Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The portal opens with a sharp crack of gold light, spilling across the stone floor of the Sanctum’s entrance hall. Wong steps through first, already muttering about “unregistered teenagers bleeding on antique carpets,” followed by Strange, who sweeps in as though he never left. 

Tony, Pepper, and Peter come next, their movements less graceful — hospital bags, half finished cups of coffee, the wear of too many nights in sterile white rooms still clinging to them. 

And then Tim. 

He steps through last, slow and careful, the strap of his backpack digging into his shoulder. He feels the difference instantly. The Sanctum used to press down on him — heavy with secrets, heavy with the weight of things he didn’t remember. Now, the space feels… not lighter, exactly, but breathable. 

Peter nearly trips over his own sneakers trying to close the space between them. “Okay, portal travel right after the hospital? That’s definitely not in the discharge instructions, right? I feel like someone should’ve checked with a nurse first—”

“You’d prefer a yellow cab?” Wong asks dryly. “In the Manhattan traffic?”

Peter opens his mouth, shuts it, then decides pouting at Wong is easier than admitting defeat. 

Tim smiles before he can stop himself. Just a small, tired thing, but a smile all the same. 

“Home sweet haunted monastery,” Tony announces, sweeping a hand at the high ceilings. “Don’t everyone thank me at once for letting us skip three hours of hospital paperwork—”

“You signed a release form on Stark Industries’ behalf,” Pepper interrupts, blinking. “And you’re not allowed to act like you didn’t just bribe a doctor with floor seats to the Knicks.”

Tony raises his coffee cup like a toast. “Effective methods, Miss Potts. Effective methods.”

Stephen rolls his eyes so hard, Tim half expects them to disappear into another dimension. 

The banter swirls around him, loud and familiar, and for once it doesn’t feel like static pressing into his ribs. It feels… normal. Chaotic normal, but normal. 

Peter hovers at his elbow, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “So, um, are you — are you okay? Like, really okay? Not just I will bite your head off if you ask again okay?”

Tim glances at him, catches the nervous flush on Peter’s face, and tilts his head. “You’ve known me for what — two months? Already an expert?”

Peter sputters. “I didn’t— I mean— I wasn’t saying—!”

Tony, of course, cuts in. “Kid, if you’re trying to flirt, at least own it. The cryptid already knows everything anyway. We’ve talked about this.”

Peter’s ears go bright red. 

Tim, thoroughly entertained, leans just close enough to make Peter’s brain short-circuit. “Glad to know you’ve been talking about me, Pete.”

That earns him a strangled noise from Peter and a choked laugh from Tony. Pepper smacks Tony’s arm, but even she is smiling.

For a second — just a second — Tim lets himself enjoy it. But then he feels a pang of guilt. Because they know who he is now — Cardinal, Tim — but they don’t know it all. And they don’t have the time for any more secrets.

“I need to tell you something.”

That gets Tony’s attention. The man pauses mid-pull of his sunglasses, expression sharpening. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve secretly been thirty-seven and running a crime syndicate? Because honestly, kid, I’d believe it.”

Tim huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “Worse.”

Strange’s gaze is soft. “Tim–”

“I’m not from here,” Tim cuts in. His voice is steady, but his hands betray him, white-knuckled against the back of a chair. “Not this Earth. Not this universe. I was sent here because of A-01.”

Peter blinks. “A… one?”

“It’s a protocol,” Tim says. His gaze doesn’t move, pinned on the floorboards. “A contingency. The worst case scenario. It was built for if the enemy wins, if there was nothing left of my world to save. My universe would… send me, drop me in the next universe with all the intel I can carry and hope that they do better.”

The silence that follows feels thick enough to choke on. 

Tony is the first to break it. “Okay, that might just be the bleakest mission statement I’ve ever heard. And I work with Nick Fury.” He drags a hand over his jaw, muttering. “Jesus, kid.”

“So, your world…” Peter’s voice is small. “It’s–”

“Gone.” Tim’s throat tightens, but he forces it out. “Thanos — a warlord. I– when I came here, more than a year of my memories were gone. Then, that night at the warehouse—”

“—you remembered,” Tony says for him. The billionaire runs a hand over his face. “Strange said you were remembering, but he wouldn’t tell me what, and — God, kid.”

Peter rushes forward in a heartbeat, as though he just now remembers he can move. He doesn’t hesitate before crushing Tim in a bone-breaking hug, which Tim returns just as tightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” Peter whispers, rubbing a hand up and down Tim’s back. “God, Tim. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Tim smiles weakly and pulls away, but his shaky hand still finds Peter’s as he stands. “It’s ok. I’m — all things considered, my universe was luckier than others. We learned more about him. I don’t know what universe it is that Thanos comes from, but he’s destroyed countless others in search of a weapon — one made up of all six Infinity Stones, and a way to control the Scarlet Witch.”

The name hits like a grenade. 

Tony freezes. What little color he had left in his face drains in an instant. “Wanda.”

“She’s alive,” Tim says quickly, sharp, almost defensive. “And she matters. She’s a part of this somehow. Since Thanos has her—”

“No.” Tony’s voice is iron. “We failed her once, yeah, but now you’re telling me she’s—” he cuts himself off, pacing. His hands flex open and closed, restless. 

Stephen’s voice is colder. “The Scarlet Witch is not an ally, Tim. She's magic incarnate. A walking apocalypse.”

“And a kid from another universe isn’t?” The question cracks like a whip. He finally lifts his eyes, red-rimmed but blazing. “She doesn’t need another executioner, Stephen. She needs someone to get her out before Thanos rips her and this universe apart.”

The Cloak twitches like it agrees. 

Strange stiffens, jaw tightening. “Who told you about all this, Tim?”

“A witch,” Tim says. Quieter, like he already knows it won’t earn a good reaction, he says, “Agatha Harkness.” 

Wong actually makes a sound at that — disbelief, sharp and incredulous. “You confronted Agatha Harkness,” he says flatly, like waiting for Tim to say he’s joking. 

Tim just shrugs. “It was fine. She helped me. She’s a little dramatic, yeah, but she told me about Wanda.”

“Helped—?” Wong sputters. “Agatha could have skinned you alive and worn you as a cape.”

“Yeah, well.” Tim’s mouth quirks. “Guess she decided not to.” 

Tony stares between them. “Okay timeout. Who the hell is Agatha, and why are we suddenly talking about witch-skin couture?”

Peter raises his hand like he’s in school. “Yeah, uh, seconded. Who’s Agatha? Is she like bad-bad or — like sitcom-bad?”

