Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing in here?” the boy asked, like he wasn’t the one who just ghosted into Tim’s secret spot.

“What’s it look like?” Tim snapped, not bothering to hide his irritation. He took a moment to think to himself: Was this a sleep-deprivation thing? Or maybe he was finally having a full-on psychotic break. Honestly, about time.

The boy tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I asked first.”

“And I asked second. What’s your point?”

“That’s not how this works, dude.”

“My house, my rules.”

“And how exactly is that supposed to stop me? I literally phase through walls. That applies to rules too.”

Tim didn’t even blink. “My hallucination, my rules.”

“Your rules suck.”

“You suck.”

“If I’m just a figment of your imagination,” the boy said, gesturing to himself, “doesn’t that mean you just insulted yourself?”

That made Tim blink at Floaty Boy, and a second later, they were both laughing. Like really laughing. God, this guy was smug. Who gave his subconscious permission to be this irritating?

The tension between them dissolved into something loose, something weightless. The absurdity of it all hit him sideways, and he laughed harder than the situation probably called for. Cackling. Wheezing. Actual tears. It wasn’t even that funny.

After a few minutes, the lightheadedness finally made him stop, chest aching. He must look absolutely unhinged right now: sitting alone in a dusty old room, doubled over and laughing at a joke his overworked brain cooked up for itself. A hallucination. The punchline? Also himself. Still… he felt a little lighter for a moment. And honestly? He’d take it. Whatever it takes to make it easier, right?

The teenager blinked a few times, then squinted like something had just clicked. “Wait… do you actually think I’m… what, some kind of daydream? Because, I gotta say, thats creative.”

“Hallucination, dream, cryptid, interdimensional fever ghost. Pick one,” Tim replied, vaguely waving both hands like he was offering a menu of nonsense.

“…You think I’m a fever ghost?” And there it was again—that grin. Annoyingly charming, and honestly kind of unfair in this lighting. To top it all off, he started doing some ghostly wooo sound.

Tim shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen. A giant starfish tried to mind-control me two years ago.”

“…Okay, you win.”

“Are all my hallucinations this snarky? Or are you, like, the deluxe edition?”

The guy had to nerve to cross his arms. “Maybe you’re my hallucination. Ever think of that?”

Tim’s laugh came out soft this time, caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Touché, fever ghost.”

The mirage, still hovering a few inches off the ground, went strangely still. His grin faded, replaced by something wide-eyed and… stunned? Tim blinked back at him, thrown. Why was he staring like that? Did Tim say something weird? Was his laugh that ugly?

“…What?” he asked, suspicious now. No answer. Just more stunned staring. Great. Now his hallucination was broken. The mirage took the moment of silence to lazily glance around the room, eyes glowing like eerie little flashlights as they swept over the dusty walls and faded floorboards. Then they landed back on Tim.

“Wow,” he said, lips twitching into a smirk. “Fancy rich people broom closet. Love the vibe. You live in here now?”

It almost sounded like he was desperate to say something, anything, to break the quiet. Tim, who was steadily resigning himself to whatever weird flavor of reality this was, replied without meeting his gaze. “It’s quiet. No one bugs me in here.”

He paused, then added dryly, “Well. Except for hallucinations, apparently.”

The mi—eh, let's just call him Glowstick, started poking around the room like he actually lived here. Maybe looking for old trinkets, or a photo, or some hidden family heirloom buried behind a panel in the wall? Tim shot him a look, eyebrow raised. As if there was anything to find, unless Glowstick was planning to phase right through the safe he’d made his “chair.”

"You got secrets in here, Timmy? Planning a heist against your own family?"

"…"

When Tim didn’t respond, Glowstick pressed on. "Sooo… is this your evil lair? Or just the world’s saddest office?"

Tim’s tone was drier than the Sahara, but there was still a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You’re a hallucination. You don’t get to judge my vibes."

Glowstick did a lazy flip midair, casually eyeing the heavy metal safe against the wall. "This place has 'rich people secrets' written all over it. Do I get a turn with the giant vault, or is that a Timmy-only zone?"

"Why does my subconscious insist on nicknames…" Tim muttered under his breath.

"Because deep down, you want to be bullied affectionately." His subconscious shot back. 

Tim paused, then slowly turned to stare at the white-haired teenager. "That’s actually not the worst theory I’ve heard today."

Glowstick snickered, casually phasing halfway into the safe—only to snap back out a second later with a yelp. "Okay, ow! Is this thing warded??"

Tim, completely ignoring the fact that this not-real person just tried to break into the safe and failed, deadpanned: "Please stop violating the family vault."

After a bit more snark and the intruder unnecessarily poking around the small room, Tim’s comm suddenly buzzed to life. He flinched, the sound pulling him back into the present.

“T, you there?” A voice came through his earpiece. Tim cleared his throat, trying to push away the surprise still lingering in his system.

"Present." His voice immediately turned sharp and flat, the playful tone gone in an instant. Comms meant business, well, mostly business, and his Robin mindset clicked into gear. Meanwhile, the intruder glanced away casually, as if he hadn’t noticed Tim had shifted focus. Robin sniffed, waiting for Nightwing to give him the tea. Again, silence followed, before the comm buzzed back to life. He could almost hear the man fumbling around as he got his gear on followed by a strangled noise.

“Robin, everything okay? You sound off.” Dick's voice came through, clearly concerned. “Did… did you cry again, Birdie?”

Tim blinked in confusion, then narrowed his eyes. His brow furrowed sharply. Only Nightwing would make such a fast and, frankly, ridiculous assumption. Maybe it was because of the dust? And maybe he was a little annoyed, but come on! You cry in front of the guy ONE time and suddenly it’s a possibility every time.

“What? No! Of course not. Just get to the point, Nightwing,” Robin snapped, rolling his eyes. There was a brief pause, probably because Dick was debating whether to drop it or keep pushing.

“Alright. We’ve got a few new cases in the Bowery near the lighthouse, and B wants your opinion. Come back ASAP, I’ve gotta get back to Haven tonight.”

“Be there in 10,” Tim answered, and then it was quiet again. The slight static told him Nightwing was still there, just... not saying anything. Tim remained silent too, sensing that the older vigilante wasn’t quite done. He glanced over at Glowstick, who just tilted his head slightly. At least he wasn’t interrupted.

“How are things on your side? Want Agent A to grab you?” Dick asked out of the blue.

Tim sighed, brushing some strands of his raven-black hair out of his face. It had gotten pretty long lately—maybe he should cut it. “It’s fine. I’ll drive myself,” he replied shortly.

Dick was one of the few who tried to pull Tim into the family. He called regularly, invited him to Blüdhaven for movie nights, or just patrol. He asked what Tim had for lunch, how school was going... Yeah, Dick at least pretended to care, and Tim appreciated that in his own way. He used to, at least. But then Jason’s sudden appearance had everyone on edge, and Dick, who felt deeply guilty after his successor’s death, well… it pretty much shattered his entire reality.

First, there was shock. Dick couldn’t wrap his head around the Lazarus Pit stuff right away. Resurrection like that? That was something straight out of a comic book, not reality. Then came the denial: there’s no way this could be sweet Jason, right? Dick was stuck in the past, at least that’s how Tim saw it. After that, the guilt hit him, hard again. Full-force. It crashed down on him again and again. Well, he wasn’t the only one feeling guilty, of course. But since then, Dick just hadn’t had the time or, frankly, the mental stability to check in on Tim like he used to. And over the last six months, they’d drifted apart quickly. Not surprising, though. Jason was like a hurricane, tearing through the Bat-family with brute force, knocking everyone off their feet, mentally or physically.

“You know… He would be happy to see you more often. I mean Alfred.” And there it went. Their unspoken rule: no names over comms. Whatever. The chance someone was listening was basically zero anyway.

“Nightwing… Thanks, but I don’t need your babying. Robin out.”

He turned off his comm with a huff. Of course Dick would bring up Alfred. It’s not like Tim didn’t still talk to him. Dick could’ve said he missed their hangouts, their talks. Hell, maybe even that Bruce had asked about him. But no. Nothing like that.

“And who was that? Your imaginary brother?” Glowstick chimed in casually, floating upside-down now for no reason at all. 

“Worse. My real one. Although…” Tim paused, considering, “...it’s probably more accurate to call us emotionally constipated coworkers with shared trauma. Not so much brothers.”

Glowstick raised a brow. “Interesting way to view that.”

“Anyway. Duty calls. Enjoy floating around and being annoying somewhere else.” Tim gave a dismissive little wave, like he was shooing away a particularly sparkly mosquito.

Chapter Text

The last couple of days had been… weird. Not eventful weird—just the kind of off-kilter weird that settles in your spine and refuses to explain itself. Everything was technically normal. Batman was still brooding like it paid the bills, Dick was still holed up in Blüdhaven pretending he had a work-life balance, Jason was still playing Gotham’s grumpiest crimelord (and yes, Tim kept tabs because if someone almost kills you over a costume, you earn a permanent spot on the watchlist). Steph kept spontaneously spawning next to him on patrol, loudly reminding him that silence was a privilege, not a right. Babs was just her normal helpful self.

And Tim? He was surviving. As usual. But something was… off. Tim, who noticed everything, couldn’t let it go.

The first morning after his encounter with Glowstick was… surprising, to say the least.

Tim was sitting at his kitchen counter, nursing a mug of already-cold Jin Jun Mei that he’d made an hour ago. Was it a crime to drink that kind of expensive tea cold? Absolutely. But he could afford it. And honestly, it tasted the same, no matter the temperature. He’d have to make it again later, but for now, it did the job.

His focus was supposed to be on studying for his history test while running on 2 hours of sleep. Keyword: supposed to. Instead, he was side-eyeing a link Bernard had sent him five minutes ago. Probably some meme or another weird conspiracy theory video. Again.

Tim rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “I don’t have time for this nonsense.” But, of course, that didn’t stop him from clicking it anyway. And just like that, he was knee-deep in an online rabbit hole. The history test? Yeah, that wasn’t happening anymore.

First mistake: looking at his messages in the first place. But… it was Bernard, and honestly, the guy did have a habit of finding some pretty interesting stuff. The two had known each other since elementary school, sharing lunches under the same slide every day and exchanging useless facts about everything from dinosaurs to TV shows. Classic childhood friendship stuff. Well, except for the dramatic twist that Tim got pulled out of school at a young age and they lost contact for a while.

Until Bernard suddenly contacted him through social media of all things. Why? Because he had apparently spotted Tim in the background of a paparazzi shot of Bruce Wayne on a beach with his shirt off. Tim could almost hear the guy’s voice through the text, like a mix of smugness and disbelief. ‘Hey, did I miss the memo about you hanging with Bruce Wayne?’

They’d been in contact ever since, and Tim genuinely enjoyed their time together, even if those moments were rare. He was his “normal” friend, the one that wasn’t traumatized or a vigilante. The safe friend, so to speak.

That was until Bernard dropped the bombshell.

“I have feelings for you,” he admitted one day, and Tim was left blinking like a deer in headlights. That was news to him. Tim didn’t reciprocate.

And, of course, that created a little tension. Bernard, in typical Bernard fashion, said he felt “stupid” about it, like it was some sort of blunder on his part. Tim wasn’t sure how to respond, but after some radio silence between them, he just did what he always did: he handled it with grace. He didn’t want Bernard feeling bad about his feelings or his sexuality. Tim might not have felt the same, but that didn’t mean his friend was wrong to feel it. He just couldn’t return it, not in the way Bernard probably wanted.

They worked it out, mostly. Things were different, but not unfixable. And despite the weirdness, their friendship remained intact. After all, who else would send Tim links to random conspiracy videos while he was trying to study for a history test?

One thing he absolutely loved about Bernard: his beautiful mind. The guy was a genius when it came to absurd conspiracy theories, the undisputed King of the Deep Dive into niche forums and completely off-the-wall rumors. And that’s exactly how Tim found himself in this current situation. He couldn’t resist.

The topic? “Bruce Wayne is Superman.” Yeah. Apparently, Bernard had stumbled upon a theory that Bruce Wayne and Superman were one and the same, and he’d sent it over with the kind of enthusiasm that only Bernard could muster. It was, of course, utterly ridiculous, and yet Tim found it just plausible enough to be hilarious. According to the theory, Bruce would vanish for a few moments, and just after, Superman would swoop in to save the day. No one ever seemed to notice that Batman had been quietly taking care of the situation from the shadows.

It was a masterpiece of absurdity. The more Tim read, the harder it was to stifle his laughter. He couldn’t help himself. He had to get in on the fun. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he concocted some utterly fabricated “witness” accounts to back up the theory—oh, the things he could make up when he set his mind to it.

Tim grinned like a madman as he typed, a feral cackle bubbling up from deep in his chest. This was his kind of fun. The kind that had absolutely no purpose other than to amuse him. Thank you, Bernard.

In his gleeful typing frenzy, Tim didn’t notice the figure floating next to him, peering at his screen. Or the plate with two slices of toast and some sticks of cucumber.

But when he did, Tim’s reflexes kicked in faster than his brain. In an instant, his hand shot out to grab a random mug from the day before, and with a swift, practiced motion, he swung it at the figure next to him.

“Glowstick??”

The mug went right through him, of course, and Tim froze. Glowstick blinked at him, looking completely unfazed by the attack that didn't even touch him. Oh. Great. He was back. Well, guess two hours of rest didn’t make hallucinations go away, that would be too easy.

"Easy there, Timmy," Glowstick said, flashing that grin that somehow made everything worse. "This wasn’t an attack. Just breakfast."

Tim stared at him for a beat, blinking in disbelief. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to throttle this hallucination or laugh. Either way, he was way too tired for this.

“Wait a second. What did you just call me? Glowstick?” he asked, as if that was the issue here.

Tim exhaled sharply and lowered his so-called weapon, trying to ignore how fast his heart was hammering. “Goddammit… I almost shattered my second-favorite mug,” he muttered, running a shaky hand through his hair. Not trembling. Just… energetically disheveled.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been jumpscared by my own hallucination before. What’s wrong with me?” he asked the empty room. Dumb question. The list was extensive.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim saw the boy drift a little closer, floating just off the ground with his head tilted slightly. His expression was… weirdly earnest. Almost upset.

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to scare you that bad. I’m really sorry,” he said, voice quiet and laced with guilt.

“You didn’t scare me, for god’s sake. Just... tired.” Tim muttered and avoiding eye contact. “I wanted to say: don’t sneak up on me like that. But I can’t exactly tell a hallucination what to do, now can I?”

A beat. Then quieter—like an afterthought he didn’t mean to say out loud:
“I don’t like being snuck up on.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but of course Glowstick heard it. His expression softened even more, a little crease forming between his brows. He repeated: “Sorry.”

Tim huffed again, rubbing his forehead as he tried to shake off the adrenaline still pulsing through him. “I swear, I’m going to triple-check the locks tonight.” The thought of someone sneaking into his house, even if it was just another random weird moment with this hallucination, made his heart race all over again.

The boy floated back again, arms crossing over his chest, wearing the expression of a kicked puppy.

…

This time, his voice sounded meekly: “Also, I have a name, you know? It’s Danny. Or Phantom. Literally anything is better than Glowstick.”

Tim blinked at him, then deadpanned. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Says you.”

“I-! You’re impossible!”

“Ohhh, now mister fancy pants insists on real names? Crazy, how far my head goes with this one.” The vigilante half-heartedly chuckled, but the amusement in his voice barely masked the lingering frustration.

“I’m not a hallucination, Tim. I know, I forgot to mention that yesterday, but it’s true.”

“Sure.” Tim’s voice was flat, unbothered.

“I’m serious.”

“Of course you are, Danny. It’s a nice name though. Good job, me.” He gave a half-hearted smirk, but inwardly, he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

Glowstick—or Danny, whatever—narrowed his eyes at him and… wait, was that a pout? He was really starting to lose it, wasn’t he?

The overworked teenager took a big gulp of his tea, grimacing as the cold, expensive leaves hit his tired system. His eyes flickered back to the plate in front of him. Two slices of toast, topped with avocado, grapes, and crushed BBQ chips.

He had dubbed it “Texture Monster.” Yes, Babs had always teased him for his questionable taste, but it really wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Once you gave it a chance, it was surprisingly good.

The weird part? He couldn’t remember making himself breakfast. Like, at all.

Danny watched him intently, like a kid waiting for a gold star on their art project, nervously tucking his hair behind his ear. “I made you a little something,” he said so nonchalantly, though his tone was a little too hopeful. “Because you seemed down.”

This was way weirder. Why… why did his subconscious decide that this hallucination should make his breakfast? What was going on with him today? This wasn’t the usual level of craziness—this was a whole new level of messed up.

Tim stood up abruptly and stormed to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, trying to shake some sense into himself.

“Tim?” came the concerned voice of Glowstick behind him, but he ignored it. He had way bigger things to focus on right now.

“M-maybe… I should go back to bed…” he muttered, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt, wondering just how much more insane he was going to get.

“Not a bad idea.” Danny quietly agreed.

After that? It just kept happening. The two or three days after the breakfast incident were quiet, eerily so, but Tim couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Still, he was relieved that the hallucination thing seemed to be over. Mostly?

Things kept moving around him. His mug would mysteriously be a little closer to his hand than he remembered leaving it. A case file he'd torn the entire study apart looking for? Suddenly in the drawer he swore he'd already checked. And if he accidentally dozed off on the wooden floor for the nth time that night, he suddenly woke up with a blanket draped over him. It was suspicious as hell. Tim spent way too long contemplating his options: A stalker? ...Maybe Dick, breaking into the manor because he was "concerned"? Nah. Stalker was more plausible. Except there were no signs of a break-in. No alarms, no broken locks, no traces. So... maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. 

