at them. There’s a part of his brain—the tired, overworked, Gotham-raised part—that snaps into place at the phrase attendants.

“Thank you, I’ll be in your care.”

“Yes, Temporary Consort.”