Wong presses his fingers to his temples. “Sitcom—”

“Focus,” Strange snaps, though his gaze lingers on Tim. “You said Thanos is coming. If that’s true, if he has the Stones in his sights, Earth won’t be enough to stop him.” 

Tim exhales. “Exactly.”

Tony crosses his arms. “So what? You want us to throw some distress signal into the void and pray the good aliens pick up?”

“Yes.” Tim meets his gaze dead-on. “That’s exactly what I want. You can build it. Strange can cast it. We can’t win this alone.”

Peter shifts closer, tentative. “So… other universes?”

Tim shakes his head. “Same universes, just… other worlds. Other fighters. Anyone who’ll listen.” His hand tightens on the chair again. “Thanos wants his perfect universe and he’ll tear it all apart to get it. He started by destroying half of each universe, but, like my universe, he’ll kill everything.”

The words hang heavy, like the Sanctum itself is listening. 

Strange’s hands curl at his sides. “Broadcasting across worlds…” He glances at Wong, who looks like he’s just swallowed glass. “It’s dangerous. But possible.”

Tony lets out a humorless laugh. “Dangerous? Kid just dropped mulitversal genocide on our doorstep and you’re worried about dangerous.” He looks at Tim again, and there is something almost gentle beneath the iron. “We’re doing it.”

“We’re doing it,” Peter echoes, nodding. 

Tim feels something loosen in his chest. For the first time since the portal dropped him into this world, he knows what to do.

“Good,” he murmurs, squeezing Peter’s hand. “Because the worst-case scenario isn’t just coming. It’s already here.”

———

The Sanctum is alive. 

Even when the halls are empty, the walls breathe. It was the first thing Tim learned about the place, back when he was just naming everything to keep himself sane: The Staircase that Sighs, the Room of Infinite Rugs, The Edge. 

It’s the last one that he ends up at tonight, staring out over a sea of color and pretending it’s Gotham. But it’s New York that’s sprawled below, loud and alive. He didn’t tell them everything, but he told them enough to feel like the ground was sawed out from under him. 

He stays there a long time, listening to the traffic hum like distant waves. 

The door opens behind him. 

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

Tim smirks without turning. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” 

A soft snort. Footsteps join him at the ledge. Stephen leans on the stone with the practiced ease of someone who wants to look casual but has never managed it. The Cloak arranges itself in neat folds around his shoulders, billowing faintly in the breeze. 

For a while, they stand there, watching the city. 

“You always have loved this place,” Strange says finally. “This, or the library.”

Tim’s fingers tap against the parapet. “Yeah. First time I thought maybe you didn’t hate me.”

“High praise.” Stephen’s mouth twitches. 

Silence again. Tim lets it stretch, lets the weight of memory press against him until it cracks something loose. 

“I keep thinking about Gotham,” he says. 

Stephen doesn’t answer, but his posture shifts. He’s listening. 

“When I was fifteen, it was everything. And it’s only been a year — well, a year and eight months, I think — but… I don’t know now.” 

His throat closes, but he forces it back open. “Back then — I thought if I just ran fast enough, trained hard enough, I could keep up with them. And maybe — I don’t know — maybe I could save them.”

The wind tugs at his hair. He swallows hard. 

“I don’t want to remember Gotham after. After Thanos. After everyone was—” his voice breaks. He cuts himself off, and shakes his head. “I just want the rooftops. The way it felt to jump.”

The Cloak brushes gently against his arm, like it understands. 

Stephen exhales slowly. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Tim can’t control the surprise in his voice. 

But then sparks catch the air and a circle flares open across the skyline, heatless fire spinning until it reveals rooftops under a different moon. Dark, sharp-angled, familiar in every line of shadow. Gotham — or, close enough. 

“It’s the mirror dimension,” Strange explains. “As close as I can get to Gotham, from what you’ve talked about and my — limited — knowledge of Chicago.”

Tim smiles, faint and real, and just stares for a moment. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Stephen says, already lifting off the ground. “Run.” 

Tim hits the edge of the first building at a sprint the moment Stephen tells him to, as though some fog has blinked away from his mind. He lands on the next roof with his knees bent and hands brushing gravel. 

The air is different here. Colder. Carrying the sour tang of Gotham smoke even if he knows, deep down, this isn’t his Gotham. But it’s close enough. 

“Careful,” Stephen calls from above, voice carried by the night. “You fall, I’m not patching you up again.”

Tim shoots him a grin over his shoulder. “That’s what rooftops are for: Falling. Getting back up.” 

“Reckless,” Stephen mutters, but he doesn’t sound disapproving. More like someone narrating a play he’s already committed to. 

“Relax, Stevie. You taught me how to fly anyway, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Thought you weren’t ever going to call it flying.”

Tim rolls his eyes and pushes onward, harder, letting his muscles remember what his brain nearly forgot: the stretch of a stride, the heat blooming in his lungs, the rush when he clears a gap too wide for any ordinary person. 

“Don’t think I won’t drag you back by your hood,” Strange says dryly as Tim barely clears a vent. 

“Pretty sure that counts as unsportsmanlike conduct,” Tim shoots back, breathless. 

The Cloak flares behind Strange like it takes offense. 

Tim laughs. Actually laughs — full and sharp, nothing brittle in it. It feels like a while since he’s done that. 

He sprints again, skidding low under a metal pipe and vaulting another ledge. He doesn’t need to think about where to go; his body remembers the rhythm. It’s a song he hasn’t sung in months, but the lyrics are still inside him. 

“You’re insane,” Strange says when Tim pauses on a ledge, chest heaving. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, hair stuck to his forehead. “Comes with the terrain of killer clowns and crazy ex-lawyers who love a coin flip.”

Stephen tilts his head. Something softer passes through his eyes, something almost sad, but it’s gone almost immediately. 

“You concern me, kid.” 

Tim barks a laugh at that, shaking his head, then turns and runs again. He keeps going until his legs tremble, until sweat runs down his spine, until the city itself blurs into momentum. For these precious minutes, he isn’t a mistake, isn’t a soldier, isn’t A-01 or some contingency. 

He’s Cardinal. He’s Tim.

At last, he slows. He comes to a stop on a flat expanse of roof, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. Strange lands lightly beside him, hands tucked behind his back like he hasn’t moved at all. 

“You done?”

Tim smirks up at him, still panting. “For now. Don’t want to make you jealous, old man.”

“Old?” Strange arches a brow. “I’ll have you know sorcerers don’t age like accountants.”

“Tell that to your hairline.”

The Cloak swats Tim in the back of the head. He stumbles, laughing so hard it startles even him. 

Stephen shakes his head, but he’s smiling — faint, crooked, but real. 