Danny reappeared on day four. In fact, he appeared everywhere. He was like a persistent cold that just wouldn’t go away, no matter how much you tried to sleep it off. At first, he only showed up inside the manor. To his credit, the menace always announced his presence, obnoxiously, and took great care not to sneak up on Tim again. He offered to make tea, to turn on music, to help with homework. And, after a while, Tim just... begrudgingly accepted this new reality.

Then he suddenly popped up in the Batcave… well, his voice did, at least. Danny seemed to be invisible as he casually commented on Tim’s terrible posture while he was hunched over the Batcomputer. The first time it happened, Tim jolted so hard he almost fell off the chair. Thank God no one was around to witness that embarrassment.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Timmy. Are-are you okay? I swear I tried to be careful this time, I...” Danny whispered, sounding genuinely panicked.

What was distracting though, was that it almost felt like he knew exactly where all the cameras and mics were hidden and actively avoided being caught by them. Well… of course he knew. Because Tim knew. And, well… if Danny was part of his head, obviously he would too. Still. It felt suspicious. Weird.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Tim muttered, not tearing his eyes away from the screen as he furiously scrubbed at the back of his neck.

Danny stayed quiet after that, but Tim could feel him lingering. He suspected that the invisible nuisance had perched himself right on the panel of the Batcomputer—hopefully not pressing any buttons with his butt, but… that wouldn’t be possible anyway. Not for someone who wasn’t real. As he focused on his case, Tim’s hand brushed against something cool and soft. Was that… a leg?

"Why are you sitting so close?" Tim asked, genuinely curious.
Glowstick made a panicked noise, and a second later, whatever Tim had brushed against vanished. The space next to him warmed up too, like an air cooler had just been switched off. Weird.
"No reason," Danny said way too fast.
Tim squinted at the empty space suspiciously. "What did you do?"
"Nothing!" came the high-pitched reply. Then, after a short moment, so nonchalantly it made Tim freeze: "I like that little mole under your eye."
Tim stared blankly at the screen, brain completely short-circuiting, his ears burning ...Had this hallucination just admitted to staring at him? And why did that feel so embarrassing??

Okay, not suspicious at all. But Tim dropped it, HAD to drop it for his own sanity, as he dove back into the casework. He still felt on edge, this whole situation had him stumped. Until he heard the scraggly sound of a pen gliding over paper behind him.

Tim’s head snapped back. The table behind him was empty, dark. All papers and pens still in place. Hmh. Paranoia strikes again. He turned back toward the screen and tried to ignore any other sounds. Probably another set of auditory hallucinations.

After a few minutes, there was a gentle shift of air next to his hand. He glanced down—and found a sticky note, with a surprisingly well-drawn Robin… mugshot? With the text: Wanted: Robin’s sleep schedule.

His mouth slightly parted as he took in the little doodle. It was perfect, in a ridiculous way. And before he even realized what he was doing, he snorted, a grin tugging at his lips, taking the paper between his fingers. It was a cute drawing, also absurd, yes. For a hallucination, Danny sure had an odd sense of humor.

The menace whispered next to him, his voice almost a soft breath against Tim’s ear: “That’s you.” As if it wasn’t clear already.

Tim, in that exact moment, tossed aside the usual thoughts of “How is that even possible?” He just smiled at the little piece of paper like it was something his child had drawn him.
“That’s going on the fridge,” he said, his earlier irritation completely forgotten.

Danny’s shoulder bumped into his, and a quiet giggle bubbled from the nothingness beside him.

As Tim’s chest tightened for a brief second, he thought: Maybe this whole hallucination thing wasn’t as bad? And the strange warmth in his heart won out in this moment.

Chapter Text

Tim sat on the sofa, a book in his hands and, surprisingly, peace in his chest.

The house wasn’t silent in that eerie, heavy way it usually was. There were soft voices talking in the next room. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting warm shapes across the floor. Outside, the garden was in full bloom. Plumtree blossoms danced in the breeze, and birds chirped merrily as they splashed in the birdbath. The air drifting in through the open window smelled like cut grass and sunshine. The black leather beneath him was warm to the touch, but not uncomfortably so.

Days like this were rare.

Normally, he’d be glued to a computer or tablet, maybe playing a few rounds of some game on the big TV. But today? Today, the world felt soft and golden, and reading a book felt exactly right.

Tim glanced up and spotted his Robin costume hanging to dry near the veranda.

And for once, the sight didn’t make his chest tighten. It didn’t drag up memories he’d rather forget. Instead, it felt... right. There was no dread, no pain—just a quiet certainty. Looking at it made him feel needed. Like this was where he belonged. Like being Robin wasn’t just something he chose. It was something he was meant to be. And that thought made him feel genuinely happy.

His eyes drift toward the open kitchen door. There, he sees his parents bickering lightly, the way people do when they love each other. His mother is standing, not paralyzed. She’s laughing, arms wrapped around Jack, and he’s hugging her right back. His father looks just as happy, smiling at Janet like she’s his whole world, gently tucking her hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek like she’s something precious. Then, suddenly, they both turn toward the door. Toward Tim. And for a second he braces himself. Afraid that the mood will shift. That they’ll look at him with disappointment. That somehow, even in this perfect moment, he’ll ruin it. But the look never comes. Their gazes only soften further. Janet reaches out a hand to him, open and warm. And Tim swallows hard.

“Come here, sweetie. Breakfast is almost ready,” she says. And god, her voice. It’s so gentle.

Tim can’t even remember the last time he heard her like this. Not the irritated griping, not the condescending screeching, not the sharp, disappointed edge she usually carried. Just… her normal voice. Soft. Warm. And he melts. Right there. The warmth in his chest floods through him, pushes out everything else. He doesn’t even hesitate, he walks over, lets himself go. Let’s his dad’s hand settle on his head, accepts the light pressure of his mom’s touch between his shoulder blades. All the pain, the cold shoulders, the disapproval, the years of not being enough for them, for Bruce…

It just fades.

…

Bruce…

Wait. Where was he? Where was Batman? Nightwing? Oracle? Spoiler? …Jason?

The thought barely had time to finish before a voice cut through it. Ripped him straight out of his head like a hook behind the ribs. It wasn’t Janet. This voice was the opposite. Cold, rough, and just wrong. Like the air turned sour the second it spoke.

“You can have them back.”

A chill snapped down Tim’s spine.

He jolted up with a gasp. For a heartbeat, he thought he could still hear their laughter. Feel the weight of a hand ruffling his hair. Smell coffee and pancakes and something safe. Tim blinked, trying to orient himself. He didn’t know where he was right away. The room walls were just shadows pressing in around him. No soft voices. No arms around his shoulders. Just cold concrete and the biting sting of being awake.

The floor underneath him was cold, hard. The air around him still, dusty. He couldn’t see much, but the smell…he knew it. He was in his hidey-hole. The safe room. There was a laptop next to him, probably left open when he fell asleep. A blanket draped over his shoulders, the kind of half-conscious comfort he must’ve dragged on himself in his sleep. Did he really fall asleep on the floor again? His back was pressed against the metal safe, and damn—his bones felt stiff, like he hadn’t moved in hours. But Tim didn’t linger on the discomfort. Not yet. Reality hit him like an ice-cold downpour, freezing him from the inside out, his heart clawing at his ribs.

Tim curled into himself, hugging his legs tightly to his own body, fists clenching the fabric like it could anchor him back in that dream where everything had been okay. Where they had loved him. Where he wasn’t alone. But reality didn’t care. It pressed down on him, heavy and sharp, reminding him that he was always going to wake up alone.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that dreams could feel so real, only to rip everything away when he needed it most.

Tim buried his face into his knees, wishing he could stay asleep forever.

But that wouldn’t be possible, not like this. His chest ached, burned, with the crushing realization that none of it would ever be real.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hard.

Don't cry. God, don't cry.

His eyes burned. He tried to wipe the feeling away with the sleeve of his hoodie, rough against his skin, but it only made it worse. The first tear slipped out anyway, hot and traitorous, sliding down his cheek. He dug his knuckles against his eyes like he could stop it. Like he could shove the grief back into the deep, locked box where it belonged. But more tears followed, and Tim gritted his teeth against the hitch in his breath. His fingers clutched the blanket tighter, the only warmth left in a place that felt way too big and way too empty. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just sat there, face turned into the soft fabric, letting the tears fall because fighting them was useless now.

Tim’s mind was racing, too fast to catch up with. He thought hard: what could he do? What could he do to ease this pain that felt like it was crushing him? The kind of pain that made him feel like he was drowning in it. The endless pit in his stomach grew, the lump in his throat, stubborn and unyielding, refused to go away. His tears felt like they were burning his eyes, like they were somehow damaging him, like they were too much for his body to handle.

Like they were somehow harmful.

“Dad…”

The word felt so foreign on his tongue that he almost didn’t recognize himself.

He wanted his dad. He needed him so badly.

Jack wasn’t the father any kid would dream of, not by a long shot. They had their grievances, their arguments, and then the inevitable fallout that came with it. He wasn’t always there for Tim—far from it. But there were moments when Jack would pull him close, hook an arm around his shoulder, and tell him it was okay. That it was okay to show weakness, just for a moment. That you didn’t always have to be perfect. That it was okay to rely on someone. After Janet’s death, they grew just a bit closer, like the cracks between them had somehow been filled—before everything shattered again. But deep down, Tim knew his dad loved him.

But it all came too late. Shortly before Jack’s death, they barely had any contact at all. Tim had been too focused on being Robin, on keeping the world from falling apart, and inside, he was angry. So angry at his parents for neglecting him, for failing to see what he needed. He kept this anger hidden, but it was there.

The rational part of his brain tried to tell him: It’s normal. That’s how all parents are. And he tried to accept that reality, tried to swallow the truth. But…

Too many nights spent alone in the manor. Too many days in silent rooms, when he was barely old enough to take care of himself. In the end, he was sure his parents never truly understood just how miserable he was here.

And yet, here he was. Crying over them. Like they meant something to him. Like he still needed them.

He was 16, for god’s sake. Old enough to look after himself. Tim buried his hands in his hair, fisting the black strands with more force than necessary. He didn’t need them anymore. So why— Why did it feel like he was slowly drifting away? Why was there no one reaching out to pull him back in? His whole body was stiff and rigid, every muscle clenched in a desperate attempt to force the pain to stop. But it didn’t work.

Why? Why? Why...?

What would Batman do?

It was always his mental fallback, his anchor when everything else spun out. Whenever he was lost, overwhelmed, unable to decide. What would he do? Tim asked himself that like it was a prayer, like the answer could pull him out of the dark.

Tim’s hand shook as he reached for the phone in his pocket. The screen blinked to life, blinding him for a second. 5:49 AM. B’s patrol had ended almost two hours ago. He was probably asleep by now. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Bruce’s number, the private one, for family and personal matters. Not for Gotham’s emergencies.

His thumb hovered over the call button, frozen. He stared at the screen, willing himself to move.

Call him… don’t call him…

Call him… don’t call him…

Call him. Don’t call him.

His pulse hammered in his throat. Suddenly, he didn’t feel cold anymore, he felt hot. Sweat started to bead on his skin. One late-night call wasn’t unusual for the Batfam. Just a check-in. Nothing more.

But… he couldn’t do it.

The voice of Batman echoed in the back of his mind: There’s no more need for there to be a Robin. It was a long time ago. Years ago. It had nothing to do with what was happening now. And yet… It lingered in Tim’s mind, heavy and unrelenting.

The phone in his hand slowly lowered, slipping toward the ground beside him. Tim tried to take a deep breath, but it didn’t work. His breathing came out shallow, weak, and the air felt like it wasn’t reaching his lungs. Then the rush of fear hit him, sudden and suffocating, a sense of impending doom crashing down. His chest tightened, constricting like a vice. Tim clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers trembling.

Oh…

This was a panic attack, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t his first. He was a master at masking them. No one around him would ever know. But here, alone, he didn’t hold it back. He let it happen.

Every breath rasped, sharp and useless, like dragging air through a straw. He couldn’t think anymore. His thoughts were all noise: loud, panicked static. The room felt still too big. Too quiet. His skin prickled, heat and chill chasing each other down his spine, and he curled forward instinctively, trying to make himself smaller. Trying to hide.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew this wasn’t rational. That nothing had happened yet. That he was safe. But it didn’t matter. His body didn’t believe him.

Tims vision blurred, and for a second he wasn’t even sure if it was from tears or the dizziness clawing its way in. He tried to count: four seconds in, hold, seven out. But his lungs refused to cooperate today. He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt, to bleed, to ground himself in something.

And all the while, his phone lay silent beside him. Untouched. Unused. So easy to call for help, but impossible to do.

After what felt like an eternity, with no relief in sight, Tim clawed at his throat. There was something… he had to do something. Tim hesitated, battling against his own instinct to stay silent, to stay strong. Then, it felt like climbing a mountain just to open his mouth.

“…D… Dann…y?”

His voice was barely a whisper, a croak in the empty room. It was ridiculous. He knew it. Stupid. Unreasonable. Delusional even, to think his own mind could save him from this.

But he was desperate. Just someone, anything, to make this stop. This nightmare that was his life.

Of course, nothing happened. He was still stuck in this room, alone. Just him and his irrational mind, tangled in flawed logic. At least for another minute or two.

Then, a voice. Muffled and unintelligible. Tim’s own heartbeat thudded so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t make out a word, but it was there. And it was comfortable, quiet, soft. It made Tim feel, just for a second, safer. It felt… familiar.

Tim’s eyes opened to a blurry green light. Glowstick.

He felt a soft touch against the clenched fists in his hair, and his grip loosened just enough for someone to gently pull his hands down. They held them carefully in their own. The skin against his was cool and smooth. The coolness drifted to his forehead, and…oh…this felt like heaven.

As his heartbeat quieted, just a little, he picked up a strange remark.

“Dude… I see your nose hair sticking out. When did you last trim them? Gross.”

Tim blinked. His… his what now? That was absurd! He didn’t have nose hair sticking out! As a high member of society and the sole heir to the Drake fortune, Tim took great pride in his appearance—just like he was taught! There was no way someone would see something so unsightly like nose hair on him.

Tim looked at Glowstick, utterly flabbergasted and a little annoyed. The white-haired menace smiled at him, but there was something about it that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked… off.

“There you are. That got you back, huh? Noted.” Danny’s voice was lighter than usual, though his hand trembled slightly as he pushed a few strands of hair away from Tim’s sweaty forehead.

Tim blinked, still trying to process. And suddenly, he realized he was breathing again. Breathing. Somehow, Danny’s offhand comment had cut through the panic. It had confused him so much, that it pulled him out of the storm in his mind. Tim didn’t know whether to be impressed or… offended. Either way, he let it go, for now.

“How… how did you know this would work…?” Tim’s words came out a little slurred. Honestly, his whole body felt like it had just been run over by a semi-truck. But he could breathe.

Danny hesitated, eyes flickering for a moment before answering, voice quiet: “Call it… intuition?” He shrugged slightly, like it was nothing. Tim wasn’t so sure, but he nodded, too exhausted to question it. At this point, he'd take it. Tim was just glad that the worst of it seemed to be over. He’d had plenty of panic attacks in his life, but this one… this one had been something else. They’d leveled up, it seemed.

Danny sat down in front of him instead of floating aimlessly like he usually did. Only then did Tim realize Danny was still holding his hand, his thumb gently tracing small circles over his knuckles. The touch was so soft that Tim almost felt like crying again.

He hadn’t realized how much he craved something as simple as this. The warmth of it spread through him, easing the tightness in his chest, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe it might be fine. When was the last time someone had treated him like this? He couldn’t even remember.

Tim stared at their hands, blinking slowly, each motion sluggish like he was wading through fog. He tasted copper, his lips felt dry and cracked, and his body was stiff as a board, aching with every small breath he took. Sometimes he forgot how much these attacks could hurt. He wanted to stretch, to crack his spine, to get a glass of water. But his limbs felt heavy like lead, and he couldn’t bring himself to move. It was as if the moment he shifted, Danny might disappear, and Tim would be alone again.

He didn’t want to be alone right now.

So, he sat still. Danny was quiet too, his hand steady and calm, continuing the gentle motion of his thumb against Tim’s bruised knuckles, worn from training and fighting. Tim didn’t know how much time had passed, but with every minute that ticked by, he felt the tightness in his chest ease a little more. It wasn’t fixed, not by a long shot, but for the first time in a while, Tim allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was okay.

Chapter Text

Tim spent the next day drowning himself in case files and schoolwork. He didn’t leave the house, the sun outside felt too bright, too harsh, and far too similar to the golden warmth from that dream. The one where everything was perfect. He couldn’t handle that right now.

So, he’d shut every blind in the manor and curled up on the floor behind the couch, wedged into the small space between it and the wall. It was a tight fit, but it did the job. He’d considered going back to his usual hidey-hole but just thinking about it sent unease crawling under his skin. Yeah, no. Not happening. Being squished there wasn’t all that bad. It was quiet. Still.

He munched on salt and vinegar chips while tapping away at his laptop, allegedly working on the history exam he had definitely studied for. Totally prepared. Super academic.

Danny hung lazily over the back of the sofa, chin resting on his crossed arms as he watched Tim’s fingers fly across the keyboard. Unsurprisingly, his emotional support hallucination had stuck around since the disaster that was last night.

Right after it happened, Tim had been so shaken up, so terrified of sitting alone in this massive, echoing manor, that for a second, just a second, he almost wanted to beg Danny to stay. But that was ridiculous. Firstly: Tim didn’t beg. Not anymore. He’d learned a long time ago that it never worked. Not on his parents.
(Can you please stay just a week longer? Please…? I… I wanted to show you the new app I’m working on. Or maybe we could go out for lunch? It—It doesn’t have to be a week. Just a few days?... One day? No?)

