Chapter Text
He’s always been kind of a weird one. People say it often enough—it must be true.
The assumptions came in all flavors: good-natured teasing, passive-aggressive digs, and the occasional straight-up insult. Friends, family, strangers. Jokes? Serious? He stopped trying to tell the difference a while ago. Besides, most of the things they pointed out? He already knew.
He was the weird rich kid who liked hiding in small spaces around the school.
It drove his teachers crazy while searching every cupboard and storage closet for the Drakes’ precious heir. That phase didn’t last, wasn’t tolerated. Not long after, the strange boy was quietly pulled out and homeschooled. He didn’t mind. The custom curriculum was fine, he was smart enough to keep up. And it was easier this way. Less drama. Fewer parent-teacher conferences the Drakes didn’t have time for anyway. They were busy people.
Tim understood that.
He was six when he came to this realization.
Of course, it wasn’t just a school thing. Tim had always liked his little hidey holes—confined, quiet places where the world couldn’t quite reach him. No one really understood why, and when they asked, he always gave the same answer: “Because I like it.” It wasn’t a satisfying answer, but it was true enough. Not that anyone stuck around to dig deeper. His parents certainly didn’t. Their time was too valuable for odd habits and disappearing acts. They ignored it until it got in the way. Then came the punishments, swift and “appropriate.” Especially if it happened around one of their many galas while they were in the country. No son of theirs would embarrass them in front of potential business partners. Not when the Drake name was at stake.
No one ever really bothered to find him, either. They just waited for little Tim to crawl back out on his own, eventually. And no matter how often his parents scolded or punished him for it, he never outgrew the habit. That odd little quirk clung to him—stubborn and quiet, just like he was.
Tim was hiding again. Always hiding. Not from anyone or anything... No villains or danger lurking at his heels. Hell, he wasn’t even sure why he was hiding, but it didn’t matter. Maybe it was the only thing that made sense. The dark corners, the low hum of a TV a few rooms over, the dust that swirled lazily in the stale air, the cool metal beneath his bare feet. It was familiar. And for now, that was enough.
Tim wore his earpiece for emergencies. If the Bats needed him, he’d answer. Although, that was rarely the case. Sure, they pretended they wanted his help, his opinion, his insight, his skills. But they weren’t anything special. Nothing the others couldn’t do. Bruce was smarter, the better detective. Dick was more athletic, braver. Jason? Stronger, more confident. And Tim? They told him he was the most level-headed, but it just sounded like a lame excuse to give him credit for something. So where did that leave him? Tim didn’t know, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t care. (He really didn’t want to care so much.)
There was a tiny space in the Drake manor, barely big enough for two people to sit comfortably. It wasn’t much, just a room to house a safe. The safe Tim was currently sitting on. His chin rested on his knees, drawn tightly against his chest, and he held a tablet in his hands. The dim glow from the screen was the only light in the room.
Originally, he wasn’t supposed to know about this room, and his parents never mentioned it to him. The safe didn’t hold money, not large sums, anyway. No, it protected information. He’d overheard his parents talking about it more than once. Breaking into it wasn’t hard, though. Kids’ stuff, really. For him at least. Inside, it housed incriminating patents and Drake tech secrets... Yeah, his parents were really into innovations Tim didn’t entirely approve of. Nothing illegal, just... questionable. And, of course, typical blackmail material. Tim never bothered to break into the safe while his father was still around.
Now though? Tim liked how absurdly perfect this room was for hiding. It was basically a glorified panic box with paperwork and absolutely zero airflow. Cozy and oddly comforting. Not even the bats knew about it. And no one outside the Drake family could get in (at least the intended way), thanks to the blood-signature lock. Since he was pretty much alone these days, there was no worry of anyone barging in. It was peaceful. Lonely.
After Jack’s death, Tim was left with a lot of quiet. Too much of it. And in that stillness, he kept circling back to the way things had been between them: strained, distant, confusing.
His dad had seemed mad at him all the time, though Tim never really understood why (or didn’t want to). When he told Jack he was Robin, Jack hadn’t reacted with anger. Just concern, and a lot of it. Deep, intense concern. But it wasn’t until Tim explained why he wanted to move into the manor so close to the Wayne manor, why he needed to be closer to the Waynes, that things shifted.
The more time Tim spent away from home, the colder Jack became. Was it disappointment? Jealousy? Tim never knew for sure. Jack had told him, once, that he was proud of him for being Robin, for helping people. But that pride always felt like it came with a question mark at the end.
And now that he only had Bruce left? Not much had changed, actually. Instead of parents who were absent because of work, he had… a father? No, a guardian, absent for reasons Tim wasn’t even sure of. Probably because Tim wasn’t quite what Bruce needed. What he wanted.