The night settles again. Tim straightens, brushing sweat from his face. For the first time in longer than he can remember, he doesn’t feel heavy. He steps closer, almost without thinking, and wraps his arms around Stephen in a tight, quick hug. 

Stephen doesn’t stiffen like he used to. He just lets out the quietest sigh, his hands coming up with a squeeze. Nothing lingering, but enough. Sturdy. Real. 

When they pull back, Tim’s grin is lopsided. “Thanks for the rooftops.”

Strange’s answer is simple. “Thanks for running.”

And with the city beneath them, and the night closing in, it feels like — for once — they’re both exactly where they need to be. 

———

Stark Tower hasn’t changed. 

The skyline might have shifted around it, taller glass monoliths sprouting up like weeds, but the Tower still owns the horizon the way only Tony Stark can. Too much glass, too much confidence, too much everything. 

And the lab—

Tim catches his breath. 

He doesn’t realize how much he missed it until he steps inside. The space smells the same: solder and ozone, burnt coffee grounds and too many late nights folded into the walls. Machines hum. Lights flicker awake. It’s chaos at rest, waiting for hands to bring it alive. 

His throat feels tight. For a second, he feels young again, sneaking past Pepper to get to the elevators without another confrontation related to his evening activities. 

“Don’t touch anything,” Tony says automatically as the doors seal behind them. “Except you. You can touch everything, but it’s the same deal as before.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tim rolls his eyes. “Touch anything and you better improve it, yada yada ya.”

Peter, hunched over an interface a few feet away, glances up. He stares at Tim with the softest smile known to man. Tim hasn’t been looked at like that in a long time. 

“Alright, birdboy.” Tony claps once. “Mission briefing. We’re cobbling together a message that can ping off Strange’s woo-woo and reach friendly ears in the outer ‘verse. Think livestream, but for aliens instead of Youtubers.”

“Could be both,” Peter mutters. 

Tim snorts. “So what’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Tony says, spinning in his chair, “is that I do the genius engineering of the blueprints I crafted last night, Wizard does the glittery rune-casting, and you two fetch coffee.”

“Sorcerer,” Strange corrects under his breath. 

Tim doesn’t look up from the schematic already scrolling under his fingers. “This capacitor’s going to melt when you overload the charge.”

Tony freezes, blinks, then grins. “God, I missed you.”

“He’s been here for, like, three hours,” Peter points out. 

“Don’t ruin this for me, Underoos.”

———

It doesn’t take long before the lab is alive. 

Blueprints flicker across walls. Runes spiral in the air, Strange muttering as he carves them open and tests their resonance against the tech. Tony darts from one console to another, flinging quips like sparks, while Peter trails cable across the floor with only minor electrocutions. 

And Tim— Tim works like he never stopped. He slips into the rhythm, quiet, efficient, cutting through Tony’s noise and Strange’s skepticism with equations that hum like a second language. 

“You’re stabilizing the output wrong,” he says without looking, flipping the schematic sideways. 

“It’s jazz, not math,” Tony retorts, hands buried in wires.

“It’s both,” Tim counters, and reroutes the circuit with wires. 

The hologram steadies. 

Tony squints. “Okay, that’s offensive. I was gonna fix that later.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Not the point.” 

———

At one point, Tony tosses a screwdriver across the room without warning. Peter’s on the opposite side of the room, but his senses go off as he whirls around. 

Tim doesn’t even glance up. His hand snaps out mid-sentence, catching the tool clean, precise. He sets it on the table like it weighs nothing. 

Peter’s mouth goes dry. 

“Years of practice,” Tim says, deadpan, finally glancing over. 

Tony smirks. “Ninja reflexes. Still creepy.”

Peter opens his mouth, closes it, then decides silence is safer. His ears betray him anyway, burning pink. 

Tim’s mouth twitches, but he bends back over schematics. 

———

Hours blur. 

The skeleton of the beacon rises piece by piece: Tony’s alloy frame studded with circuits etched in Strange’s sigils. Wong wanders through once, mutters something about “abominations,” and leaves before anyone can rope him into cable duty. 

Tim doesn’t notice the ache in his side, or the cracked seam in his glove. Not when he’s soldering points blindfolded by memory, or slipping calculations into Strange’s muttered equations so the magic doesn’t shear the wiring. 

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he isn’t a weapon. He isn’t bleeding, or chasing, or surviving. He’s just a kid with too much ambition in a tower full of machines. 

And Peter Parker — Peter who’s been uncharacteristically quiet for the last half-hour — watches him like he strung constellations across the ceiling.

“Alright,” Tony says finally, voice sharp with triumph. He steps back, grease on his cheek, arc reactor glowing faint through the fabric. “Moment of truth.”

The beacon looms in the center of the lab, alive with light. Wires snake into the ceiling, runes pulse in time with the hum of Stark’s reactor feeds. It looks like it shouldn’t work. 

It also looks like it might. 

“Wong’s gonna kill us,” Strange mutters, but he raises his hand anyway. Runes unfurl from his palm, weaving into the circuitry. Sparks jump, smoke hisses, and the beacon thrums low, deep enough to make Tim’s chest ache. 

Then—

Light. Pure, sharp, cutting through the Tower windows. It spirals out, a thread vanishing into stars Tim can’t see. 

Tony lets out a low whistle. “And that, gentlemen, is how you break the universe politely.”

Stephen lowers his hand, eyes shadowed but intent. “If there’s anyone listening,” he says quietly, “they’ll hear.”

Tim exhales slowly. For the first time since the hospital, he feels something almost like hope. 

The beacon wounds down to a steady pulse, like  a heart. Like waiting. 

Everyone stands there for a beat too long, shoulders stiff, breaths uneven. The kind of silence that comes after pulling the trigger and not knowing if the bullet hit. 

Then Tony claps his hands, too sharp. “Alright. No explosions, no screaming from the abyss, no big ugly monster. I’m calling that a win.”

Peter sags against a console with relief. “Can we maybe… like… eat something before we try interstellar phone calls again?”

“Sure, kid,” Tony says, already crossing the room to flick switches into standby. “There’s takeout menus in the top drawer. Don’t touch the one with jelly stains — long story, don’t ask.”

Stephen raises a brow. “You order takeout while–”

“Multiverse on fire, yeah, yeah.” Tony waves him off. “You try saving reality on an empty stomach.”

The lab begins to empty in slow ripples. 

True to his word, Peter goes digging for food like it’s his secondary superpower. Wong reappears just long enough to look horrified, muttering something about “reckless mortals” and disappearing again before he can be conscripted into cleanup. Stephen retreats to a corner with a notebook, the set of his shoulders unreadable.

Which leaves Tim and Tony. 