Secondly: He couldn’t exactly ask someone who wasn’t real to stick around. If his brain decided it had reached its quota for human interaction, this guy would just vanish, poof, without warning. And that thought was… strangely terrifying. Unsettling in a way Tim didn’t want to examine too closely.

In the end, Tim didn’t need to say anything. Danny stayed all on his own, without needing the prompting. In fact, he stuck closer to Tim than usual, always lingering nearby. Whether it was a few steps behind or hovering above, Danny was there, watching him like a hawk. And every so often, he shot Tim this look. This strange, unreadable look that Tim couldn’t quite make sense of.

But it didn’t freak him out like Tim had expected it would. It wasn’t that it was strange for Danny to just keep appearing out of nowhere these days, no, it was more that he felt… reassured. He felt… safer, in his own home. A little bit less alone.

They didn’t talk much, partly because Tim needed to concentrate on his exam, and partly because he just didn’t feel like it. But the mere presence of someone else in the vast Drawing Room was surprisingly comforting. The soft breaths this not-real person took, the movement at the corner of his eye, the occasional sighs or mumbled words. Tim wasn’t sure how, but he could always sense Danny there. He never heard him physically shift, and the air didn’t seem to stir around him at all. Well, that made sense for someone without a body, didn’t it?

It had been about two weeks since Danny first appeared, and Tim had completely given up on finding any logical explanation for his existence. He’d come to the conclusion that Danny was indeed just something his brain had cooked up, but he didn’t bother trying to explain away all the weird, unexplainable details that came with the situation. He was too tired to care anymore. Maybe he just really didn’t want to know.

The laptop shut with a quiet click, and Tim leaned back against the couch, letting out a sigh that could rival someone working a grueling 12-hour shift. Just as he was starting to relax, something cool and damp brushed against his cheek. His body jolted instinctively, a sound somewhere between a squeak and a yelp escaping him.

He looked up to find Danny hovering over him, holding a cold energy drink, the can pressed gently against Tim’s face.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Danny said with a grin, lowering the can into Tim’s hand. “And I’m guessing sleep’s not on the table right now.”

Tim took the drink with a grateful groan. “You have no idea… I’d rather die than fall asleep right now.” He cracked open the can with a hiss, taking a few big gulps. As much as he doubted an energy drink alone would keep him fit, it was worth a shot.

As expected, Tim was right. Several hours later, he found himself patrolling the Bowery, a spot he always liked to finish his rounds at. Mainly because Batman tended to avoid Crime Alley and wouldn’t be showing up here, but also because it gave him the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on Red Hood, who was in the middle of taking over Crime Alley. Robin always stuck to the highest rooftops in this area, knowing that Red Hood preferred the ground level these days. It made it easier for him to stay out of sight and avoid any unwanted encounters. And god, right about now a nap was all he needed in life.

Robin settled onto the rooftop of the Monarch Theater, one of the tallest buildings in the area and practically right next to Crime Alley. The view into the alley was somewhat blocked by a jumble of smaller buildings and pipes, but that didn’t stop him from stealing occasional glances. At least he had a clear line of sight to the main entrance of the alley, the one with the infamous "Crime Alley" sign. He knew the sign wasn’t just there for show; it was a warning, a symbol of the dark history of that place, maybe even a threat to anyone who dared step too close.

Robin had planned on keeping an eye on the entrance… if his eyelids didn’t keep threatening to shut down every few minutes. He was squatting at the edge of the roof, and after the third time he swayed just a bit too far out for comfort, he decided to sit down properly, letting his legs dangle over the misty, dark street below.

The view wasn't much to speak of. Gotham's perpetual fog, paired with the glow of the city lights, made it impossible to see any stars in the sky.

It only took a few seconds before Glowstick materialized and sat down right next to him, close enough for their knees to brush. Of course, Robin didn’t even react anymore. At this point, he had expected him to pop up much sooner than he had.

“Heeey. You know, this relationship is really hitting new heights,” Danny said, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically, his hopeful eyes practically begging for a smirk. He was clearly trying to get a rise out of Robin, but honestly, with the way he felt right now, tired enough to question if he even existed, it was a struggle to muster up any kind of expression.

Instead, he slowly turned his head, giving Danny a deadpan look that, despite the domino mask, conveyed everything Danny needed to know.

“Okay okay, I get it,” Danny huffed, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “All the bats are broody and mysterious and not exactly ‘joke material.’” He exaggerated a sigh, flopping back dramatically on the rooftop. “Just… stop looking at me like that, okay?”

Oh, the Batglare. If there was one thing Robin had learned to master, it was the art of silent judgement. His tired, under-eye darkened gaze could strip a villain of their bravado in seconds. Robin scrunched his nose now, the distain radioing off of him in a way, that made Danny reflexively lift his shoulders up, an automatic shield from the force of it. It wasn’t even the glare anymore, it was the pure exhaustion laced with bitterness that hung in the air around Robin like a cloak.

“Wow, you’re actually terrifying when you do that,” Danny muttered, almost in awe.

“I’m this close to throwing you off this roof,” Robin said, his thumb and forefinger just barely brushing together. “But you’re kind of hard to grasp.” The smallest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Robins mouth while saying that. It was enough to make his wellfare hallucinations face light up like a puppy seeing a treat. Robin turned his gaze back at Gotham’s skyline.

"You know," Danny started, nudging him with his elbow, "I kind of like the idea of you being the one to toss me off roofs."

The boy in the mask shot him a look, and for a second, Danny looked like he wondered if he’d gone too far. But then that smirk returned, a little more noticeable this time, as if Robin was silently saying, yeah, you’re lucky I don’t actually throw you off right now.

Danny tilted his head, grinning like a fool. “I mean, that’s a way to go out, right?”

A small huff wanted to escape Robin, half a laugh, half exhaustion. He didn’t let it. Were they already on death jokes terms? He didn’t respond, but he could feel those eyes on him, lingering, obvious. Glowstick was trying to be subtle, but he wasn’t. Not even close. Still, Robin kept his gaze forward, pretending not to notice a thing.

After another minute of comfortable quiet, Danny broke the silence again.

“Is your wrist alright?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You landed weird earlier. Grapple line twisted a bit.”

Robin paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he buried it again. He almost asked how Danny noticed that, but ended up reminding himself that Danny would know pretty much everything that ever happened to him, so he swallowed the question. He exhaled through his nose and flexed his fingers, subtly rubbing at the ache.

“It’s fine,” he said flatly. “Nothing to worry about.”

Danny raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.

“It’s my own fault,” Robin muttered, rubbing both hands down his face. “Should’ve taken a nap before patrol. I’m not 100% today. That’s… unacceptable. If Batman knew, he’d bench me. Can’t let that happen.” His eyelids felt like lead. Thoughts buzzed in static loops, nothing connecting right. He’d blown past tired and now hovered in some uncanny valley of consciousness. Not optimal. But he’d make it work. He had to.

He could not afford to mess up. One bad night and Bruce would decide he wasn’t reliable. One mistake, and he’d lose the only thing tethering him to this life. He wasn’t Jason, he wouldn’t get a second chance. He wasn’t Dick, he didn’t radiate effortless charm or natural leadership. He was just the one who worked harder than anyone else. And if he slipped up, what did he have left?

Would a nap fix this? Probably not. But it’d help. A little more clarity, a little more presence. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after that dream last night. If he saw anything like that again, if he got a glimpse of something he wanted, something safe, and then woke up to this, he wasn’t sure he’d recover. Being ripped away from it once had been bad enough. A second time? Today?

No. Just… no.

Suddenly, the vigilante felt like if he didn’t move right now, he’d just… slip away. He sprang up from his perch and dropped straight into pushups.

Danny scrambled to his feet too, more out of shock than anything, watching, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as his rooftop partner launched into what looked suspiciously like a workout routine.

“Dude! What are you doing? Batman’s not gonna pop out of the shadows to test your reaction time! Relax for once, would you?”

...The irony of that sentence.

“Firstly, I’m staying awake,” Robin huffed between reps. “Secondly, he totally would. You’re underestimating B.”

Danny groaned, fidgeting with his fingers as he sank back onto the rooftop, cross-legged. “For a second, I thought you were about to throw yourself off.”

Robin paused mid-pushup. “Not a terrible idea. That’d wake me up. Might be better than picking fights just to get an adrenaline boost.”

Danny’s eyes widened. “Dude. Wait—all those brawls today were on purpose?”

“I say it every time, Glowstick. You don’t get to judge me.”

“Unbelievable!” Danny let out an offended squawk as Robin dropped back into motion, the fog in his head thinning just slightly. Progress.

“I’m actually kinda surprised,” Danny said, fidgeting with the edge of his suit. “You were taking hits like it was nothing. I was this close to stepping in, but you really had it under control.”

Robin didn’t even acknowledge the part where his hallucination claimed he could fight, just filed it away like all the things he couldn’t explain. “Yeah, well… once someone you know tries to kill you, everything else kinda pales in comparison.”

Danny blinked at him. Like Robin had just grown a third eye or sprouted wings or something.

He didn’t say anything. He just… stared. Mouth slightly open. Not blinking. The kind of silence that felt way too loud. Robin raised an eyebrow, still half-hovering in pushup position.

“…What?”

More staring. Still no blinking.

“…Glowstick?”

Nothing. Robin sat up slowly, squinting at him like he was the weird one. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Finally, Danny found his voice again. “W-... wait, what? Who?”

“Jason. Who was Robin before me.” Robin shrugged nonchalantly, like they were just talking about the weather. “Relax, as you can see, I survived.”

Danny just stared at him again, the shift in his expression more subtle but still there.

Robin hadn’t meant to bring it up. It just… slipped out. Like a stray thought that tumbled down the wrong path and made it all the way to his mouth without a filter.

“What do you mean, ‘tried to kill you’?”

Robin crossed his arms. “He died, got better, tried to kill me. You know. Typical family drama.” It was meant to be a joke. Kind of. But Danny didn’t laugh. The silence stretched, thick and awkward.

“…Wait, wait, wait… seriously? You’re not making one of those weird macabre jokes?”

“Uh… yeah?” Robin blinked, as if the question didn’t quite register.  It took him a moment to process, and then it hit him how insane that all must sound.

“Look. He was going through a thing. Uh... still is I think. Honestly? I might’ve done the same.” Robin’s was trying so hard to sound casual, but inside, he felt like he was dying a little.

He wouldn’t have. In fact, that was the last thing he would ever think about. He felt like he knew Jason for years—watched him fight crime with a smile, making Gotham just a little bit safer, side by side with Batman. Jason was his Robin. His idol. His hero. And every photo Tim captured, every frozen frame with Jason in it, felt like a fragment of Gotham itself, an echo of a world where people like him could still exist, a quiet reminder that some heroes were worth believing in.

Jason wasn’t that much older than him. And yet, Tim had worshipped him. Jason was everything. He was his Robin. Or at least, that’s how Tim saw him. Of course, he would never tell him that. Never. Not in a million years.

All at once it went quiet. The air seemed to still around them, heavy and charged. And did it get colder all of a sudden? Robin didn’t meet Danny’s gaze immediately, but he could feel the shift—like gravity tilted in Danny’s direction. When he finally let go of the past and glanced over, the easy light in Danny’s eyes was gone.

Dannys jaw was clenched tight. Shoulders rigid. The air around him shimmered faintly, like heat on pavement. His eyes glowed, not in that soft, comforting way from before, but with an intensity that made Robins skin crawl. It was cold and electric all at once.

The vigilante blinked under his mask, suddenly uncertain if continuing with the conversation was a good idea. “It’s… old news.”

Danny didn’t respond. His hands were curled into fists in his lap, trembling ever so slightly. There was a hum in the silence now, like static before a lightning strike. Like the whole city was holding its breath.

Robin stood up, his body instinctively shifting back as if he could distance himself from the quiet storm around Danny. The hairs on his arms stood up. His heartbeat skipped. It was like his instincts screamed danger before his brain could catch up, some buried part of him recognizing that the air around Danny was charged, predatory.

“Danny.” he said, voice quieter now. Cautious.

“Jason attacked you,” Danny said lowly. His expression didn’t shift, but his voice did. Almost too calm, too measured. “Tried to kill you. And everyone just let him come back?”

Robins mouth felt dry. He pressed back further, his breath coming shallower. He knew Danny couldn’t hurt him—logically—but that didn’t stop the tension in his body. His pulse was racing, and a chill skated across the back of his neck.

The glowing green of Danny’s eyes reflected off the metal piping beside them, too bright in the dark. The rooftop felt wrong now. Too open. Too exposed.

Suddenly, the scene from Titans Tower flashed in his mind.

Jason standing over him, that red helmet hiding everything but his voice. It sounded… deranged.

“Still trying to earn his approval? Newsflash, Timmy—there’s no prize at the end of this.” The cold press of a knife at his throat. Tim never thought Jason would actually do it. But then—

In the silence, Danny blinked. Like he knew something shifted within Tim, something breaking loose just under the surface.

Robin wiped at his nose with his thumb, trying to brush the memory aside. It was just that, a memory. But his heart was hammering, his breathing shallow. His eyes were wide, but his mask kept that hidden.

The glow around Danny dimmed, his hands slowly uncurling. The storm that had surged between them receded just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Robin with that familiar prickling sensation. The tension faded, but not without leaving him rattled, chest tight, skin buzzing as if he'd barely dodged a bullet.

“Sorry,” Danny murmured. “I just… hate seeing you hurt.”

And Tim really wondered why that was. Why Danny cared so much. Why he kept showing up, why he stayed. It didn’t make sense. He tried to puzzle it out, sifting through every interaction in his exhausted mind like he was solving a case, trying to find the missing link. But none of those possibilities quite fit. None of them explained the way Danny looked at him right now. The ache behind his eyes made thinking hurt. And God, he was so tired. Too tired to unravel the contradiction that was Danny.

The glowing boy got up and closed the distance between them, slowly, cautiously. His hand hovered for a second, just long enough for Tim to see the hesitation there, the flicker of guilt in his expression. Danny didn’t move right away. He waited. That made all the difference. Tim gave the tiniest nod. Barely more than a twitch. But Danny caught it.

His fingers found the edge of the Cape, a light touch, like asking permission again. Then he gently laid a hand over Tim’s gloved one, carefully, like he was trying not to scare a wild animal. His thumb moved in the same slow circles as before, grounding.

Robin exhaled shakily. His heartbeat was still too fast, but his muscles started to unclench, one by one. The quiet cool of Danny’s palm, cooler than human, but still somehow comforting, was tethering him in place.

Danny didn’t say anything else. He didn’t push, didn’t ask questions. Just stayed there, watching him with eyes that had softened from dangerous neon to something warmer, something safe.

Chapter Text

"The file I sent you two weeks ago has expanded. I've uncovered additional instances of weapons being smuggled throughout Gotham. Scattered cases, likely testing the waters. The question is: why here?" Batman’s voice echoed through the Batcave, clipped and steady. "There’s intel on a potential tradeoff happening tonight. The exact location is unclear, but I’ve sent you the coordinates of the general area. Conduct reconnaissance, maintain distance. If possible, retrieve a sample for analysis."

He paused only briefly before continuing. "Avoid detection. We’re playing the long game. First, we identify their base of operations. I have reason to believe the Penguin may be involved, but nothing’s confirmed."

Robin nodded, already pulling up the coordinates on his phone. Tricorner Yards, no surprise there. If there was an illegal shipment moving through Gotham, odds were good it passed through that mess of warehouses and forgotten docks. This whole thing felt like a standard job. Just another Tuesday night.

What actually caught his attention, though, was the question of who was behind it. Whoever they were, they’d covered their tracks well. No solid leads, no obvious affiliations and he’d done his own digging, too. These weren’t your average street-level smugglers. Trained, organized. Professionals. In cases like this, it was always faster to just be there. Get eyes on the scene, see what the intel couldn’t show.

On paper, it sounded like the usual “minor smuggling operation.” Easy recon. Just eyes and ears.
But this was the Bowery. And in the Bowery, nothing ever stayed easy.

“Got it. I’m heading out soon,” he said flatly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

He was already in costume, had been before he even came down to the Cave. These days, that was the only reason he came here. Vigilante work. Assignments. Missions. Not much else.

Not that anyone seemed to notice. Or care.

“…”

Batman looked at him a moment longer than usual. Tim could tell there was something else on his mind. Something unsaid, caught between clenched teeth and a tight jaw. But then came the slow exhale through his nose, and Tim knew that was it. Whatever had been on the verge of being spoken, it wouldn’t be. Not tonight. That was his cue to leave.

Tim had gotten good at reading him. Too good. The smallest shifts in Bruce’s posture, the tension in his shoulders, the way he breathed, he could decode all of it, could translate silence into meaning. He’d had to learn. Back then, just after Jason… It had been about survival. For both of them. Bruce had been reckless, spiraling. Some nights, Tim was certain he was trying to get himself killed. And Tim? He was just the kid left holding the legacy, whether he wanted it or not. The new Robin, dragged into a role that still bled grief at the seams. And no one ever asked if he was okay with it. Dick gave him the costume. Because if he’s got so much to say about how Robin should be, then go ahead. Make it official.

It felt almost strange, seeing Batman like this, face-to-face. Most of the time, their conversations were limited to the comms line: brief, efficient, impersonal. They didn’t talk much in person anymore. Tim still came to the Cave regularly since the gear was too important not to. But he was usually alone down here. And on the rare nights they crossed paths, it was all silent nods and unspoken orders. No small talk. No connection. Just the job. That distance hadn’t always been there. But now it felt permanent. Like it had settled into the concrete walls along with the cold.