Of course Tim wasn’t enough. Never enough.
Bruce let him do his own thing. Never stopped him from leaving. Never invited him to stay, either.
He didn’t push Tim to bond with the others. Didn’t call him “son.” Not even once.
And why would he? It’s not like Tim had done anything to earn that title.
Point was: Tim was alone. Supposed to be. Until, suddenly, he wasn’t.
Glowing Lazarus-green eyes were staring at him, and he stared back. He blinked. The eyes blinked too. Tim groaned, set the tablet aside in Slow Motion and rubbed at his face. Great. Another sleep-deprived hallucination.
He’d had plenty of those lately. A lot had happened, too much for one person to process. It had only been about half a year since Jason came back as the Red Hood, and a little longer since Jack’s death. A good night’s sleep felt like a distant memory now. Something soft and nostalgic he couldn’t quite reach anymore.
The blurry figure slid back into focus once Tim finally stopped pressing his palms painfully into his eyes and sharpened into something suspiciously solid. And glowy. Piercing green eyes stared back at him—too bright, too sharp. And did he mention they glowed? Because they did, enough to faintly light up the small, pitch-black room like someone had turned on a very haunted nightlight. The glowy eyes belonged to a boy with snow-white hair that defied gravity and some kind of black hazmat suit, like he’d walked straight out of a 2004 Nickelodeon cartoon. And he looked just as surprised as him.
Tim squinted. Huh. Of course. What kind of fantasy was his brain cooking up this time?
Usually, it was someone he actually knew. Or just vague shadows: faceless, indistinct. More often then not, voices without a body. But this? This was new. Too specific. Too detailed.
Tim blinked again, just to make sure. Yep, still there. After several seconds of stunned silence, the boy’s breath hitched. “Hey there.”
The voice was soft. Too soft. Like the kind of voice you’d use to calm down a feral cat. Or, in Tim’s case, a (feral?) bat. It was gentle, maybe even a little breathy. Was he trying to sound non-threatening? Or was he just as confused as Tim was? It reminded Tim of himself. How he used to talk to frightened kids he’d saved as Robin. That gentle, reassuring tone. The “everything’s going to be okay” voice.
...But was he the frightened kid here? Eh, probably not. He wasn’t that freaked out yet. Just really, really confused.
“I'm sorry for—”
“Who the he—”
They both started talking at the same time. Tim’s mouth snapped shut instantly. The boy chewed on his lip, staring at Tim with the most intense gaze he’d ever received. Well, almost. The Batglare™ definitely deserved its own category. The boy didn’t say anything else though, so Tim picked up where he left off:
“Who...?” Tims voice trailed off. He sat frozen on his safe like a statue, probably not the most intimidating position. A sudden, almost absurd urge to scream at the intruder bubbled up in his throat, panic starting to settle in. His next instinct was to reach for his bo staff… which, of course, was definitely not in this room. Yeah, maybe a little late for that reaction, but whatever.
Then his brain kicked in. The door was still closed, wasn’t it? He would’ve heard it open. There weren’t even any vents in here, just thick, solid walls and a floor that creaked if you so much as breathed on it wrong. He would've heard something: footsteps, a shuffle, a breath. Anything. But there was nothing. No sound. No warning. One second: alone. The next: this.
Okay. So either this guy was a literal ghost, a teleporter, or—more likely—Tim was losing it. Again. Even if someone could float through walls like Martian Manhunter, why would they come in here of all places? His tiny, glorified panic-room with zero air circulation and a filing cabinet, uh no, a safe of blackmail? That made no sense.
…Which, he supposed, only proved his point. None of this was real.
The boy studied Tim’s face with furrowed brows, and Tim hummed, nodding to himself as he further solidified his conclusion: this was just another figment of his brain.
“Uhm…” Before the boy could continue, Tim beat him to it.
“This is one of the weirder hallucinations I’ve had. So… what’s good, floaty boy?”
That made the hallucination chuckle, a startled but amused sound, as he ran a hand slowly down his face.
“Dude… do I even want to ask what you normally see?”
Tim felt a headache starting to throb behind his eyes. He sighed, but didn't take his eyes off the intruder.
“Nothing this lifelike,” he muttered. “Usually it’s auditory stuff. Whispering, footsteps, my name being called… You know, the classics.” He paused, squinting. “Why am I even telling you this? You’re a hallucination. Shouldn’t you already know all of that?”
He glared at the not-real boy, who looked downright baffled and began wringing his hands. A nervous tic? Really? Why was his brain projecting unnecessary character development?
After a long beat, the boy quietly said, “Not… sure.”
Tim blinked. “Right.”
He flopped back against the wall behind the safe, rubbed both hands over his face, and sighed like a man twice his age.
Yep. This was gonna be one of those days.