The quiet between them isn’t awkward, just thick. Weighted with solder smoke and almost two years Tim never meant to lose. 

Tony leans against the edge of the table, wiping his hands with a rag. He doesn’t look at Tim when he says, “You slid back in like you never left.”

Tim’s fingers still on the schematic. He didn’t realize how much he’d been moving — adjusting, correcting, smoothing. His default state in this lab always was momentum. 

“I missed it,” Tim admits again, voice low. “Being here. Making something that isn’t just… survival.”

Tony finally looks at him. Really looks. His gaze is sharp enough to cut, but softer at the edges than Tim remembered. “You know,” he says, casual like it isn’t, “I’ve had a lot of interns over the years. Some smarter, some louder. None of them better.”

The words land like a weight in Tim’s chest. He can’t find an answer. Not one that doesn’t sound like breaking. 

So he nods once, precise, and bends back over the schematic like it needs his attention. 

Tony doesn’t push, just tosses the rag onto the table, like punctuation. “Job’s still open. Always will be.”

———

Peter’s phone buzzes on the table as he rummages for food. He checks it quickly, thumbs flying across the screen as he texts MJ. 

Judgement Dealer: u alive?

Peter: barely. beacon works. tony didn’t blow us up

Judgment Dealer: wow. miracle

Peter: tim caught a screwdriver midair w/o looking

Judgment Dealer: …

Peter: …

Judgment Dealer: you’re so gone for him it’s embarrassing

Peter: shut up

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, face hotter than it has any right to be. He takes another second to calm down before he returns with the takeout menus. 

Across the room when he gets there, Tim is sketching numbers into the margin of Strange’s notes, hair falling just slightly into his face and hoodie sleeves bunched up at his shoulders. 

There’s no chance Peter makes it through the rest of the day alive. 

———

Strange drifts closer as they prepare to go back, silent enough that Tim almost doesn’t notice. The sorcerer’s gaze sweeps over the beacon, then flicks to Tim.

“You look happier here,” Stephen says finally. It isn’t a question. 

Tim keeps his head down, but a corner of his mouth tugs anyway. “Guess I’m a lab rat at heart.”

“Mm.” Stephen’s tone is unreadable, but his eyes soften for half a second. Just half. “Then let’s hope the lab keeps you safe longer than the rooftops ever did.”

Tim doesn’t answer. But for the first time in a long time, he almost believes it. 

———

The beacon pulses on, quiet and steady, waiting for an answer. 

———

Peter shifts from foot to foot as they make it to the third floor of the Sanctum, hands jammed in his hoodie pocket. Tim glances up, one eyebrow cocked. 

“You wanna stay over tonight?” 

The question gets a red-faced grin instantly. “Sure! Yeah, winter break means no school, no curfew, no homework. I can, uh– Aunt May let me stay here a few nights ago while we were looking for you so I can just…” He gestures vaguely toward the guest room down the hall. 

“Peter,” Tim says, tone sharp in that way it always is when he’s already decided something. “You’re not sleeping in a guest room. Come on. The bed’s big enough for both of us.” 

Peter blinks. Then he grins wider. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sure. Definitely.”

From somewhere down the stairwell comes Strange’s voice: “The Sanctum listens to everything.” 

They both freeze like middle schoolers getting caught. 

Peter’s face goes nuclear red; Tim’s ears do the same. 

“Thanks, Strange,” Tim calls, voice strained. 

Then he sighs and grabs Peter’s wrist, tugging him down the hall before either of them can combust or hear Stephen’s response. 

Tim’s room is neat to the point of severity — the kind of tidy that says control is survival. But the second the door clicks shut, that illusion collapses. 

They’re supposed to sit. Just sit. But Tim gives Peter the smallest shove at the shoulder, and suddenly Peter is toppling onto the mattress, laughing so hard his voice cracked. 

“Falling for me again?” Tim asks, climbing after him. He doesn’t conceal his smile. 

“You totally pushed me!” Peter grins up at him anyway, cheeks pink, heart hammering like he’d just swung across Manhattan. 

Tim leans down without warning, kisses him quick, sharp. Then he pulls back. 

Peter blinks, then laughs, breathless. “You can’t just—”

Another kiss. Longer this time. Messier. Tim’s hand curls tight into Peter’s hoodie, pulling him up off the mattress then pressing him into it. 

Peter gasps into his mouth, grin breaking. Their noses bump, teeth clink. Neither care. 

By the third kiss, Tim is almost shaking, like the dam has finally cracked. He tears back just enough to whisper, rough and unsteady: “God. I’ve been wanting to do that since you tripped in front of me at the coffee shop.” 

Peter freezes, then barks out a laugh mid-kiss, which only makes it sloppier. “What?”

Tim smirks against his mouth. “Then you stuttered with the reddest face I’ve ever seen. And those eyes might literally be the death of me.” 

“Here I thought I was the lucky one,” Peter says, yanking Tim closer by the waist and muffling his next words against Tim’s jaw. “You being my celebrity crush and all.” 

Tim freezes at that, and pulls back just far enough to look at him, eyebrows arching high. “Excuse me?”

Peter’s ears go crimson. “Forget I said that—”

“Oh no.” Tim’s grin splits wide, dangerous. “Peter Parker had a crush on me. A celebrity crush.” He laughs, low and warm, and kisses him again before Peter can cover his face. 

“Shut up,” Peter mumbles into his mouth. 

Tim just kisses Peter harder, pushing him flat against the mattress, laughter vibrating between them until it burns into something hungrier. Peter makes a sound he’ll deny forever, fingers tangling in Tim’s hair. Tim’s weight settles over him, sharp edges and all, and suddenly the kisses aren’t shy at all. 

Teeth scrapes. Lips bruise. Their laughter breaks between gasps, and neither of them can stop. 

When they finally pause, foreheads pressed together, breath coming fast and uneven, Peter whispers, “You’re impossible.”

Tim smiles like it’s the best compliment he’s ever heard. “Yeah. And you’re terrible at coffee shops.”

Then he kisses him again, harder this time, like the words themselves lit a fuse. Peter meets him halfway, tugging until Tim groans against his mouth. 

They roll sideways, limbs tangling, the blanket twisting around their knees. Neither care. The kisses turn frantic, then clumsy, then broken by laughter they can’t swallow. 

“Stop laughing—” Tim gasps against his mouth. 

“You’re the one—” Peter grins, biting back another laugh even as he kisses him again. “You keep smiling.”

“Because—” Tim drags him closer, breath hot, voice fraying at the edges— “you’re ridiculous.” 

Peter kisses him so hard they both miss the mattress for a second, thunking into the headboard and snorting through the pain. They break apart, wheezing laughter into each other’s throats, and then dive back in like neither can stand the space. 