Tim checked his gear while Batman suited up nearby, probably prepping for his own mission tonight. Throwing stars. Smoke bombs. First aid. Fear toxin antidote—because in Gotham, you never knew when that might come in handy. All accounted for.

“Heading out, B. I’ll keep my comm on,” Tim said, mounting the bike, the one he’d more or less inherited. Jason had passed it down, but it originally belonged to Dick, who’d been the one to mod it and slap on the red and green paint job. A little tacky, maybe, but it matched the Robin suit. And honestly? Tim liked it. He never called it the Robin-Bike, though. Too cringe, even for him. This wasn’t the original, anyway. That one had been totaled during the whole Club of Villains disaster. The current one was a replacement, same model, same flair.

Batman didn’t look up. Just grunted. It was enough. Tim knew a dismissal when he heard one.

As he rode through Gotham’s dark, winding streets, Robin’s thoughts kept drifting, inevitably, back to Danny. He hadn’t been around much the past few days. Not since Tim told him about Jason. It felt like his worst fear was coming true. Not in any dramatic, world-ending way. Just quietly. Slowly. Like his brain had decided he was finally stable enough to be left alone.

Danny still showed up sometimes. Always at the manor, usually late at night. Maybe because that was where things got… bad. Quiet enough for the noise in his head to get too loud.

But out here? On patrol? Nothing. No snarky comments. No bad ghost puns. No sudden appearances mid-rooftop with that smug little grin. Just silence. Which was… good. It should be good. Less distraction, more focus. Clean mission. Simple work. He didn’t miss the interruptions. He didn’t miss the noise.

He didn’t.

That meant he was getting better, right? It should mean that. But it didn’t feel like progress. Not really. Tim was still just as exhausted, if not more. The nights were short, the sleep fractured, and when it came, it brought nightmares that left him feeling worse than before. If you could even call them nightmares since waking up was the worst part. The second his eyes opened, the weight came crashing back in. The dreams were never violent. Nothing dramatic. Just… quiet. His parents, alive. Smiling. Existing. A walk through the park. Dinner at a restaurant. Sitting on the couch, watching a movie together. Nothing big. Nothing special. Just normal. And it tore him apart. Every time.

He still forced himself to sleep, though. Because without it, working was impossible, or at least impossible to do without collapsing mid-mission. Just enough rest to stay upright. Naps stolen here and there, drifting right on the edge of lucidity, just aware enough to fight and think. And when sleep didn’t cut it, he leaned on the next best thing: caffeine. Tim hated coffee, always had. Bitter and gross and overrated. So instead, it was energy drinks and black tea keeping him upright. Was chugging three cans of energy at 3 AM wildly unhealthy? Probably. But if he felt even slightly better, he’d switch it up with a can of Zesti Cola. Because honestly? Nothing beat the taste of Zesti.

Robin left his bike behind as to not draw any attention and went the rest of the way via foot, or better, grappling hook. The docks reeked of oil and saltwater, the kind of sticky stink that clung to your lungs long after you left. Rusted shipping containers towered like grave markers, casting long shadows under flickering floodlights. Fog rolled in off the bay, thick and slow, swallowing sound and movement alike. Somewhere in the distance, a cargo crane groaned like it was protesting being alive.

Robin crept along the edge of the stacked crates, silent as a rumor. His comms were dead, interference maybe. So much for staying in contact with B.

It took about 2 hours before he spotted movement. The surprisingly tiny ship slid in through the mist like a ghost. Silent, unmarked, and far too sleek for a standard cargo job. It docked with barely a splash, the crew moving with clockwork precision. No shouting, no comms. Just quick gestures and gloved hands unloading sealed metal crates straight onto the wet concrete. From his perch above, Robin watched them through the green-tinted lens of his binoculars. The crates, also a bit too small for your standard weapons transport, were moved swiftly into two waiting black vans, engines idling low. The men wore no gang colors, just tactical black with minimal identifiers. Military efficiency.

Tim narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t the usual gun-running garbage. They moved like soldiers, too smooth, too organized. Not Penguin’s usual goons. Something was off. Whatever was in these crates, Robin needed to get his hands on it.

One of them looked to be inspecting one of the crates, and Robin squinted while zooming in with his lenses. He needed a clear look at the supposed weapons they were smuggling. Except… there weren’t any weapons. No guns, no ammo, nothing even close.

Instead, the man was holding a glass vial between two fingers, turning it toward the headlights of the small cargo ship. It caught the light just enough for Robin to tell it was filled with some kind of liquid. Maybe a toxin. Maybe a new drug.

Whatever it was, the guy seemed pleased with it. He tucked the vial back into a crate, then moved the last container into one of the vans waiting nearby.

Soon after, both vans rumbled to life and drove straight into one of the many abandoned tunnels nearby, except Robin was pretty sure that tunnel wasn’t supposed to be open. In fact, he was very sure it had been sealed off the last time he checked. Great. Just another layer to the growing pile of weird. He had no idea where it led, but there was only one way to find out. Follow them in.

Robin dropped from his perch in one smooth motion. Following by bike was out of the question, too loud, too obvious. So he stuck to the shadows, darting across the dock’s stacked containers with quick, silent strides. As he neared the tunnel entrance, movement caught his eye. Someone else was approaching. Someone with a very familiar, very helmet-shaped silhouette.

Red Hood stepped into view, just barely, standing half-obscured by the rusted hull of an old storage crate. His arms were crossed, stance tense.

Great. This night just got ten times more difficult.

“Robin. Why am I not surprised to see you here?” The voice was cold, slightly distorted through the helmet as Red Hood stepped closer into the light. He was easily a head taller and built like a double fridge and about as approachable as a brick wall.

“I see you’re still wearing that ugly bucket on your head.” Tim shot back without missing a beat. “Honestly, if you ever kill me, do I get to wear it next? Since you stole the look from the Joker.”

Red Hood’s fingers twitched just barely, but Tim caught it. Maybe not the smartest move to antagonize his resurrected, semi-feral “brother,” but the words had left his mouth before he could stop them.

“Very funny hearing that from someone who stole my look first,” Jason grunted, arms dropping from his chest. “I really don’t have time to unpack all that right now. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Robin’s heartbeat spiked at the motion. Going for his gun? Reflex kicked in fast. He flicked his bo-staff open in one fluid motion, body tensing to spring. Jason didn’t flinch, but he paused just a second, maybe reevaluating.

“Whoa. Relax,” he said, sounding more annoyed than anything. “I’m not about to start a fight in the middle of nowhere. Jesus.”

Robin didn’t lower his staff. “Yeah, well. I didn’t expect to get jumped in what’s supposed to be my own team’s base, but,” his grip tightened slightly, “here we are.”

Jason seemed to realize, finally, that Tim wasn’t bluffing. Slowly, he raised his hands in a loose, nonthreatening gesture, like he actually wanted to avoid a fight. Maybe he did. But Robin didn’t buy it. Not anymore. Too much had gone down between them. He couldn’t trust the way Jason moved, couldn’t trust what he said and definitely couldn’t trust the sudden show of peace.

“Cut the act,” He snapped.

“Just tell me why you’re here.” Red Hood replied calmly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Robin answered, voice flat. “I’m looking into the latest round of ‘weapon smuggling’ or whatever this is. But since you’re here, I’m guessing you’ve got something to do with it. What’s the plan this time, Mr. Duffle-Bag-Full-of-Heads? Adding a new drug to your empire?””

He kept his gaze locked on Jason, watching every shift like a hawk. Red Hood crossed his arms again, trying for casual, but his body betrayed him: tense, coiled, defensive. Then he snorted, like Tim had just cracked a joke.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Jason scoffed as he stepped forward slightly. “Just admit it. B sent you to spy on me. You’re his little soldier, doing whatever he says without question. Like a damn lapdog.” He cracked his knuckles, sharp and deliberate. Whether it was just a tick or a warning, Tim wasn’t sure, but the tension was unmistakable.

“Batman’s too much of a coward to face me himself, so he sends his newest golden boy to ‘keep me in check.’ It’s pathetic.” His voice dropped, colder now, rougher, each word laced with something sharp and bitter. “Believe me, I’ve been in your place. Following orders. Earning approval. And look where that got me.”

This time, it was Tim’s turn to let out a dry, humorless laugh. He slowly retracted his staff and straightened up, still tense but no longer in a direct stance. He didn’t bother responding to the "little soldier" comment. He hated that label, always had. And hearing Jason use it so casually, without knowing Bruce had actually called him that more than once? It hit too close to home.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Hood,” he said coolly. “I’m not here for you. I stopped caring about what you do a long time ago. That’s not my job.” He paused just long enough to drive it in.

“And yeah, B gave me the lead. But I’m not trailing after him like some lost puppy. I’m doing this on my terms. Not his. These days, I go solo.”

There was a pause. Jason’s head tilted to the side, just barely, a twitch of hesitation, like he needed a second to process what Tim had said. Robin hated that helmet more than ever. If he could just see his expression, maybe all of this would make more sense. Maybe he could actually get a read on him. But no, it was always the same blank, reflective mask. Always guessing.

“I hardly believe that bullcrap,” Jason finally snapped. “And for your information, I’m investigating the same guys as you. I’ve got nothing to do with them. So stay the hell out of my way, Robin.”

“Oh, right,” Tim said, voice laced with sarcasm. “The totally innocent crime-lord, just coincidentally hanging around the same dock a bunch of mysterious new drug shipments show up at. Sure. Sounds so believable.”

“It’s not drugs,” Jason growled, stepping forward, his posture stiff with irritation. “And don’t act like you didn’t know I’d be here. You’re full of it. You always were. Still playing detective for B like a good little sidekick. Don’t pretend otherwise. You’d lick his boots if he told you to.”

The distortion in his voice made it worse. Grating, synthetic, angry. Tim hated that helmet.

“Right,” Robin bit out, eyes narrowed. “Because I’d totally risk following the guy who once wrote his name on a wall with my blood. That sounds sane. I’m not that suicidal, thanks. I keep my damn distance from psychopaths.”

He meant it to hurt. And he didn’t care that Jason clearly knew more than him about what was going on here. Not right now. Not with his blood still simmering from every word that came out of that voice modulator.

“Don’t be so damn dramatic!” Jason barked, his voice annoyed.

Dramatic? Really Jason? Tim, acting dramatic? After all that?

The space between them felt electric, charged with all the unsaid things that had built up over time. The betrayal, the abandonment, the anger that neither of them had truly confronted.

“I never tried to kill you, and you know that! That whole thing was just to see what my replacement was made of. Who, apparently, was better than me. I trained harder than anyone. I did everything he asked. But none of it mattered. They said I wasn’t tough enough to be Robin. Then here comes some kid, and bam, everyone’s suddenly all about him. So of course I had to see for myself. Who was this kid? The one they just tossed me aside for?” He was shouting now, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

Tim could feel the heat of his words like fire in his veins. Slow, steady, building, until his own blood was starting to boil.

“No, I don’t know that, Jason!” Robin’s voice came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care anymore. “You slit my throat! I almost died! You broke half the bones in my body! You have no idea how long I was bedridden after your little ‘visit.’ Two months, Jason. Two whole months I could hardly move.” He could feel the rage rising with each word, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Without realizing it, he was moving closer, each step deliberate, closing the distance in seconds until he was right in front of Jason, looking up at him, just inches apart. His breath came quick, chest rising and falling with the anger he couldn’t suppress. And then it was like something possessed him. Maybe the anger from all the months after Jason’s attack. The anger he felt after never getting an explanation for his actions. The anger towards Bruce for leaving Tim on his own. For treating him like a tool.

With a sudden burst of fury, Tim drove his leg straight into Jason's groin. The impact was sharp and brutal, and a guttural grunt ripped from his throat as he doubled over. His hands shot down instinctively, clutching at the pain, his body curling in on itself like he was trying to protect what felt like the most vulnerable part of him. Jason’s breath came in ragged, pained gasps as he struggled to stay upright. But the pain seemed overwhelming, and he staggered back, toppling over like a tree falling. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, groaning, a mix of disbelief and frustration in his voice as he curled up slightly, still clutching his groin.

“Damn it, Timothy... what the hell?!” he rasped, his voice strained and sharp, clearly not expecting to be taken down so quickly.

But Tim wasn’t done yet. His voice was tight, barely controlled, and he took a step closer, looming over Jason even as he laid on the ground. “Don’t you ever dare to say that attack was nothing. And I’m not your replacement either. I could never replace you. You don’t know what it was like with B after you were gone."

A moment of silence stretched between them.

"You really don’t know anything,” Robin breathed quiet now, the last of his fury slipping out with his voice.

His words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, each one cutting through the tension that was thick enough to choke on. Every muscle in Tim’s body was wound tight, coiled like a spring, ready to snap if Jason moved wrong. His heart pounded in his ears, and even as he heard Red Hood's pained exhale, it did nothing to calm him. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Jason was curled up beneath Robin, one hand clutched over his most vulnerable parts, breathing heavy and distorted through his helmet. Robin stood tense above him. His staff wasn’t drawn anymore, but he didn’t move an inch while watching Red Hood with suspicious eyes. Internally, he was fucking terrified. Not that he’d show it, obviously. But damn. The anger that had flared so hot just seconds ago had vanished the moment his foot made contact. Now all he could think was: He tried to murder me a few months ago. And I just kicked him in the balls. Just like that.

Robin was starting to sweat beneath the weight of his costume, heart lodged tight in his throat. But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t afford to. Not today. He’d always carried this stubborn, fragile hope that maybe Jason would go easy on him, just a little. That somewhere, buried under all the anger and blood, his brother (At least that what Dick used to say. That they’re all brothers.) still gave a damn about fucking morals. But that hope bled out the night Jason pressed a blade to his neck. Slow, deliberate, and cold as ice. Tim didn’t die that night. But whatever trust he had left in Jason did.

The silence stretched like an eternity, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Jason finally lifted his head, his helmet tilting just enough to make it feel like he was looking straight at Robin. Robin twitched. His instincts screamed at him to throw out a taunt, to tell Jason to get up and try again but that wasn’t why he was here. So he stayed quiet. Watchful. Careful. Braced for retaliation, but unwilling to provoke it.

“I can’t believe you pulled such a cheap trick,” Red Hood grunted, voice low and rough like gravel, like it had been dragged up from somewhere darker. The sudden sound nearly made Robin jump, but he didn’t react. Not with a word. Not with a flinch. And Hood didn’t seem to mind. He moved slowly, rising to his feet with the kind of practiced ease that made your instincts scream danger. Like that blow really didn’t affect him as much as it should’ve.

Robin didn’t back off. He stood his ground, still as stone, eyes locked on the man in front of him. The crime-lord who used to be his hero. He watched everything: the twitch of Jason’s fingers, the subtle shift of his weight, the rhythm of his breathing beneath that red bat symbol on his chest. Red Hood felt like a predator barely leashed, and Robin knew one wrong move might snap the chain.

“Aren’t you gonna hit me back?” He blurted, the words escaping before he could stop them. The pressure cracking through the silence like a dam bursting.

Hood didn’t miss a beat. “Why’d you say I almost killed you?” Then he hesitated. It didn’t fit him. 

“Yes. I… I pressed that blade to your throat. To scare you. I saw you walk away.”

Robin swallowed hard, his fingers drifting up without thinking to the scar at his throat, the very real, very permanent reminder of just how close he’d come to dying at Jason’s hands.

“You mean you saw me drag myself away.” His voice was low now, bitter.

“Yeah, well. You never stuck around to check, did you? If it weren’t for my team, I’d be dead.” He knew this wasn’t the time to say it. Knew it would only make things worse. But it came out anyway, too sharp to hold in. And still, he didn’t look away. He watched Hoods fingers flex, slow and deliberate, as if weighing every possible reaction. Robin didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just waited. Tense. Alert. Like prey in a room with something bigger, stronger, and maybe still angry.

Any moment now, Robin was sure, he would pounce. The silence stretched tight like a wire about to snap, and Robin shifted unconsciously, knees bent, muscles bracing to dodge the hit he knew was coming.

Then Red Hood moved.

Time seemed to slow as his hand went for one of his guns. Robin’s breath caught, his eyes wide behind the mask. Instinct screamed louder than reason. Duck, now.

He dropped fast, cowering low with his arms curled tight, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His mouth was dry. He waited for the pain. The shot. The fallout.

Thud.

Robin flinched and spun around—only to see a body, not his own, crumple to the ground behind him. Clad in black. A sword still in one hand. Another sheathed on his back. The League?

Just seconds later, more shadows dropped around them quietly, fast and precise. Robin didn’t have time to process what had just happened, even though his mind was already trying to unravel it: the League of Assassins. They were behind the mysterious tradeoffs in Gotham? It made too much sense and no sense at all. He hadn’t expected this.

It had been a while since he last saw Ra’s. Long enough that he’d hoped, maybe foolishly, that he wouldn’t have to repeat the experience anytime soon. Hopefully their presence had nothing to do with him personally. But more than that, he couldn’t let himself think about the way Jason had reacted first. How Robin had hesitated, overwhelmed by his own emotions, and let his guard drop.

The realization hit like a gut punch. Stupid. Reckless. Weak. That familiar sting sank in sharp and fast, cutting deeper than any blade.

He didn’t even get a second to breathe. The fight exploded into motion within seconds. Hood fired, his shots loud and harsh, and Robin spun his staff in a blur, blocking, parrying, moving like a shadow. At first, it was akward, a few missteps, the bats almost colliding as they maneuvered around each other. The older of the two growled under his breath, frustration sharp in his voice. Robin just glared, frustration of his own bubbling beneath the surface. Six assassins. All circling them like vultures, swords gleaming in the low light, kunais ready to fly. Robin’s eyes flicked over them with practiced speed, already calculating their movements. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were poison darts hidden somewhere on those cloaks. A quick, lethal strike from the shadows. That was the League’s specialty.