It isn’t careful. It isn’t smooth. But God, it’s theirs.

Eventually, the fire dims into embers. Their mouths slow, softening, kisses turning into grazes and lazy presses. Tim’s weight slumps heavier across Peter’s chest, his fist still curled stubbornly in Peter’s hoodie like he’s afraid to let go. 

Peter runs a hand through Tim’s hair gently, feeling the tension bleed out of him, the sharp edges dulling. Tim murmurs something half-formed — Gotham rooftops, maybe, or a name Peter doesn’t catch — and then his breathing evens. 

Asleep. 

Peter lies there staring at the ceiling, still grinning like an idiot, his heart trying to climb out of his ribs. He tucks the blanket higher around Tim’s shoulders and whispers, “Yeah, I’ve been wanting this too.”

The Sanctum hums in the walls, quiet and watchful. But for once, Peter doesn’t care if it’s listening. 

———

The dream begins quietly, like slipping into an old photograph. 

Tim blinks, and he’s back in the Cave. The hum of computers surrounds him, the air cold against his skin. Jason is leaning against the hood of the Batmobile, arms crossed, smirking as sharp as ever. 

“Decent job tonight, Replacement,” Jason says, flicking a Batarang toward him without warning. 

Tim snatches it midair without looking. He rolls his eyes, lips twitching. “That the best you’ve got?”

Jason’s smirk sharpens. “Cocky. Careful, kid. Pride’s the first step in getting your ass handed to you.”

“Funny.” Dick’s voice cuts in as he descends the stairs, mask already pushed up to his hair. “I thought the first step was mouthing off to Bruce.”

Jason flips him off. Dick just laughs, bright and easy, the sound echoing off stone. 

Tim can’t help it — he smiles. For once, they’re not at each other’s throats. For once, this feels like family. 

Dick claps a hand onto Tim’s shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly. “Good work tonight, baby bird.”

Tim’s chest warms. He never gets tired of hearing it — not from Dick. 

The memory tilts. 

Now he’s outside, Gotham’s night presses close. He’s on patrol, cape trailing behind him, breath fogging in the cold. Damian is at his side, small but fierce, sword flashing as he cuts down a mugger’s knife with precise, practiced ease. 

“Tt. Amateur,” Damian mutters, resheathing his blade.

“Shut up, you’re nine,” Tim shoots back,cuffing him lightly on the shoulder. 

“I’m thirteen and far more capable than you’ll ever be.”

Tim smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Damian glares, but there’s no real bite in it. Not tonight. Tonight they’re brothers, side by side, and Tim feels it down to his bones. 

The warmth lingers for one impossible second longer — and then it collapses as the dream twists. 

The sky tears open with fire. 

Tim stumbles as the ground shakes, the street fracturing under his boots. Damian whirls, sword raised against a silhouette that dwarfs the city. 

Thanos. 

“No—” Tim’s voice cracks. He lunges forward, but his legs are weighed down. 

The blade comes down. Damian doesn’t even have the time to cry out.

“Damian!”

Dick’s scream rips through the chaos. He dives from above, desperation in every line of him. But Thanos swats him from the sky like an insect. Dick’s body hits the ground with a sound Tim will never stop hearing. 

The world collapses around him. Jason’s voice cuts off mid-shout. Barbara’s comm goes silent. Cassandra’s form vanishes into fire. One by one, the people he loves are torn away, until Tim is left in ash, lungs burning, vision fractured. 

And then—

Arms pull him close. 

Not Bruce’s. Not Dick’s. 

Wanda’s. 

Her warmth seeps into his trembling body, her hand pressing to the back of his head like she’s shielding him from the world. Everything around them continues to explode. He buries his face against her chest, gasping for air that won’t come.

“I don’t—” his voice shatters. “I don’t want to remember them like that. Not– not like—”

“I know.” Wanda’s own voice trembles, but it’s steady enough to hold him. “I know. I know, Tim. I want that too.”

The ruins dissolve into shadow, but her presence stays. Her eyes glow crimson, softer now, her forehead pressed lightly to his. 

“Hold onto them,” she whispers. “The love, the laughter. The good parts. That’s what Thanos can’t take. That’s what makes you stronger than him.”

Tim shakes, broken. “It’s not enough.”

Her lips press against his hair, tender and fierce. “It has to be, Baby Bird.”

The words break him open all over again — because that’s Dick’s name for him. Because she shouldn’t know it, and yet here she is, stitching him back together with the one thing that hurts the most. 

The dream unravels. Her warmth fades. 

“You’ll find me,” Wanda promises, her voice fading to ash. “And I’ll be waiting.”

———

Tim wakes like he’s being ripped out of fire. 

His lungs seize. His body convulses. He’s not in Gotham, not in ash, but in the Sanctum’s guest room, sheets twisted around him like restraints. He’s gasping too hard to speak, vision flickering at the edges — red static crawling across the walls, glitching like broken glass. 

The door slams open. 

“Tim!” Peter’s voice is raw with panic. Stephen’s right behind him, robes sweeping, magic already curling at his hands. 

Peter drops to his knees by the bed, grabbing Tim’s shoulders. “He just— he just started thrashing. I didn’t know what to do. I thought he wasn’t breathing, and—”

“You did the right thing,” Stephen says, clipped but calm. He brushes Peter aside, kneeling at Tim’s other side. His hand presses firm against Tim’s sternum, glowing with steady golden light. “Timothy. Tim, kid. Focus on me. Breathe.”

Tim claws at the sheets, chest heaving, but Stephen’s voice cuts through the panic. 

“Look at me,” Stephen orders, and his words are heavy enough to anchor. “You’re here. Not there. Not with him. Here.”

Tim’s eyes lock on Strange’s, wild and glassy, and he manages a broken inhale. The glitches across the room flicker, then begin to fade, sparks dying into the walls.

“Good,” Stephen murmurs, softer now. “Again, Tim. Slowly. Just breathe, okay?”

It takes minutes that feel like hours, but eventually Tim’s body starts to steady. His breaths are still ragged, but they’re breaths. His vision clears enough to see Stephen’s lined face, the worry there unhidden. 

“I–” Tim tries, but the words splinter. His chest still jerks with aftershocks, tears stinging his eyes. “I saw them.”

“Who?” Stephen asks, gently. 

Tim swallows hard. “My family.” His voice is wrecked. “Gotham. Jason, Damian, Dick — they were alive and then— then Thanos—” his throat locks. “I watched him kill them all again. And Wanda — she was there. She showed me. She’s—” his voice cracks. “She’s trying to escape him.”