“Did they seriously follow me all the way to Gotham?” Jason huffed as he slammed the butt of his gun into one of the enemy’s skulls. The assassin dropped with a grunt, but Jason didn’t hesitate, his gun twisted just in time to block a sword strike from another attacker, the clang of metal ringing out in the chaos.

Tim was aware, that Jason had spent time with the League after his resurrection. How long? He wasn’t sure, but he did know this much: Ra’s hated Jason. Probably even wanted him dead. How did he know? Well, let’s just say Ra’s al Ghul had a peculiar fondness for writing letters. That was how Tim had found out about Jason’s resurrection in the first place. By stumbling across one of Ras’s cryptic notes, detailing Jason's “return”. A note that Tim was definitely supposed to find.

Ra’s originally had been fixated on giving Jason back to Bruce. But it was Talia, surprisingly, who had shown a strange, almost unsettling, fondness for him. Tim had never fully understood it.

What he did understand, however, was that none of that mattered right now. Whatever history they had wasn’t the reason they were fighting. It all circled back to those weird glass vials, those cryptic containers that were being transported through the tunnels.

And Tim had a feeling whatever was inside them, whatever the League was hiding, was far worse than he or Bruce originally had suspected.

After a few minutes, they fell into sync without meaning to. Back-to-back one second, covering each other’s blind spots the next. No words. Just motion. A dangerous rhythm carved out by muscle memory, fueled by mistrust. Bruce’s training was so ingrained in both of them that it flowed like a second nature, precise, brutal, efficient. A blade sliced past Robin’s shoulder. Hood slammed someone into a wall with a sickening thud. Blood spattered across the pavement. Tim hated how natural it felt. Every strike, every dodge, it all clicked into place like gears turning in a clock he wasn’t sure he wanted to wind. And in the back of his mind, a dangerous thought kept crawling forward: Is this what would happen if they worked together more often?

What wasn’t natural, however, was how his body reacted more to Jason than to the actual enemies. Every hit, every clash, was like his muscles remember more than they should. He hated it. Hated how every blow made him flinch, how his heart jumped in his chest every time Jason lifted a gun, even when it wasn’t pointed at him.

He doesn’t look at Jason. He can’t. Because if he does, he’ll see the red helmet, the familiar menace, and he’ll flinch all over again. Instead, he moved. Dodging, blocking, spinning, relying on muscle memory to carry him through, even though his mind was a mess.

Somewhere to his left, Jason muttered, “Six o’clock.” Robin reacted before he even processed the words. His body just knew. And that’s the part that scared him the most, how well it all went. How much their training overlaped, how effortless it felt to fight alongside Jason, despite everything else.

It was clear Red Hood didn’t trust him in this fight either, not really. Robin could feel it in the way Hoods attention keept darting to him, tracking his every move. They fought like they’re still enemies. They’re both calculating, guarded and always measuring the other. But they didn’t get in each other’s way. When one stumbled, the other was there, covering the gap. When one slipped, the other striked, seamlessly filling in the space.

It was a mess of instinct, gunfire, blood, and breathless tension but somehow, it worked. For a fleeting moment, it was like they remembered how to be allies, even if neither of them dared to acknowledged it.

They kept each other safe, and the fight ended swiftly. Smoothly, even. The assassins were wounded, two knocked out cold, while the rest retreated, disappearing into the smoke with swift, practiced movements. Robin pulled his cape up over his mouth, shielding his lungs from the thick, acrid smoke. He was surprised, though. Jason only killed one of them. Just one, the unlucky bastard who took a bullet to the forehead when he tried to get the jump on Robin at the very start. Robin expected more casualties, especially from someone like Red Hood. But maybe… maybe Jason still had some restraint left in him. It’s a small thing, but it stands out in the aftermath of the violence.

The dead body didn’t shake Robin as much as it should’ve. He’s seen it before, when he was tailing Jason. He watched how Jason would take lives with ease, without a second thought. And Robin knew that Red Hood didn’t follow Bruce’s rules. He’s not Batman, and Tim’s not the one to lecture him about it. It’s not hard to believe he was once on Jason’s hitlist. Still is, maybe. Who knows?

They stood there. Surrounded by unconscious assassins and pooling shadows and absolutely zero idea what to say.

Red Hood was the first to speak, of course. "You’re welcome, by the way."

"I didn’t say thank you."

Hood shrugged like he didn’t care, but he didn’t walk away either. The silence stretched again. Robin crossed his arms. Kept his distance.

"…I really don’t remember it being that bad."

"Doesn’t make it less true."

Hood seemed to hesitate, like he was weighing his words, as he crouched to search the pockets of one of the unconscious assassins. After a moment, he pulled out a familiar, curved blade, one of the League’s trademark knives. Without a word, he held it out to Robin, who eyed the weapon warily. Still, he reached out, took the knife, and gave it a quick, practiced once-over before tucking it into one of the many hidden compartments of his utility belt.

“Got any connection? My comm’s fried. I can’t call for reinforcements like this. Not that calling the GCPD would’ve helped,” Robin muttered, rifling through the fallen assassins. Of course, none of them were carrying any of the glass vials. That would’ve been too convenient.

“Nah. My phone’s toast,” Hood grunted, getting to his feet with a groan and resting a hand on his hip. “You planning on following them?”

Robin sighed, frustration curling in his gut. He’d blown it. Let himself get distracted by Jason. “They’re probably long gone. Still… I wanna check where the tunnel leads.”

“Might as well stick together for now,” Hood said, brushing dust off his jacket. “I was planning the same thing.”

Robin deadpanned at him, his expression going flat. “Uh huh. Great idea, Hood. Why are you after them, anyway?”

Jason let out a sigh, scratching the back of his head. “I’ve got my own suspicions about what they’re smuggling.”

“And that would be…?”

“I’m not confirming anything until I’m sure.”

“Of course not,” Robin muttered, not even pretending to be surprised. He crouched beside the downed assassins and started pulling out zip ties from his belt. It wouldn’t hold them forever, but it’d buy them time. He wasn’t keen on having more company in the tunnels.

Without wasting another second, Robin headed toward the tunnel entrance. Hood followed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tim glanced over his shoulder more than once, uneasy with having Jason at his back but he also wasn’t about to let him take point. No way. Letting Red Hood reach the end of the tunnel first felt too much like losing. Call it pride. Or paranoia. Probably both. Walking side by side? Out of the question. So this uncomfortable arrangement would have to do.

He still hated the idea of sharing air with Red Hood for more than five seconds, but fine. He could admit backup had its uses. And by now, Robin was pretty sure Hood wasn’t planning to lunge at him again. Not tonight, at least. They had bigger problems.

The tunnel started behind a collapsed shipping crate, half-hidden, rusted over, but wide enough for vehicles to pass through. Robin walked in first. It’s worse than he expected. The air is damp, heavy with the smell of seawater, mold, and something vaguely metallic. The walls drip. The floor squelches. Every footstep echoes too loud, too long. Old pipes rattle above his head. Most of the lights are out. The few still flickering only make it feel more haunted.

This place wasn’t abandoned. It’s rotting. Forgotten by the city. But not by everyone. Robin keept his steps light, eyes scanning the shadows. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. But he knows something’s down here.

“Really glad my helmet has a built-in filter. Gotta smell like crap in here,” Jason’s voice echoed behind him.

Robin rolled his eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”

Red Hood snorted. They walked in silence after that. Twenty uninterrupted minutes of tension and dim tunnel light. Robin stayed alert and quiet the whole way, and Hood, surprisingly, followed his lead. The tunnel split and twisted in places, but only one path was wide enough to fit a vehicle. That made the decision easy.

They emerged into what looked like a long-abandoned underground garage. Oil stains streaked the floor, and dusty tire marks hinted at recent van traffic. Robin scanned the space, eyes landing on a rusted, barely legible sign near a broken elevator.

“An abandoned blood bank?” he murmured and then frowned, already turning the possibilities over in his head. “Maybe they used the facilities to run tests on whatever they’re smuggling... or maybe it needs refrigeration. Or agitators?” He headed for the stairs, boots echoing softly in the silence, mind already running three steps ahead.

“Possibly. If they’re experimenting with the formula. Or it’s just an unassuming place with a lot of storage,” Jason muttered.

“If you’d just tell me what you know about this stuff, Hood—”

“I’ll tell you when I know more. I don’t want to alarm you.”

“Too late for that.”

Red Hood paused. “Also… I don’t want to work with B. Not even indirectly. So if I share intel with you, you gotta promise to keep it between us.”

Robin scoffed. “Why would I ever do you a favor like that?”

“Because otherwise,” Jason said evenly, “you can forget about it.”

“Fine by me. I’ll figure it out myself.”

He glanced at Jason, who stared straight ahead, fists clenched tight. For all Robin knew, he could’ve been watching him the whole time beneath that helmet, reading every move, every breath without giving a single thing away. God, he hated that thing.

They ascended multiple stairs until they reached what looked like to be the main floor. Robin stepped over broken glass, boots crunching through debris. It was dark, power’s been out for who knows long. The League probably used some kind of generator, that they took with them when they cleared the place out. The walls are smeared with something that might be blood, or maybe it’s just rust. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know. Jason’s a few steps behind, scanning with that helmet of his by the looks of it.

“Place is empty. Just like I expected. We wasted too much time...” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. Tim was usually patient. He could work a case for months without a word of complaint. But letting himself get distracted by Jason and missing a solid lead because of it? That burned.

"Doesn't mean it's safe." There was a sharp edge to Hoods voice. Robin rolls his eyes.

He took another step towards the back room, where something metallic glinted faintly under the emergency light.

"Tim, MOVE!" Red Hood’s shout sliced through the air.

And before it fully registered, he was tackled. Full-body impact. The world tilted. His breath punched out of him as they hit the ground hard and then—

BOOM.

The explosion ripped through the air behind them, deafening and violent. Shrapnel whipped past. Heat crashed into him, scorching even through the layers of his armor. The walls shuddered, groaning under the impact. Dust poured down like thick, suffocating snow.

Robin blinked up at the ceiling, vision blurred, dazed. His ears were ringing so loudly it was almost painful, and his heartbeat thrummed in his chest like it was trying to escape. It was hard to breathe. The air was thick, and something heavy was pinning him down.

No no no no

His thoughts scrambled, barely forming, too loud and too slow all at once. Tim gasped, trapped beneath the crushing weight that is Jason. Jason, who threw himself between Tim and the blast.

Not again.

Please. Not again.

“Jason?” His voice cracked mid-syllable, the fear bleeding through before he could stop it. Jason’s body was trembling above him, alive, moving, and then he rolled off with a grunt. Somewhere in the smoking wreckage, the last traces of their case burned away into ash and red-glowing ruin.

Tim dragged in a breath, chest tight like a vice was squeezing him from the inside. He pressed a hand to it, trying to ground himself, to feel.

Not again. I can’t—

But Jason was alive. He was there. Still breathing. Still moving. Tim glanced at him, almost disbelieving, relieved beyond reason. The idiot’s fine. Thank God.

Jason said something, his voice filtered through the helmet. It was distorted and wrong and Tim couldn’t catch a single word. Everything felt muffled. Like he was underwater.

Finally, Jason sat up, stiff and slow, as he brushed off his jacket. He pulled off his helmet, the back charred and singed, letting out a raspy cough. Tim’s gaze snaps to the unmasked Jason. He’d only seen his face once since his return, and in the dim light, with dust swirling around them, the white strand of hair stood out like a beacon. But it wasn’t that. It was the way Jason’s eyes were blown wide, as if caught in a moment of shock. He looked... rattled. If Tim had to guess, it wasn’t just the explosion that had him this way.

Jason turned toward him, mouth moving again, lips forming words, then a frown, but Tim heared nothing. Just the static. That high-pitched, awful ringing. He blinked, heart hammering, throat dry.

Oh.

He pushed himself upright too fast and the world tilted sideways. He grabed his head, wincing.

“...I can’t hear you,” he said, his own voice distant in his ears. Panicked now, breathing quickening. “Jason, I can’t…my ears, I-I can’t hear anything.”

Chapter Text

Robin sat on the edge of the Monarch Theater’s rooftop, one of the few places in Gotham that felt almost untouched by time and one of his favorites. The city sprawled below him, wet and sullen. Rain dragged itself through the sky like it couldn’t be bothered, sliding off his hood in slow, lazy streaks. The kind of night where even the muggers stayed home. It was Mother’s Day. Apparently, even Gotham’s scum had moms worth calling.

Mother’s Day. He remembered. Back when Janet was still around. It was never a big thing in the Drake household, barely a blip. When he was little, he’d pick flowers from the garden, thinking it’d make her smile. She’d scold him, of course. Said he was ruining the landscaping. Back then, he hadn’t understood, he just wanted to make her happy. Stupid, really. After that, he tried finding wildflowers instead. Sparse, brittle things choking on Gotham’s smog. Half-dead stems, wilted petals. Not exactly impressive. Janet accepted them with all the enthusiasm of someone handed trash in a napkin. She’d stick them in a vase, sure. Then shove the vase into some dusty side room no one used. He checked once. It was gone the next day.

When he got a little older, Tim switched to more expensive gifts. Jewelry, imported chocolates from Belgium, a pen that cost more than most people’s grocery bill. Janet at least pretended to like those. Put on a smile, said thank you in the way people do when there’s an audience. Some years, if he was lucky, he’d earn a ruffle of his hair or a kiss on the cheek. Her hand was always warm. Soft. Nails trimmed to perfection, brushing his skin lightly as she pulled away.

He tried to remember if she’d ever hugged him. As thanks. Or ever. He couldn’t.

It was one of those nights where thinking about his parents ached more than usual. The kind of ache that settled deep and quiet, like rot. It had only been a year since he lost his dad. A little longer since his mother. One year to learn how to fend for himself. One year to figure out how to keep the Drake legacy afloat, only to hand it off in the end, because he just couldn’t do it. Wasn’t ready. Maybe never would be.

He let himself lean on Bruce, for a little while. Just until he could breathe without the house feeling like a mausoleum. But even that felt wrong. Guilt crept in fast—because Bruce already had enough to carry. He’d lost a son. He was still grieving. Still walking around like his heart had been ripped out and stitched back in upside down. Tim never expected Bruce to treat him like a son. He didn’t even want that. Just… a moment. Some comfort. Something that didn’t feel like he was alone in a house full of ghosts.

And when he felt steady enough to stand on his own, Tim slipped back into the Drake manor and left Bruce to his grief. He still checked in and made sure Bruce was holding it together, not spiraling far enough to get himself killed. Helped where he could. Watched from the sidelines. He never expected anything in return. Not really. Sometimes, though, he caught himself wishing there was something more between them. Something solid. Something warm. But it stayed a wish, tucked away in the back of his mind, like a letter never mailed.

The sudden clink of a grappling hook snapped him out of his thoughts. Soft footsteps followed, nearly drowned out by the rain but deliberately loud enough for him to notice. Tim didn’t bother looking up. He already knew who it was. Instead, he tugged his hood lower, letting it shadow his face as Red Hood stepped into view and sat beside him with a soft thud. The helmet came off first, like always.

“Not much going on tonight. Even Crime Alley’s taking a nap,” came the low rasp beside him. When Tim glanced over through his mask, Jason was already looking at him.

Tim quickly turned his head back, eyes on the empty street below. “Yeah. Well… I guess everyone has a mother. Or someone they’d rather be with.”

“Seems like it. Unless you’re a vigilante. Job requirement’s pretty clear: must be an orphan.”

The joke was macabre, exactly Jason’s style, but it still pulled a quiet chuckle out of Tim. “Guess I had it coming.”

He risked another glance. Jason was still watching him, frowning now. “Tim…”

“You know,” Tim cut in, voice low. “Isn’t that all part of being in the Bat-family? The lack of actual family.”

Jason shifted beside him. The silence stretched long enough to feel.

“I always thought it was more about getting to punch things,” he said eventually, and bumped his shoulder lightly into Tim’s.

Tim huffed and shoved his shoulder back into Jason’s. Harder this time. Jason, of course, retaliated with a bump so forceful it nearly knocked Tim off the ledge.

“Hey! That’s not fair, you double-fridge-built tank!”

Jason snorted. “I think the problem is that you’re too short and too thin, you absolute pipsqueak.”

“Not everyone wants to be a gorilla, Jason.”

Jason’s laugh was rough but clear, cutting through the rain like gravel against glass. He slung an arm around Tim’s neck, almost choking him for a second. Tim pretended to struggle, weakly elbowing him until the hold shifted into something softer. Gentler. Warmer. The kind of half-hug only an older brother could give you on a cold, miserable night.

His eyes burned. Vision blurred slightly. God, he was pathetic sometimes. But Jason showing up right when the grief started curling in again, like it did more and more lately, meant more than he could say.

He sniffed and leaned into the hug just a little more. “Thanks.”

Jason scoffed. To an outsider, it might’ve sounded dismissive. But Tim knew better. Jason was embarrassed.

“C’mon, kid,” he muttered. “I’ll get you a Mother’s Day soda.”

Chapter Text

When Robin returned to the Drake manor, he was barely upright, held together more by habit than strength. Now that he was home, everything hit him at once. The ache in his limbs, the raw sting of burns and the throb of fresh bruises. The way his body screamed with every step. But worse than that, worse than any pain, was the silence. No footsteps. No buzz of the city beyond the windows. No sound at all. It was… scary.

He felt untethered, like the world had slipped a layer out of sync. He kept moving on autopilot, because he had to. There was so much to do. Patch the wounds, strip off the bloodied uniform, write the damn report for Bruce. But the silence crawled over him, cold and wrong. His ears rang with nothingness, and the lack of control gnawed at him. He needed to move, needed to do, before he collapsed under the weight of it all.