Peter’s breath hitches, and his hand finds Tim’s wrist like he can anchor him to the present by sheer will alone. 

Stephen’s hand shifts from Tim’s chest to his shoulder, solid and steady. “It’s okay.” 

It doesn’t feel like it.

“Wanda— she’s been watching me. Since I got here. She– she called me Baby Bird.” His voice breaks on the words. “That was Dick’s name for me.”

Stephen doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, eyes flicking over Tim’s face, like he’s weighing a dozen different spells and discarding all of them in favor of something simpler. He squeezes Tim’s shoulder, firm but careful. 

“I know what it’s like,” Stephen says quietly, “to carry ghosts in your dreams. To wake up with your body shaking because you couldn’t save them.” His thumb brushes once against the edge of Tim’s collarbone. “But listen to me, Timothy Drake. You are not alone in this fight. Not ever.”

Tim’s chest caves, but the sob doesn’t come. 

Instead, he leans forward, forehead pressing against Stephen’s like he’s a kid again and hasn’t learned how to hold himself up. Stephen steadies him easily, one hand braced against his back. 

Peter hovers on the other side, torn between holding and giving space, until Tim’s shaking hand reaches blindly in his direction. Peter catches it instantly, weaving their fingers tight. 

The room goes quiet except for Tim’s ragged breathing, the steady hum of Strange’s magic, and the weight of family — found, broken, mended, but family all the same. 

When Tim finally pulls back, his eyes are red, but his voice is steady. “I can’t keep seeing it. Not like this.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Stephen says. “Together.”

And — God help him — Tim believes him. 

———

The Milano shudders like it’s daring someone to ask when the last tune-up was. 

“Okay, seriously,” Rocket grumbles, hanging half inside the comms panel with a welding torch, “if I get one more random broadcast hijacking our frequency, I’m blowing this entire system out the airlock.”

“It could be important,” Mantis says, perched upside down on the co-pilot’s chair like she forgot how normal people sit. Her antennae twitch hopefully. “Maybe someone needs our help.”

Rocket snorts. “Yeah, or maybe it’s like the last ten times. Newsflash: people do not need our help, they need us to buy crap. I’m not paying for asteroid insurance, extended warranty on a laser cannon, or a free cruise on Saturn’s rings.”

Quill swivels in the pilot’s chair, holding what looks suspiciously like a Zargnut bar he’s been hoarding. “Wait, did you say free cruise? Because I would’ve—”

“Don’t,” Rocket growls. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Drax, polishing his knives, rumbles, “Asteroid insurance does not sound unreasonable. Death by asteroid would be… undignified. It is like being swatted by a giant rock, without the honor of battle.”

Nebula glares at all of them from where she’s sharpening her arm blade. “You’re all idiots. Just play the damn message.”

“Fine, fine.” Quill groans like she just told him to wash dishes. “We’ll see what they have to say.”

The console sparks when he slaps a random button — a little too dramatically, because Rocket yells “That was my flux capacitor!” — but then steadies. A hologram shivers into the center of the cockpit. 

Static. Glitches. Then a boy’s voice, steady despite the rough edges. 

“...if you’re hearing this, we need help. Earth needs help. Thanos is coming—”

The word slices the air. 

Everything goes silent. 

The engines hum low. The lights flicker. Nobody moves. 

Quill’s candy bar drops out of his hand, long forgotten. Rocket’s ears flatten tight against his head. Mantis’ hands curl together like she feels the dread bleeding off the others. Drax’s grip tightens so hard around his blade the metal squeals.

Nebula doesn’t blink. Her jaw sets like stone. 

And Gamora — Gamora just breathes out, slow and sharp, like the knife finally hits the place she always knew it would. 

She stands, straightens, and looks at them all. 

“We’re going,” she says. 

No one argues. 

———

The portal spits them out onto Fifth Avenue, snow hissing against neon as it turns to slush on the street. The Tower looms above, glass teeth cutting into the cloudy night.

Tim’s boots hit the sidewalk hard. He tilts his head back, scanning the impossible height of it, every window reflecting city light back at him like a thousand eyes. Too tall. Too shiny. Too exposed. Gotham would’ve gutted it in a week. 

Tony sweeps forward, arms spread like a magician’s reveal. “Welcome to the world’s most expensive clubhouse. Try not to lick the windows; they’re Stark glass. Triple-paned.”

Peter squints. “Do people actually lick them?” 

“You’d be surprised,” Tony says cheerfully. 

Tim mutters, “It’s big,” and deliberately shifts his shoulder so it brushes Peter’s arm. 

Predictably, Peter trips over absolutely nothing. 

The Tower’s glass doors slide open before Tony can swipe anything. Colonel James Rhodes walks out, pressed blues crisp against the snow. His face softens when he sees Tony, then resets to polite warmth as he takes in the rest of them. 

“Welcome to the madhouse,” Rhodey says. His gaze lingers on Tim, not unfriendly — steady, like he’s measuring something. “You brought company.”

“Company’s a strong word,” Strange mutters. His Cloak rustles like it agrees. 

Tony grins. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous of our WiFi.”

“We don’t need WiFi,” Strange corrects. 

“Tell that to the kid.”

Rhodey exhales through his nose. “Same circus. New clowns.” He sticks his hand out to Tim. “I’m Rhodey. And don’t let Tony fool you, kid, we’re not all lunatics.”

Tim takes the hand, firm grip, no wasted motion. “Cardinal. Tim works.”

“Good.” Rhodey’s smile edges warmer. “I’ve heard things. Good to finally meet you.”

Tim catalogues that: heard things. From Tony, probably. Maybe Pepper. He lets the silence hang just long enough that Rhodey has to release the shake first. 

“And you are…?” Rhodey’s eyes flick to Peter. 

Peter freezes. “Uh. Spider-Man. But also Peter. Parker. Peter Parker. Hi.”

Rhodey blinks once, then looks at Tony. 

“Don’t ask,” Tony says. 

Tim leans closer to Peter, voice low enough to be a secret. “You’re great at first impressions.”

Peter looks like he’s going to combust. 

Inside, the lobby is all steel and shine, like a hotel pretending not to be one. Too many lights, too much polish. Tim adjusts instantly, cataloguing exits, cameras, angles. He hangs back a little, letting the noise move in front of him. 

Tony and Stephen bicker their way toward the elevators with Peter between them. Rhodey falls beside Tim, unhurried. 

“So,” Rhodey says, conversational and probing. “You’ve been working with Stark and Strange.” 

Tim shrugs. “Working for Stark, living with Strange, giving them both heart attacks.”

That earns the faintest curve of Rhodey’s mouth. “They probably deserve it.”