But first, more than patching himself up, more than the report, more than anything, he wanted a bath and a nap. That was all his brain could fixate on. Every thought spiraled toward the promise of warmth and stillness, of clean water and the sweet numbness of sleep.

Maybe, if he was lucky, the dreams would come again. The ones where his parents were still alive. Where their arms wrapped around him and the world wasn’t so sharp. Maybe tonight, their embrace would feel real enough to drown out the silence clawing at his skull. Just for a few hours. Just for tonight.

He didn’t want to think about Jason. Not now. Not tonight. He couldn’t even begin to unravel what happened between them, how they’d actually worked together, how it all fell apart. How he’d fallen apart. The mission was a bust, and deep down, he knew it was on him. Whether it was Jason’s presence, or his own lack of professionalism, something slipped and he’d triggered the trap. Now he had to explain it to Bruce. Somehow summarize in a neat little debrief that he'd fought with the Red Hood, failed the op, and walked away with hopefully temporary hearing loss.

The thought made his stomach twist. What if it wasn’t temporary? What if this ringing silence was forever? The idea sat in his chest like ice. Terrifying.

There was no way Bruce would let him keep working as Robin like this. Not with his hearing gone. Not until he got better. If he got better. The thought lodged in his throat. He knew it was dangerous. He knew that. He’d drilled it into himself, trained for it, lived by it. Hearing meant survival. It meant knowing when to duck, when to strike, when to run. A footstep behind you, the breath of someone too close, a scream in the distance—all of that was information. All of that was life or death. And now it was just… gone. But worse than the danger was the certainty that Bruce would bench him. Cut him off. Because to Bruce, Robin had to be efficient. Sharp. Useful.

Robin was how he stayed connected. It was the only thing that kept him tethered to Bruce, the only thing that made him matter. And if he lost that, if Bruce pushed him away even more, he didn’t know what would be left. Just Tim. And that wasn’t enough.

He should at least let Bruce know he was home. Safe. Yeah, that was the most important thing, right? He couldn’t use the comms, not when he wouldn’t be able to hear Bruce’s response. The comlink was always open, always there. A lifeline. And now it felt like another thread had been cut. So he pulled out his phone and typed instead. It was a functional, detached thing. The bare minimum.

Back home. Report later. Going to bed.

He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary, then hit send.

Jason had actually offered to escort him home. It felt strange, that Jason, of all people, cared enough to do something like that. Jason, knowing Tim couldn’t hear him, had made it easy to communicate. They were both trained in lip-reading for situations like this, and Jason only had to slow down his talking when he wasn’t wearing his helmet. Of course, Tim had declined. He didn’t want Jason to know he lived in his parents’ manor. Didn’t want him to know where that was, either. But considering it was Jason, he probably already did. The worst part was, Tim didn’t know who he’d be if he accepted any more help from him. It was already overwhelming enough.

Everything was.

Tim had never expected to run into the League in the first place. And what was even stranger: How did Bruce not know this? The dark knight, always ten steps ahead, the greatest detective of all time, had no idea the mission could be related to the League of Assassins? One of the deadliest organizations known to them? That felt… off. Normally, Tim would never question Bruce like this. The man had enough on his plate already, and Tim was more than capable of doing his own research. But this time? Something about it didn’t sit right. Maybe it was because of what Jason had said before they parted ways.

“You really thought this was just a recon op?” Jason had asked, furrowing his brows.
“C’mon. B knows this area better than anyone. He sent you in here alone? Either he’s slipping, or he wanted you to fall.”

Tim hadn’t been able to shake that doubt. Even now, his mind kept replaying the words over and over. His chest felt tight.

“No,” Tim had said, his voice unsteady but sure. “He wouldn’t.”

But a small part of him wondered if maybe Jason was right. He refused to even entertain that thought. Bruce was still Bruce. He had to be.

Maybe it was just another one of Bruce’s tests. The kind of tests that made Tim question everything, what was real, what was a setup, what was serious and what wasn’t. Who to trust, and who to keep at arm’s length. But then… maybe Bruce trusted him enough to leave something serious like this in his hands. But if that was the case, why lie and say Penguin was behind it? Tim couldn’t bring himself to believe his mentor was this wrong about something.

The whole thing had felt off from the start. Tim had dug into the trade-offs, but everything came up blank. The fact that he couldn’t find a single lead meant these weren’t your average goons working for Penguin. Yet, Tim trusted Bruce’s judgment.

But there was no use racking his brain over it. He’d have to ask Bruce himself, later.

Tim forced himself to push the thoughts of B aside, knowing it wouldn’t help to dwell on it now. There were too many unanswered questions, too much uncertainty in the air. He needed a moment to breathe, to get his bearings. But the silence, the way it clung to everything, made that harder than he expected.

And then, before he could get too lost in his head, Danny appeared in front of him.

He rambled like his usual self, and Tim caught a totally subdued version of his voice, but couldn’t understand a single word. His brain tried to catch up, tried to lip-read, but the exhaustion weighed too heavily on him. Danny was speaking fast, and Tim could barely piece together more than a few words. Something about “home” and “believe.” It wasn’t enough to figure out what Glowstick was trying to say, but he didn’t have the energy to ask.

Danny froze the moment Tim stepped further into view. His green eyes widened in shock, his hand rising almost instinctively to clutch the fabric over his chest, as if trying to keep his heart from spilling out. Tim stared back at him, at this menace, this boy who had burst into his life with no warning, someone who defied every logical explanation, who still didn’t make sense in any way. A person who had no place in his reality, a not-real figure he convinced himself every day was just an illusion.

Not real, not real. Impossible to be real.

And in that very moment, as the silence hung heavy between them, Tim realized something that shook him to his core. Despite everything, despite the confusion, despite the doubt, Danny had always been there. Not in the literal sense, but in the way that mattered most: When Tim had no one, when he was drowning in the noise of his own mind, Danny was there to catch him from falling too far. A tether to something more than just darkness.

Tim swayed on the spot, his sense of balance thrown off by the loss of hearing. The world tilted, and just as he was about to steady himself with one hand against the wall, two cool arms wrapped around him. Tim blinked, disoriented. It only took Danny a second to appear right in front of him, materializing like a ghost, pulling him close with both arms in a calming, cooling embrace. Hugs used to freak Tim out. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to them, maybe because they scared him—scared him that he’d get used to this, to the warmth, to the closeness, only to have it ripped away. But this time? This time, it felt different. It felt… familiar. In a way that made Tim’s chest ache, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. This wasn’t just comfort. This was safe.

How was it possible for Danny to feel so real? The taller boy pressed against him felt solid, soothing, grounding. Tim’s mind spiraled as he realized how natural it felt. How right. The cool from Danny’s body seeped into his. It wasn’t just the physical closeness. It was the way his body seemed to fit so perfectly against Danny’s, like they were two halves of a whole, like he was meant to be here, in this moment. Like he was made for this, for Danny. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to recognize before—this deep sense of belonging.

And all of a sudden, the emotional and physical exhaustion of the last few hours, hell, the last few weeks, came crashing down on him, as if everything had been building up to this single, overwhelming moment. His brain seemed to shut off, his heart caving inward, and his body giving in to the weight of it all. Tim’s limbs turned heavy, sluggish, too weak to hold him up any longer. He fully slumped against the white-haired boy, the last of his strength draining away.

Danny was solid, steady and strong. His embrace tightened, as if he were a anchoring Tim to something real (How ironic). He moved effortlessly, holding Tim’s weight with ease, like a boulder in a river that refused to be swept away. Danny’s arms slipped under Tim’s pits, his hands pressing firmly against his back, pulling him in closer, grounding him in a way Tim hadn’t even known he needed.

“Sorry, Glowstick. Whatever you wanted to tell me… it’ll have to wait a bit. My hearing’s kinda messed up right now.” Tim mumbled, his face buried against Danny’s shoulder. He tried to sound lighthearted, like it wasn’t a big deal. But even without hearing himself, the way Danny flinched told him he’d failed. Danny just hugged him tighter. So tight it made it hard to breathe, but somehow still not tight enough. Not enough to chase away the storm inside Tim.

At least, here, in this moment, Tim didn’t have to worry about holding himself up. Didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. The crushing weight of stress, the pain, the shock that still sat deep in his bones. It all felt like it could finally slip away. He could let go.

So, Tim closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Danny smelled like... the ocean. Not the warm, sun-soaked ocean of summer vacations, but something colder—crisp, electric, like the ozone right before a storm, or the quiet hush that falls just before the world goes still. It was a chill that tingled against his skin but never quite bit. A clean, vast nothingness, like the sea in winter, biting cold, endless, and alive. Maybe it wasn’t just a smell. Maybe it was more a feeling, a presence that wrapped around him like the cold, wild sea itself.

He felt Danny gently lower them both to the ground, shifting into a more comfortable position without ever loosening his hold. Tim stayed close, following Danny’s lead as he sank down onto his knees, eyes still closed, half draped over the taller boy.

Danny’s scent shifted suddenly, surprisingly. It was warmer now, like pinewood bathed by sunlight, earthy and clean. Like fresh forest air. There was that slightly resinous note, the kind that clings to your clothes and hair after a long day outside, with just the faintest hint of vanilla woven in. Not overpowering, just soft and comforting. Honestly? Danny smelled like... home.

Tim was surprised by his own thoughts. That scent was so familiar, yet just out of reach, like a book on a high shelf you can’t quite grab, or the name of a song that slips away no matter how hard you try to remember. Strange, confusing, and somehow comforting all at once.

But it wasn’t just the scent that had changed. Danny’s clothes now felt softer against Tim’s skin. Bigger, looser and just overall… different.

Tim blinked open his eyes with effort. The first thing he noticed was what wasn’t there. The faint, familiar green glow that usually surrounded Danny. It was dark around them; Tim hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights after he got home. Only the pale moonlight filtered softly through the foyer, casting long shadows.

He glanced up, surprised to see Danny resting his head on Tim’s shoulder. The boy looked different, drastically so. The glow was gone, and though the dim light made details hard to make out, Danny’s usual stark white hair was now… black? Or maybe a deep brown. Tim couldn’t quite tell.

Actually, that shouldn’t have surprised him. His usual hallucinations shifted appearance all the time. Danny wasn’t even someone Tim knew—someone he’d hallucinate because he missed them like his parents, or Connor, or even Jason. So there was no reason Danny should have a fixed look at all. Still, it felt weird, why change now?

But who cared? It was still Danny.

Tim was probably just draped against the floor, imagining the whole hug for comfort anyway. Even so, he wanted to stay in this moment a little longer. To savor the feeling of being cared for, even if only briefly. And if that meant ignoring everything that didn’t quite make sense in his mind… so be it.

Even without being able to hear him, Tim could tell Danny was saying something—maybe to him, maybe to himself. The low rumble in Danny’s chest and throat gave it away. At first, it was almost like a cat purring, comforting and grounding. But then that sound shifted, twisted into something sadder. A hitch in his breath, a trembling in his shoulder… and was his shoulder getting wet?

Danny was crying, wasn’t he?

Tim tried to push himself up, to look at Danny, but he wouldn’t let him. Instead, Tim stayed pressed flush against the now surprisingly warm, trembling body of the sobbing boy. Danny’s hands were clenched so tightly into Tim’s costume it had to be painful. He was shaking. Shaking like he was barely holding himself together.

The sudden realization made his heart drop into his stomach. The raw weight of it hit Tim like a punch. Because Danny, the Danny who was always cracking jokes, the smirking, teasing light in his darkest moments he’d come to know, was crying. Real, honest tears. Silent, but shattering.

And it hurt. The pain in Tim’s chest was sharp and raw, an ache he couldn’t ignore.

“Why are you crying? Are you hurt?” Tim asked, his voice probably too quiet to catch. Or maybe louder than he meant. It was hard to tell without hearing himself properly.

He felt Danny shake his head, the trembling still there.

“Then, what’s wrong?” It almost surprised Tim himself how quickly his mind shifted from everything wrong with him to worrying about Danny. Why was he crying? Why was he shaking like that? Why was he clutching Tim so tightly he wouldn’t even look at him? And why did it unsettle Tim so deeply, rattling something fragile inside him?

“Danny?”

Danny finally reacted to Tim’s question, leaning back just enough to break the weight of the hug, although reluctantly, as if letting go was its own kind of pain. They remained on the floor, breath mingling in the cool night air, close enough for Tim to feel the faintest tremor of Danny’s breath against his skin. Slowly, Danny reached for Tim’s hand, his fingers wrapping around it with a careful gentleness. Then, with his other hand, he traced the edge of Tim’s glove between two fingers, hesitating. Waiting. For permission, Tim realized, without a word spoken.

The shadows and the wild fall of Danny’s hair hid most of his face, but the tears, oh, the tears, caught the moonlight like tiny shattered stars, glittering and breaking his breath in two. Tim’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of Danny’s quiet sorrow, his mouth going dry as he bit down on his lip harder than he meant to. That fragile, beautiful vulnerability rattled something deep inside him, something raw and unspoken. Then, with a slow, shaky nod, Tim gave his answer. A silent yes.

Danny slowly, gently, oh so gently, slipped Tim’s glove from his hand. He cradled it like something breakable, then brought his pointer finger to Tim’s bare palm, steadying it with the lightest pressure of his other hand.

“I’m okay.”

The words traced across Tim’s skin like a whisper, delicate and warm. He swallowed hard, a wave of relief crashing through him so sudden it made him dizzy. Danny wasn’t hurt. Danny was safe.

“Then why…?”

Danny kept tracing words onto his palm, each letter slow and deliberate. It tickled just a little and Tim almost flinched, but there was something about it that made him stay completely still. The touch was light but quietly sacred. Like something meant only for them.

“Just sad.”

Tim blinked, confusion curling tight in his chest.

“Why?” He knew his voice was uneven, too loud maybe. He couldn’t hear it, but he could feel the edge in his own words.

Danny didn’t pause.

“For you.”

Tim’s breath caught. He stared down at Danny’s fingers, frozen in place, as if the meaning might shift if he blinked wrong.

“What do you mean?”

Danny still didn’t meet his eyes. But the hand that had written words into Tim’s palm only moments ago drifted upward, brushing gently over a cut on Tim’s arm. The bleeding had already stopped, scabbed over. Nthing serious, nothing worth worrying about. But Danny’s hand kept moving. It ghosted over the places where the Robin suit had been singed, fabric curled and blackened, exposing the raw, blistered skin underneath. Not life-threatening. Not really. But still—enough to make Danny’s touch falter. And finally, his hand hovered beside Tim’s ear. His fingers hesitated there, before brushing ever so lightly against the curve of his ear, just along the delicate edge. The touch sent a shiver down his spine.

Yeah… well. That part, he really couldn’t talk down. Not even in his own head.

Danny took his hand again, gentle as ever, and traced out a new question on his palm:

“What happened?”

Tim’s fingers twitched under the touch as Danny finished the last letter. The silence around him felt deafening. Not literal silence, not with that ever-present buzz still drilling into his skull since the explosion. But it was quiet in the way that mattered. Empty. He exhaled. Detached.

“What can I say? Got careless. The ‘easy mission’ went south. Ambushed by the League. Walked into a surprise explosion, lost my hearing. No intel recovered, no evidence gathered. Mission was a bust.”

It came out like a debriefing. Cold. Mechanical.

But somehow… that seemed like the wrong move.

Danny didn’t write anything else. He just shook his head after Tim’s so-called mission report and looked him in the eyes, really looked, and the sadness there was worse than any words could’ve been. He didn’t need to say a thing. Just that gaze, steady and quiet and aching, was enough to make something in Tim begin to splinter.

He tried to patch over the silence, voice tight. "It wasn’t that bad. Stuff like this happens all the time."

That, apparently, was even worse. Danny’s expression shifted, sorrow giving way to something sharper. Not fury. Not even frustration. Just… hurt. Disbelief. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Messy, irritated, and then stood.

He didn’t look at Tim again.

Tim felt the absence immediately. The moment Danny stepped away, the cold returned like a wave crashing over him, settling into his bones. He sat alone on the floor, suddenly too aware of how empty the room felt without that quiet point of contact between them. He couldn’t stop staring after Danny, watching him move with quiet purpose toward—what? The kitchen?

Tim didn’t want to move. His body ached, legs stiff and weak like pudding, pins and needles crawling up from where he’d been sitting too long. But he pushed himself to his feet anyway.

Because he had to follow. He didn’t know why, exactly. Only that sitting still felt wrong now.

And there was Danny. Somehow, he’d already turned on the kitchen light. In the warm glow, his hair looked fully black now, no trace of its usual otherworldly white shine. He stood there in a plain black hoodie and worn jeans, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times. He looked... normal. Startlingly normal. Like any teenager making tea after a long day. Tea?

Tim blinked, uncertain. The whole thing felt bizarrely domestic. Comforting, even. But also so far removed from the battlefield chaos in his head that he didn’t quite know what to do with it.

He sat down heavily, feeling his grip on reality loosen, unravel bit by bit. It wasn’t long before a warm mug was set carefully in front of him. Without hesitation, he lifted it and took a sip, the heat steadying him more than he expected. Danny had grabbed Tim’s pen and the small notebook he usually used for grocery lists, and now he was writing something down. Tim glanced at the words and felt his chest tighten once again.

“You don’t have to earn being cared for.”

Even though those words ran counter to everything Tim believed about himself, he gave a small, slow nod. They almost didn’t seem to reach his brain, or otherwise he would fully blank out by the meaning of them.

His eyes stayed on Danny’s hand as it moved again, writing quietly:

“Tell me everything?”

So he did.