“You’ve heard about me,” Tim says, because letting someone else circle him feels worse. 

“I’ve heard you’ve got half the world’s genius in your pinky alone. And that you love granola bars.”

Tim blinks. “That… sounds like Tony.”

“It was,” Rhodey admits. He glances at him again, a flicker of something approving. “You know, Tony doesn’t talk about just anyone.”

Tim files that away with a tight nod, not trusting his voice. 

The elevator dings open. Rhodey gestures them in. “Welcome to floor crazy.”

“Wounding,” Tony says, sprawling like the railing is just furniture. “This place is perfectly sane. Just as the voices in my head.”

“Which ones?” Rhodey asks, stone-faced. 

Tim smirks. Peter snorts into his sleeve. Strange glares at the floor numbers. 

The common floor sprawls out in glass and steel. Furniture too expensive to sit on, a kitchen gleaming like a showroom. Rhodey gives the tour like he’s done it a dozen times: kitchen, lounge, quarters down that hall. 

Tony interrupts every sentence. “That sofa’s Italian. Don’t eat spaghetti on it unless you’re me.”

Rhodey doesn’t miss a beat. “He already ate spaghetti on it. Twice.”

Tim almost smiles. Strange drifts closer again — just enough that Tim feels the brush of the Cloak fabric when he shifts. Nobody else notices, but Tim does. 

Orbit. Hover. Guard. 

It should be suffocating. It isn’t. 

“Safe as it gets,” Rhodey says quietly, catching the way Tim’s eyes track cameras and exits. “But I get it. Takes a while to trust walls that aren’t yours.”

Tim studies him for a moment, then asks, quietly, “You get it?”

Rhodey’s smile is small and knowing. “You learn fast in the Air Force. First thing: nothing’s permanent but the guy watching your six.”

Tim doesn’t answer. He just files that away, too. 

Rhodey slows down near the hallway. “Quarters are down here. Stark says you don’t sleep. Tell me that’s an exaggeration.”

Tim’s mouth twitches. “Depends on your definition of sleep.”

“Kid, if I can hear that answer in Tony’s voice, it’s always bad news.”

Tim bristles. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Rhodey doesn’t push. He gestures at a door. “This one’s yours. Lock’s biometric. Nobody comes in unless you want them to.”

Tim’s throat tightens, just for a second. He covers it with a nod. “Thanks.”

Rhodey’s tone softens. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you're here. Tony’s… better with people when he thinks they might leave. Keeps him sharp. But he’s best with people he doesn’t want to lose.”

“You think I’m one of those?” 

“I think he’s not subtle,” Rhodey says. “And I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Tim has no reply to that. 

Luckily, the ding of an elevator saves him from having to come up with one. He follows Rhodey back to the living room, and feels the weight of presence before the man even steps out. 

“Rogers,” Stephen greets, voice flat. He steps in front of Tim instinctively. 

“Doctor,” Steve answers in the same tone. 

Tony’s grin is feral. “Oh, yes. My favorite sitcom is on.”

Steve steps in, his gaze sweeping the room. He doesn’t look at Tony, nor Rhodey. His gaze lingers on Peter for a heartbeat, then lands on Tim. It stays there too long, too assessing. 

Strange shifts instantly, the Cloak flaring like a shield. But he doesn’t cut between them any further, only sends Tim a look that says he will in a heartbeat. 

Tim doesn’t flinch. He stares back and says, polite as a knife: “Do you have a reason for being here, Captain?” 

Tony nearly chokes laughing. Rhodey’s eyebrows shoot up. 

Steve’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. “The rest of the Avengers land tonight. We’ll discuss whatever it is Stark called us here for in the morning.” His eyes flick to Tony. “Assuming there’s a plan.”

“Assuming you can read it,” Strange mutters. 

“Yes!” Tony claps his hand. “Feed me more drama, sweetheart. America’s Golden Boy vs Superhero Gandalf. This is Emmy-worthy.”

Peter mutters, “This is insane.”

Tim leans just close enough that Peter jolts. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Stop doing that,” Peter hisses, face bright red. 

“Doing what?” Tim’s voice is innocent. His grin is not.

Steve and Strange hold their stare, like they can kill each other with silence. Rhodey rubs his temple. Tony looks delighted. 

Tim stands in the middle of it all, caught between warmth and ice, chaos and control, and thinks: maybe this tower isn’t safe. 

But maybe he doesn’t have to be. 

———

The screen glows bright against the darkened lounge. Mario Kart chaos fills the air — shells flying, curses thrown, controllers clattering. 

“Not fair!” Peter yelps, half off the couch. “You blue-shelled me at the finish line!” 

“Adapt or die,” Tim says smoothly, thumb flicking on the controller. He isn’t even looking at the screen, just sitting close enough that Peter’s knee keeps brushing his. 

“You’re– you’re cheating,” Peter splutters, which makes Tim smirk wider. 

“Not my fault you can’t multitask.”

“Multitask what?”

Tim tilts his head meaningfully, nose just a few inches from Peter’s. The other teenager goes scarlet. 

On the far side, Tony lounges with his feet on the coffee table. “I’ve raised him well,” he says, sounding unreasonably proud. “That’s Stark-adjacent behavior right there.”

Rhodey snorts. “You didn’t raise him.”

“Semantics,” Tony waves. 

Strange stands behind the couch, arms crossed like he isn’t watching, but every time Tim leans too far into Peter's space, the Cloak twitches like a cat tail. 

And then — the lights flicker. The glass windows rattle. A boom cracks the sky outside. 

The screen freezes mid-race. 

“That wasn’t me,” Tony says before anyone can look at him. 

An alert flashes on the Tower systems. JARVIS says Unidentified energy surge detected. Location: roof access. Bifrost signature confirmed.  

“Bifrost?” Rhodey repeats. 

Tony sits up fast. “I guess the beacon worked.”

“God help us.” Strange’s mouth tightens. 

Peter looks around. “What’s a Bifrost?’

A flash of white-hot light answers for him, and then a man stands in the middle of the room, grin wide, shoulders squared. His cape is damp with snow, but he looks like the storm itself decided to dress up as a man. 

“We come in peace!” He bellows, voice shaking the walls. 

Tim’s bo staff is already out, his hood drawn low. His pulse races at the words — not because he thinks the man is lying, but because he doesn’t know yet what kind of thing announces peace quite so loudly. 

He glances sideways. “Aliens?”

Strange doesn’t move, though Tim catches the shift of the Cloak at his shoulders, an invisible brace. 

“Worse,” Strange murmurs. “Asgardians.”

Tony claps his hands like someone just delivered a punchline only he understands. “Ladies and gentlemen, the space Vikings have landed. Long time no see, Thor. Try not to break the furniture.”