Chapter Text

Danny almost couldn’t watch. But he had to. His eyes were glued to Tim, who sat at the edge of the bathtub, letting water run steadily over the burns on his side. In some places, the fabric had melted into his skin and god, that had to hurt like hell. Danny winced, his stomach twisting at the sight. Tim didn’t even flinch. His hands were steady as he cut away the costume where it clung to him, methodically cleaning the burns with saline once the worst of it was rinsed. Danny watched in quiet horror as Tim used long tweezers to peel away the fabric from his skin. Every time a fresh trickle of blood ran down his skin, something in Danny’s core ached—deep and sharp, like it had that first night, in Tim’s hidden little safe room.

He remembered it clearly, the strange pull in his chest the time he saw Tim up close after all this time. That boy, crouched on top of the safe like a cornered animal, trying to make himself smaller than he was. His eyes, shadowed by dark circles, glowed faintly in the light of the monitors. Delicate features bathed in blue. And those eyes, those deep, velvet-blue eyes, the kind only storybook royalty could have, stared at him like he was a ghost. They reminded Danny of the ocean at night. Vast. Mysterious. Drowning in exhaustion. His chest had ached then, too. A pulse in his core that wasn’t quite pain. It was something else. Something sharp and tender and urgent.

And yet… it had been calm. His core, that was always humming, always aching, always missing something, had gone quiet for the first time in years. He’d grown used to its restless fluctuations, to the sharp stabs of yearning and the ever-present sensation that something was missing. But then there was Tim. Tim, who didn’t tell him to leave. Who didn’t demand explanations. Who didn’t throw him out (not that he could, really). They talked. They joked. Danny’s heart had hammered in his chest the entire time, but somehow, he’d felt like he was finally home. Like the journey was over. He tried to act normal, calm, witty, snarky. His usual self. But inside? Inside was a storm. A riot of emotions.

And even if Tim didn’t believe he was real, even if he looked right through him, just seeing him was enough. Enough to make Danny feel whole again. Enough to stop his core from fracturing at the edges. Enough to quiet that endless ache inside him.

Tim was his.

What he needed. What he wanted.

And Danny wouldn’t let this slip away. Not again. Never again. Still, the way Tim’s eyes passed through him, unfocused and unsure, without the warmth Danny so desperately craved, it stung more than he wanted to admit. He should’ve been used to it by now. But by the end of that first night, he’d come dangerously close to falling apart all over again. The urge to get closer… to touch him… to crawl inside his soul and wrap himself around Tim’s very essence, it was overwhelming. Scary. And wrong.

Danny decided to approach him slowly. He didn’t want to give in to the intensity clawing at his chest, this burning desire to be close, to touch, to just exist in Tim’s orbit. He couldn’t risk scaring him off. No. If this was going to work, he’d do it the human way. Patient. Gentle.

So, for the first few days, all he did was watch.

Tim still had the same routine. Habits. Comforts so familiar that Danny memorized them like scripture. He always had something in his hands: a stylus, a screwdriver, a tablet, an R-shaped throwing star. His hands were never still. He brewed expensive tea leaves with ritualistic precision, only to forget about them and drink the cup ice-cold hours later. He’d curl up in the strangest places: behind the couch, beneath the table, inside closets. Like a cat retreating from the world, watching everything without truly being in it. The TV was always on, even when Tim wasn’t watching. A quiet hum to fill the void. He didn’t sleep until his body gave up entirely.

He mumbled to himself when he worked, his voice low and rough with exhaustion. And when he was deep in thought, he’d tuck his hair behind his ear—a motion so absentminded, but Danny couldn’t stop staring. The way it revealed the pale stretch of his neck, the delicate skin, the little mole just beneath his ear. That mole. And the one under his left eye. Danny had memorized their exact placements like stars in a private constellation only he was allowed to chart. Tim looked like a painting. A masterpiece no one else seemed to notice. Even the way his long, slender fingers curled around his mug was so effortlessly elegant. The way he bit his lip when typing, or his nails when nervous, graceful, even in his nervous tics.

Anyway…

The thing he loved most about Timothy Jackson Drake was his laugh. Danny found himself seeking it out everywhere, throwing jokes his way just to catch a flicker of a chuckle, a smile, anything. Even the smallest twitch at the corner of Tim’s lips sent a rush through Danny’s chest like a sun-drenched summer afternoon on the beach, warm and golden and fleeting. If Tim was happy, then Danny was happy.

But what mattered most was simply being there for him. The panic attack, the one where Tim called his name in the dark, voice trembling with hurt, nearly broke Danny in two. He had never flown faster in his existence, arriving just in time to see Tim collapsed on the floor, sweat clinging to his skin, body shaking violently, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his face, pain etched into every line. It tore through Danny’s core, a jagged ache.

It was the second worst feeling in the world. In that moment, Danny felt his very essence tremble, his ghostly form flickering, phasing in and out like a fading flame. His core screamed in silent agony, a raw, aching wound no amount of time could heal. He never wanted to see Tim like this again. Every fiber of his being reached out for him, desperate to pull him back from the edge, to catch the shattered pieces. He wanted nothing more than to see Tim smile, to hear that laugh again, to feel that warmth spread like sunlight through the cold darkness. His entire existence hung on Tim’s happiness.

Tim was so clearly guarded, shields up, walls high. And simultaneously so achingly lonely, carrying his grief like a heavy weight, refusing to lean on anyone, determined to wrestle his demons alone. Danny didn’t want him to face that darkness by himself. He longed to show Tim that he didn’t have to be alone—that he was there. And though Danny ached to hover over Tim every moment of every day, to be a constant presence, he knew that might overwhelm him. Maybe it would scare him. And God, that was the last thing Danny ever wanted. So instead, he held back, tried taming the storm inside, waiting for the moment Tim might let him in.

Sometimes, just watching Tim wasn’t enough. Danny left him alone while he worked, while he patrolled the city, while the weight of school stress pressed down on him. But even from afar, hidden beneath the veil of invisibility, Danny kept watch. He’d secretly drape a blanket over Tim’s shoulders when he found him asleep on the floor again, before slipping back to his own worn-down apartment to rest. He made him tea. Bought energy drinks and stocked the fridge. Prepared breakfast. Lowered the volume on the TV so it wouldn’t wake him. Sometimes, he’d take a threadbare T-shirt or hoodie Tim had left behind, trail his fingers over the fabric, then bring it up to his face and inhale deeply. Tim’s scent was like balm, so comforting and quietly electrifying, unlocking something deeply satisfying inside Danny. He always wore that same cologne, like fresh air after a rainy night. A hint of cinnamon gum lingered, the one Tim always loved. Sometimes, faint traces of antiseptic and burnt solder remained. Other times it was the subtle aroma of black or herbal tea, never overpowering, but oddly fresh and soothing. No matter what, Tim smelled like home.

Danny got used to Tim far too fast. He always found himself near him, the only place where his restless core finally quieted. Even when he knew he shouldn’t be there, he couldn’t help himself.

It almost felt like… Tim was haunting him, not the other way around. Danny wanted more. Wanted to close the gap between them, to bridge the invisible wall Tim kept up. It didn’t really matter whether Tim believed he was real or just a hallucination.

For hours, Danny mulled it over, should he reveal his human form to Tim? He didn’t know how Tim would react. Would it scare him off? Would it shatter the fragile bond they’d built? That bond Danny worked so hard to protect.

Tim always seemed like none of it phased him, like it wouldn’t matter if Danny was there or not. But Danny began to notice the little things. How Tim’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction when he knew Danny was nearby, even if he was invisible. How his breathing smoothed, evened out. How his hands steadied, just slightly. How his expressions softened, ever so faintly. That had to mean something, right? It wasn’t that Tim didn’t care, he was just aloof. Always had been. And Danny clung to that hope every time Tim dismissed him after a failed joke. Or when he shooed him away like he was no more than a fly on the wall of his living room. Danny had to make a difference in Tim’s life. Because somewhere beneath that indifferent mask, Tim cared more than he let on.

One night, he wasn’t supposed to come back. Tim had told him not to hover. Said he needed space—which, fair. Normal people wanted space. But Danny wasn’t normal. His core had other plans. He lasted two hours. Maybe three. Long enough to pretend he was trying. Long enough for the ache to set in. It was always worse at night. Worse when he couldn’t see Tim. Worse when he didn’t know if he was safe. Even now, even when Tim didn’t reciprocate it, Danny still orbited him like gravity had forgotten how to let go. And God, the worst part? Tim let him. He let this stranger haunt him, sit beside him, speak in soft jokes and quieter silences, and never questioned it. He never questioned it. Like some part of him knew.

In the end, it truly paid off. Every slow blink from Tim, those long lashes fluttering, made him more beautiful than anyone Danny had ever seen. Every small smile, every quiet call for him, just to share a moment of small talk, was a silent thank you. And in those fleeting moments, Danny saw the appreciation Tim couldn’t quite say aloud. It was worth every second of doubting himself.

Tim showed him his trust that one night by telling Danny about Jason. How Jason had tried to kill him just for stepping up when no one else would. Attacked him for his bravery, his self-sacrifice.

Danny’s blood boiled.

So fiercely, he almost shattered everything he’d built between them in those past weeks. He scared Tim so badly that the trained vigilante backed away, and that sent an icy chill through Danny’s core sharper than any knife. After that, Danny forced himself to stay calm around Tim. He made sure to announce his presence before approaching, a subtle cough, an intentional audible step (even though floating was far easier), and sometimes just a simple knock, like a normal person. He didn’t want to scare Tim anymore. Tim was precious, something fragile deep inside, something Danny needed to hold with care.

Still, Danny wanted to do something. He wanted to make Jason pay, but on his own terms. He knew Tim would never forgive him if he actually laid a hand on Jason. Somehow, Tim still held a flicker of admiration for the man who tried to kill him, and that thought drove Danny absolutely insane. So instead, he did what ghosts do best: he haunted Jason. Danny worked his usual shifts during the day, but now, instead of spending every free moment watching over Tim, he dedicated some of that time to his quiet revenge. His nights, though, those belonged solely to Tim.

It started harmless enough. Danny followed Jason, tracked down every safehouse, and began rearranging his weapons, hiding his helmet here, moving a knife there. Then, he turned to messing with the electricity, making lights flicker just enough to unsettle him. Knocks on windows and walls echoed through the night, floorboards creaked. Just enough to seed paranoia. To make Jason think someone was really messing with him. Or maybe that he was haunted by a ghost. Which, of course, he was. Danny also targeted Jason’s electronics: his phone, laptop, even the TV. Static bursts, random Spotify songs playing without any input.

Then one evening, Danny crossed a line he usually forbade himself: he possessed Jason. Just for a moment. Only to make him look utterly ridiculous in front of his gang. With a smirk, Danny forced Jason to blurt out, “I wet myself every night until I was 16.” Danny couldn’t help but laugh afterwards. Messing with Red Hood’s reputation? Absolutely priceless.

On some nights, Danny wanted to get a little more sinister and really rattle Jason’s nerves. Just as Jason lay down to sleep, Danny would whisper right into his ear, invisible and silent: “Boy wonder.” Jason never slept well after that. And for Danny, that restless night was more satisfying than any loud scare. It wasn’t enough to make Jason truly pay for what he did to Tim, but it was a start.

But haunting Jason made Danny’s schedule even more demanding. Between work, haunting, and visiting Tim, there was barely any time left to sleep. He stopped visiting Tim during patrols to rest. Checking in after Tim’s return was the least he could do. Danny trusted Tim, trusted his skills enough to believe he was fine alone. After all, he’d seen Robin fight; his heart still jumped every time. Tim was graceful, skilled, and careful.

Until he wasn’t.

Danny felt wrongness crawl under his skin that night. Sleep fled him, replaced by a cold shiver crawling through his core. At first, it was just a flicker, a ripple, like static under his skin. Then the cold came. Not the familiar chill of the Ghost Zone, but sharp, biting ice locking his lungs. He gripped the edge of his bed so hard the wood cracked. He didn’t know why, but deep inside, his ghost core screamed:

Find him. Now.

 He didn’t even have to ask who. The panic wasn’t logical. It wasn’t rational. It didn’t need to be. His body moved before his mind caught up, intangible one second and breaking the sound barrier the next. His breath came shallow. The wind howled in his ears. There was no signal, no clue, no coordinates. Just the gut-deep certainty that something happened to Tim. His Tim.

Danny searched for what felt like hours, aimlessly drifting through Gotham’s shadows. Panic twisted tight in his chest, sharp and unreasonable. He knew if Tim just called his name, if Tim called Danny, it would be like a summoning spell, pulling him in without fail. But Tim didn’t. And Danny was lost, desperate, clueless what to do next.

In the end, he flew back to the manor and waited. Waited for Tim to come back from a mission, patrol, whatever it was. Restless, Danny paced every room, phasing through walls, scanning rooftops, sweeping the skyline. Time passed in slow motion, his core buzzing with restless, useless energy. No signal. No trace. No heartbeat in the shadows. Just silence.

Until finally, finally, Robin stepped through the front entrance.

“Finally you’re home!” Danny breathed, relief crashing over him like tidal waves. “You wouldn’t believe how worried I was! I searched the entire city for you Timmy! God, I’m so glad you’re—”

But Tim didn’t respond. No greeting, no teasing retort, no tired smile, no dismissive wave. Not even a flicker of recognition. The lights stayed off, swallowed by shadows.

“Tim? Are you okay? Did something happen? Please tell me you’re okay.” His voice cracked, desperation clawing its way through. Still nothing.

Tim moved deeper into the foyer, and as the pale moonlight fell over him, Danny’s heart seized.

He looked like a ghost, a hollow shell of the boy he knew. Blood crusted his temple, his uniform torn and scorched, a jagged burn crawling up his side like a cruel reminder that someone tried to erase him. Tim didn’t say a word. He did look at Danny. But it felt more like he was looking through him. He walked, slow, mechanical, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that he was home.

Danny couldn’t breathe.

His core surged—hot with panic, cold with guilt. His instincts had screamed, and he still hadn’t made it in time. He should’ve pushed harder, flown faster, ripped through the city if he had to.

He should’ve protected him. Tim’s eyes were empty. Not angry. Not scared. Just... gone. Like all the light had been scraped out of him and left behind with the blood on his boots. Danny’s hand curled into a fist as he grabbed the fabric over his heart. His fingers crackled faintly with ghost energy he didn’t even realize he was calling.

He wanted to kill whoever did this.

He wanted to hold Tim together with both hands and never let him leave again.

As Tim swayed, threatening to collapse, Danny’s body moved before his brain could catch up. He pulled Tim into a fierce hug, holding him tight, too tight escape, even if Tim wanted to. It wasn’t just the injuries. No, it was something deeper. That haunted look in Tim’s eyes would stay with Danny for a while.

“Sorry, Glowstick,” he started, “Whatever you wanted to say… it’ll have to wait. My hearing’s kinda messed up right now.”

Oh. That’s why Tim hadn’t said a word. Why he hadn’t answered a single question. Tim… he couldn’t hear Danny. In this moment, his heart sank. A cold stab of fear sliced through his chest, nothing like the usual adrenaline or ghost instincts. This was different. More primal. The kind of fear that settles in your bones and never let’s go. His breath hitched. His core pulsed hard, offbeat, wrong. He didn’t even notice the tears until they soaked Tim’s shoulder. Didn’t care that his fingers flickered unstable, slipping between phases. All he could do was hold the person he’d nearly torn the city apart trying to find.

He felt so… so helpless.

They slumped to the ground together, tangled in silence. Danny shifted his form without thinking, slipping into something more solid, more real. He felt unsteady, dangerously close to unraveling. This, at least, was safer. But Tim… Tim acted like none of it mattered. Didn’t react to the change at all.

His voice, calm and clipped as he rattled off his report, was like needles piercing Danny’s heart, detached, cold, clinical. All wrong.

And then something else flared inside Danny: anger. Not at Tim. No, he wasn’t sure he could ever be angry at him, but at how recklessly Tim treated himself. How he buried his pain like it was nothing. It hurt Danny more than he ever let on.

The only thing he could do now was to be there for Tim. He prepared made him tea, the steam curling up like a quiet promise, and listened as Tim’s voice cracked through the story, each word weighted with exhaustion. When it was time, he gently guided him to clean the wounds.

“Everything else can wait until tomorrow. No reports, no Batman. Just… go to sleep. Please?” He scribbled on the paper.

Tim was reluctant, but he nodded. They moved quietly to his bedroom together. Then, like a fragile truce with the world, he helped Tim settle into bed, the only place Tim wanted to be right now. Danny knew Tim didn’t actually sleep much here; the idiot was more likely to crash anywhere else during the day. Once, he’d caught him napping under the grand piano. It had looked ridiculous… and a little bit endearing.

Tim crawled under the duvet sluggishly, careful not to irritate the burns he’d wrapped earlier. Danny sat quietly at the edge of the bed, wanting nothing more than to watch over him all night, make sure he stayed calm, that panic wouldn’t sneak back in, that maybe, just maybe, Tim would finally get some rest. But he knew Tim needed space. Always did after something big. He took comfort only to pull away later. Danny accepted that… sort of. Still, the ache of wanting to be closer, to stay right there beside him, tugged quietly at his chest. If Tim didn’t see him, maybe it wouldn’t matter if he stayed and watched from the shadows. He just had to leave the room and phase through a little later, though part of him wished he didn’t have to go at all.

Danny hovered one hand over Tim’s forehead, hesitant to break the fragile quiet between them. When Tim looked up with those tired, worn eyes, eyes that somehow held just a little more life than before, it was like a silent permission. Danny’s hand came to rest on Tim’s forehead, then slowly, his fingers brushed through the dark strands of his hair. It was unexpectedly soft, finer than he’d remembered, like silk slipping between his fingertips. The gentle warmth of Tim’s skin beneath his palm made Danny’s heart flutter, nervous but desperate to offer comfort. Tim’s eyes closed. Danny kept his hand there, stroking with slow, careful movements, afraid to disturb the fragile peace. The room was still, no TV tonight, because Tim wouldn’t hear it anyway. Just the soft rhythm of their breathing and the distant hum of cars drifting through the quiet night.

After a few minutes, Danny decided it was time to let Tim rest. But just as he began to pull away, a slender hand gently curled around his own, soft and hesitant. Danny’s heart stuttered.

He looked back, meeting Tim’s gaze, quiet, steady, holding him there, not ready to let go.

Tim.

In that fragile moment, Danny felt the ache of wanting to hold him close again, to hold him tight, slow, like time could stretch and pause just for them. But he stayed still, letting the silence speak between their fingertips, savoring the gentle warmth, the soft pulse beneath his palm, and the quiet steady rhythm of being right here, together.

“Stay.” Tim murmured into the duvet, voice barely more than a breath. Danny swallowed, his throat tight with something fierce, and nodded. He slipped quietly under the covers beside him. The bed was king-sized, more than enough space for two, but they needed none of it. They settled close, practically sharing the same side. Tim lay on his back, eyes closed, looking oddly peaceful. Danny turned onto his side, watching him with a careful gaze. His hand reached out beneath the covers, fingers trembling as they brushed Tim’s fingertips, testing, hoping. Tim didn’t pull away. Gently, Danny intertwined their fingers, leaving room for Tim to get away at any moment. Tim squeezed back, a quiet pulse of warmth that sent a spark through Danny’s core. He felt everything at once, warmth, worry, guilt, but above all, a quiet joy that bloomed deep inside. Sleep felt impossible now, but it didn’t matter. Danny was content just to watch him, to hold this moment and keep it locked away in his memory forever. Just the two of them, wrapped in their own quiet world. And in that stillness, Danny wished, that it could always be like this.

Chapter Text

When Tim woke up, he knew instantly that he’d slept in. It was the first good night’s sleep he’d had in… too long. Yesterday, he’d gone to bed dreading (hoping) that he might see his parents in his dreams. But he didn’t. And now, he was glad. He knew he’d dreamed something. Couldn’t remember what. One of those dreams that slips through your fingers the second you open your eyes. Soft, distant, comforting. The kind that leaves warmth behind, even when the details are gone. All he knew was that it made him feel safe. Loved. Held.

His eyelids stuck together, heavy with sleep. He didn’t want to open them. He didn’t need to open them to know Danny was there. Still beside him. Still holding his hand just like how they’d fallen asleep. The only difference was: Danny felt cold again. That same ghost-cold that reminded Tim, with quiet finality, that Danny wasn’t real. Not like him. Not warm. Not human.

And yet something felt off. Despite the comfort of waking up rested. Despite the rare gift of sleeping for hours without jolting awake in a cold sweat. Something was wrong. Danny’s hand squeezed his a little too tightly. A little too restlessly. Tim’s gut twisted. What time was it? Still morning, or already noon?

He shot upright, eyes snapping open like someone had slapped him. His heart plummeted to his stomach. God. He should’ve known. He never should’ve let Danny’s quiet comfort lull him like that. Never should’ve used it as an excuse to slack off.

Bruce was standing in front of him. In his room. In his home. His safe haven. Not in costume—just Bruce. Civilian Bruce. The sun was already up, so of course he wasn’t wearing the cowl.

Tim really should’ve seen this coming. Bruce never knocked if he was on a mission. He was the kind of man who just appeared in your room like a shadow. No footsteps, no warning, no alarms tripped. Not that Tim would’ve heard him anyway. He’d nearly forgotten. The ringing in his ears had dulled overnight, but his hearing hadn’t returned. The reminder hit him as he watched Bruce’s lips move and heard nothing.

Fuck.

He always followed the rules. Stay at the manor. Stay reachable. Show up for debrief. He always did everything right. Except last night. Last night, when everything went wrong. When he hesitated. When he froze. When he broke down. Was Bruce here to punish him? Was this it? The part where he lost everything? One word about his hearing loss would do it, he just knew.

Tim’s heart was hammering in his chest. Bruce was saying something. His mouth moved, slow and serious but Tim couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t read his lips, either. His vision was still too blurry. Or maybe he just didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to hear whatever lecture or reprimand was coming. His ears rang with that high, piercing whine. He rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers, trying to make it stop. Trying to breathe. The room felt smaller. Like the walls were closing in. Like there was nowhere to go.

What if… what if this was it?

What if Bruce had finally had enough? Was it because of last night? Because he didn’t report in? Because he saw Jason and said nothing? Was this the moment he got benched, no, terminated? Was Bruce going to take the suit? The name? Would he rip it all away and tell him he was never supposed to be Robin in the first place? Just a fill-in. A convenient stand-in. A mistake? He couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t afford to lose the one thing that tethered him to Bruce, to the only person he almost called family, even if Bruce never said it back. Never called him his son. If he lost Robin… what would he have left?

What else was he even good for?

Maybe he’d revoke guardianship. Maybe he’d leave Tim to rot in Gotham’s broken system. Dump him in some cold foster home like an unwanted nuisance. Because he was, wasn’t he? Just another orphan with delusions of mattering. One misstep away from being disposable. From being just another file in the Batcomputer marked failed. Bruce hadn’t even adopted him yet. He’d said, “When you’re ready,” but Tim always knew what that really meant. He wasn’t enough. Not like Dick. Not like Jason. Just a placeholder, a backup, a contingency plan in combat boots.

The ringing in Tim’s ears grew louder. Louder. Until it drowned out everything. His vision blurred. His fingers went numb. Each heartbeat hurt. Throbbing behind his eyes, in his ribs, like his body was punishing him for still trying. There wasn’t enough air. The oxygen in the room was gone…gone. His breathing hitched, then spiraled into something uneven, ragged, wrong. Every inhale burned. Every exhale felt useless. He was slipping. Losing focus. Losing himself. His hands were shaking. When had that started? Why couldn’t he stop? Without realizing it, he dug his nails into his arms hard. Anything to anchor himself, to stay here. He zeroed in on one of the cuts from last night, pressing into it, welcoming the sting. Pain was better than floating. Pain was real.

There was something tugging at him—an invisible hand, gentle but persistent, trying to pull his hands apart. He ignored it. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

The bed felt unstable beneath him, like it was tilting, like he was falling without moving. His brain scrambled for a plan, a contingency, a reason, anything to explain to Bruce what happened. Was he going to yell? No, worse, disappointment. Quiet, measured disappointment that carved deeper than any raised voice ever could. That look that said everything Tim already feared was true.

He wasn’t good enough. He knew he wasn’t good enough. Bruce didn’t even have to say anything and Tim already knew.

A mistake. A fraud.

That’s what Jason had called him once: fraud. He never should’ve put on the cape. Never should’ve followed Bruce into the shadows. This was where it all fell apart. This was the moment Bruce told him to pack it up. Hand over the comm. Stay away. Make space for his real son. The one who came back from the dead. The one who belonged.

He had to say something. But his mouth wouldn’t move. His brain was too loud. Thoughts blared like sirens, chaotic and cruel and spiraling out of control:

You’re not Robin. You were never Robin. You were just convenient.

That word echoed in his skull like a curse. Convenient.

Tim had forced himself into Batman’s world. Shoved his way into the cape, into the cave, into Bruce’s life. He wasn’t chosen, not like his predecessors. Not like Dick. Not like Jason. Batman never handed him the mantle. Dick didn’t either. Jason sure as hell wouldn’t have.

He just… took it. Bruce never agreed to this. Never wanted him there. He accepted him out of necessity. Because Batman needed a Robin. And if Tim couldn’t fill that role perfectly, then he had no right to wear the name at all.

Tim barely registered the shift in the air. The sheets felt colder now, but that could be in his head. Maybe it has always been this cold. Maybe he’s just shaking. His fingers trembled where they clutched his own arm, knuckles white. A breath fogged in the air but he didn’t see it. He was too busy spiraling, too caught in the loop of I messed up. The chill crawls up his spine like it was alive. He didn’t connect it to anything.

Suddenly, a warm touch ripped him from his spiraling thoughts. A hand, firm and big, grasped his own, pulling him away from the bandage he’d been pressing down on. The wound seeped blood beneath his fingers, unnoticed until now. The sudden touch shot like electricity through his muscles, and Tim flinched. He looked up, struggling to focus. Bruce stood there, reaching out. His brows were furrowed; lips slightly parted. He looked… confused.

Tim squinted at the man, trying to focus on his lips, trying to make out what he was saying.

“Robin. Calm down.” Bruce’s said, a voiceless order. A silent reprimand.

Ah.

Tim had been too quiet for too long. Bruce was probably asking him something. Waiting for a report. For an explanation of what happened on the mission yesterday. In that instant, it felt like a switch flipped inside him. The panic didn’t vanish. It didn’t go away. It just retreated deep into the darkest corners of himself. Hidden. Locked away. Because right now, he wasn’t allowed to panic. Right now, he had to report. He had to be Robin. He needed to get himself together. And so he did.

“Targeted observation confirmed weapon transport operation at 0000 hours near the Tricorner docks. Initial intel suggested standard arms smuggling, but on-scene findings contradict. The smuggled items consisted of unidentified vials, likely chemical agents or experimental substances, no ballistic-grade weapons observed. Two vans departed with cargo, entering a previously sealed tunnel system beneath Gotham’s south industrial sector. I proceeded on foot to minimize detection.

“While tracking the convoy, I encountered Red Hood on premises at approximately 0215 hours. Engagement was initiated… by me. Brief physical altercation followed. No lethal force exchanged. Motivation: unresolved hostility, situational stress. Re-“

Bruce was saying something now. His grip on Tim’s hand tightened, growing heavier. His face looked concerned. Well, that made sense. Tim had just admitted he’d attacked Jason. Without Jason throwing the first punch. Obviously, Bruce wouldn’t appreciate Tim kicking his lost son in the groin. Even if Tim hadn’t specified exactly how he’d attacked. Bruce squeezed Tim’s hand again, maybe prompting him to elaborate. But Tim didn’t. He simply finished his report.

“Red Hood claimed independent investigation; stated no involvement in smuggling. Veracity unconfirmed. Further pursuit led to engagement with approximately six League of Assassins operatives in front of tunnel system. Sustained injuries: moderate. Explosion at 0253 hours caused hearing loss. Conscious, responsive. No toxin exposure identified. The smuggling operation is possibly League-backed. Vials remain unaccounted for. Possible evidence got burned.”

Tim exhaled slowly, finishing his report, eyes locked on Bruce’s. He fought to keep his breathing steady, to hide the trembling beneath his skin. The ringing in his ears, the buzzing in his brain, he refused to let any of it show. Show no weakness. That was one lesson Batman had drilled into him.

Bruce’s frown deepened. At least, if Tim’s slightly blurry vision wasn’t playing tricks. Tim focused on Bruce’s lips again, bracing for more questions. This time, the words came clearer, slower and perfect for lip-reading:

“Hearing loss? Tim, why didn’t you come back to the cave? We need you examined.”

Tim shook his head. It was temporary, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to go back to the cave. Didn’t want to risk running into Dick. Dick, whose brother, the one he loved more than anything, he’d attacked just the night before. Didn’t want to face Alfred, who would be disappointed. Didn’t want to spend more time with Bruce if it meant exposing everything wrong with himself.

He just wanted to disappear. To curl into a ball and forget the world. To stay away from everyone and everything. To simply exist.

Bruce said more words, but Tim didn’t have the strength to read them. He closed his eyes. Felt Bruce pull him closer.

He was going to drag him to the cave, wasn’t he? To interrogate him about Jason. To reprimand him for fucking it up. And in his panic, only one thing came to mind:

“You set me up to fail, didn’t you?” Tim blurted it out, voice rough and muffled to his own ears. Too quiet? Too loud? He had no idea.

Bruce froze. His grip faltered.

“You knew this wasn’t about Penguin. Not about weapons. You knew the League was involved.”

Tim couldn’t stop. Couldn’t catch his breath. The words spilled out like shards of broken glass, sharp and cutting, each one tearing at the fragile calm between them.

“You knew it was bigger. That I couldn’t handle it alone. That I’d fail. You wanted me to fail, didn’t you? So you could prove a point and show me I’m not enough.” His voice cracked on the next words, caught in his throat like a bitter pill he couldn’t swallow.

“If Jason hadn’t been there—” He didn’t say the rest.

But he felt it all: the judgment, the disappointment, the inevitable punishment waiting to come crashing down on him. He braced himself. For the scolding. The condemnation. The moment Bruce would tear him apart for saying too much.

And then Batman, Bruce, pulled him in. Tim’s heart stopped.

This is it, he thought. He’s going to drag me to the Cave. Bench me. Fire me. Rip the ‘R’ off my chest and tell me I was never good enough.

He stilled, completely stiff as a board as Bruce pressed him against his chest.

Every nerve was firing at once. What? It wasn’t a shove. Wasn’t restraint. Wasn’t even anger. Bruce was just… holding him. Like he didn’t hate him. Like he wasn’t disappointed. Like he didn’t send him to fail.

He hadn’t even noticed when Bruce had kneeled on his bed. Hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten. He held his breath, caught somewhere between confusion and fear, too stunned to speak, too scared to push away. Before any of it truly registered, Bruce pulled him into a hug.

Again. Yesterday it was Danny. Today, it was Bruce. Bruce, who never gave him more than a squeeze of his shoulder or a ruffle of his hair. Bruce, the distant, grief-stricken man Tim knew, the man who kept his feelings locked away, who sacrificed himself silently, who valued usefulness over emotional closeness.

Tim’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t hear anything. No words, no reassurances, just the roaring white noise in his head and the hammering of his own heart. But the contact was grounding in a way that made his chest ache. Ache like something long frozen was cracking under pressure, like something broken was trying to stitch itself back together. He didn’t move. Not at first. His muscles stayed locked, braced for cold indifference. For the moment Bruce would pull away and pretend this never happened. That’s what he always did, right? When the moment passed. When things got too human.

But Bruce didn’t let go.

His hand stayed steady on Tim’s back, the weight of it unbearable in how gentle it was. Not a command. Not a push. Just… there. Anchoring him. Like he was something worth holding at all. And maybe, maybe Tim didn’t want him to let go.

He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself. Every instinct screamed that this was a glitch in the cold machine of their relationship. A fluke. A moment of weakness Bruce would regret. But he let the hug happen anyway.

Bruce said something and Tim couldn’t tell what. Just a low murmur, more vibration than sound, a hum through the broad chest pressed against him. The weight of it told him Bruce was talking, maybe whispering, but the words were lost to the static still clawing at his hearing. He felt the urge to pull away. To shake this off. To rant, scream, run, anything. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because this. This was the closest he’d ever been to Bruce.

The man had hugged him once. After Jack died. It felt stiff and wrong. Like it had been meant for someone else, someone more his son than Tim ever was. Still, Tim stopped fighting it. Stopped forcing the panic down. He let it hit him all at once. The dread, the guilt, the ache of everything he’d held back. He pressed closer. Melted into Bruce’s chest like it was the only solid thing in the world. His heart raced. His fingers were still numb. His lungs burned with each ragged breath. But Bruce held him through it. Those hands built for battle, for breaking, were impossibly gentle now. Rubbing his back. Steady and warm. Securing him to the moment like a lifeline. And Tim could’ve sworn that the moment Bruce had pulled him in, the cold in the room receded. The chill slowly peeled back.

Tim didn’t feel like Robin. Didn’t feel like a soldier. Didn’t feel like a failure trying to claw his way into someone else’s story.

He just felt… like a kid. A kid being held.

His thoughts drifted, uninvited, to his father, Jack, who had held him like this right after Tim told him about being Robin. Jack had pulled him in so tight, so fiercely protective. He’d said he was too young. That this life wasn’t meant for him. That no thirteen-year-old should be out risking his life in the shadows.

And now, here he was again. Wrapped up in someone else’s arms. But this time it was Bruce. Not Jack. Bruce, who rarely touched, rarely comforted, rarely said anything that wasn’t a mission report or an order. But now his arms were around Tim, and it felt... the same. The same kind of protective. The same kind of parental. Tim had never let himself think of Bruce like that, not really. It felt like crossing a line. Like assuming too much. But in this moment, it was impossible not to.

He felt like a child. Because he was one. A child who’d taken the world onto his shoulders, who believed he had to carry Jason’s legacy, fix what had been broken, fix Batman. Who told himself again and again that it wasn’t too much, that he could handle it, that it was his responsibility.

And after his parents were gone? He had to step up even more, be useful, be smart, be Robin—because if he stopped moving, the grief would catch up and eat him alive. But right now? Right now, in Bruce’s arms, he couldn’t lie to himself. Not about what he’d lost. Not about what he missed.

Not about how badly he wanted to be someone’s kid again. Even if just for a moment.

Bruce pulled back, too soon, too fast, and Tim’s chest tightened, the sudden absence of contact leaving a hollow ache. His throat clenched as his mind spun through every terrifying possibility of what would come next. But Bruce stayed there, steady and still, his large hands gently cradling Tim’s face, forcing him to meet those guarded, stormy eyes.

And then Bruce’s lips moved, slow and careful, shaping two simple words so small, yet heavy with everything left unsaid.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry for breaking in? For sending him after the League alone? For not being there when Tim needed him the most? For not choosing him?

Tim didn’t know. All he knew was the sting of tears threatening to spill, blurring his vision. They slipped down his cheeks before Bruce’s thumb caught them, soft, deliberate.

In that quiet moment, it stopped feeling like the end of the world to go with Bruce. And although he couldn’t hear, Tim felt Danny right beside him. A cool, steady, unwavering presence. The one person who made the chaos of the world a little less frightening. The one person he could truly rely on. For now, that was enough.