Behind Thor, Loki steps forward — quieter, sharper, his smile the kind that carries knives under the tongue. Tim can recognize him from thousands of videos of the Attack on New York. 

And then another figure follows: smaller than the gods, but somehow just as heavy. 

“Bruce.” Tony’s voice catches on it, almost boyish. 

The infamous Bruce Banner — of whom Tony has a framed photo hanging in his office — pushes his glasses up like he’s embarrassed to just exist. But Tony is already across the room, clapping both hands on his shoulders. 

“You son of a— you just— two years?” His voice cracks somewhere between laughter and grief. “You don’t call, don’t text. I thought you fell into a wormhole or found a yoga retreat and ascended.”

“Are those my only two options?” Bruce asks, laughing quiet and awkwardly, but his arms come up anyway, wrapping Tony in a hug. The kind of hug you give someone you aren’t sure you’ll ever see again. 

Tim looks away, throat tight. He doesn’t mean it to, but the weight of the sight sits heavy — promises kept, friendships carried across stars. Things he doesn’t have anymore. 

“Alright,” Rhodey says, clearing his throat loudly enough to break the moment. “Glad reunion hour is over, but we’ve still got a war criminal god standing in our lobby.”

Thor frowns. “Brother is no longer—”

“Save it,” Rhodey cuts him off. “Not my first day.”

“We might need him,” Tim says, which makes Tony bristle but nod and pull Rhodey aside. 

Loki’s gaze slides across the room as though Tim’s voice draws him toward him, locking on like Tim’s a puzzle worth solving. A boy out of place. A boy from another world. His expression flickers. 

His smirk shifts into something sharper. Amusement, yes, but also interest. “And who,” he drawls, “is this one?” 

Tim straightens automatically. 

“Refugee,” he settles on, because there’s no doubt that a god can tell he’s from anywhere but here. 

Loki just smirks, unbothered. There’s something calculating in his gaze, something interesting. 

But then Peter coughs, awkward and too loud, and Loki’s gaze shifts. Then fixes. 

Peter freezes. 

And for some reason, Loki’s smile softens. 

“Curious,” Loki says, almost to himself. 

Peter swallows hard. “That’s… not ominous at all.”

Tim steps a fraction closer, shoulder brushes Peter’s — not just for comfort, but because watching Peter’s malfunction is the only thing keeping him from bolting. He tilts his head, voice low enough that only Peter hears. “Careful. You’ve got a fan.”

Peter glares at him, red to his ears. “Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Banner clears his throat, trying to redirect. “Look, can we just— sit? Talk? Pretend this isn’t the most awkward high school reunion of all time?”

“Speak for yourself,” Tony mutters. “I’m having the time of my life.”

“Yeah, because you like watching Cap and Strange circle each other like cats in a box.

As if on cue, Steve steps into the room, voice steady. “We’re debriefing in the morning. I assume about the same thing you got a message about.” His eyes flick to Tim, like he’s an addendum to the report. “Until then, we stand down.” 

“Stand down,” Strange repeats, his tone silky and dangerous. “Because you’ve got everything under control, Captain?”

Steve exhales slowly. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Oh, please,” Tony says, practically glowing. “Do it. You’re both insufferable. I need the ratings.”

Tim’s lips twitch against his better judgment. Watching Strange bare his teeth at Steve Rogers of all people — and knowing it’s on his behalf — feels odd in a way Tim can’t name. Too much. Too good. 

He distracts himself by tossing out. “I’m sure your old teammates appreciate such a warm welcome, Captain. Is your next patriotic mission going to be glaring at my father until sunrise? Gotta warn you: his Cloak doesn’t like it.”

Steve actually looks startled. Then his expression hardens. “This isn’t a game. The Avengers assemble when there’s a threat, not when some kid decides to play dress-up.”

The room goes silent. 

Tim doesn't flinch. “Good to know.”

Strange shifts, just enough for Tim to feel the ripple of magic in the air. Protective, hovering, a presence no one else notices. 

Thor claps his hands once, breaking the tension. “Well! Now that we are gathered, let us celebrate with mead, stories, and whatever Midgardian treats you have.”

“You mean pizza?” Peter offers weakly. 

Thor beams. “Yes! The bread circles.”

Tim actually laughs. Just once, short and sharp, but real. 

“There!” Thor beams at the sound like it’s a personal victory. “Even the smallest warrior can laugh. Midgard is not so grim after all.”

Tim’s smile fades almost instantly, replaced with his usual neutral mask, but Thor doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and he just refuses to let it slip. 

Loki notices. His head tilts in that unsettling way, like he’s storing the information for later. 

Bruce clears his throat. “Pizza sounds good. And maybe a little less yelling?”

“Yelling?” Thor repeats, affronted “That was not yelling. That was — projection.”

“Whatever it was,” Rhodey says dryly, “I’m calling dinner before this turns into an incident report.”

Pepper’s voice drifts from the kitchen before anyone moves: “Already ordered.”

She appears a second later, barefoot in silk pajama pants and a Stark Industries hoodie like this is the most normal night in the world. She scans the room once — gods, sorcerers, soldiers, spies, and two teenagers who both look like they should be asleep — then sighs like a mother catching her kids awake past midnight. 

“Tony,” she says. 

“Pepper,” he says, aiming for innocence and failing. 

She presses a kiss to his cheek anyway, then turns her attention to Tim. “You’re freezing.” Her hand lifts before he can move, brushing damp hair off his forehead to check his temperature like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Tim goes stock-still. 

Pepper doesn’t push. She just smiles and tugs the edge of his hoodie straight. “You need dry clothes. And food. And about a week of sleep.”

“You see what I live with?” Tony asks, grinning at the two of them. “Constant nagging.”

Pepper shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “You’d be dead without it.”

Tim mutters before he can stop himself: “Bruce is stealing your husband.”

Pepper blinks, then actually laughs — bright and genuine. Tony pouts. Bruce hides a smile behind his hand. 

Natasha Romanoff drifts into the room, then closer to the conversation, quiet enough that Tim doesn’t notice until she’s standing beside him. “You’re quick,” she says softly. 

He glances at her, wary. 

“That’s good,” she adds. “Quick means alive.”

It’s not comfort, but it isn’t a threat, either. 

Clint, never far from his best friend, drops onto the couch like he owns it, bow clattering against the table. “Kid’s got better aim with words than I do with arrows.”

“Good aim with arrows is your whole schtick,” Tony reminds him. 

Clint grins. “Exactly.”

Tim huffs something close to a laugh. It catches in his throat, but Clint notices anyway and winks. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Natasha says. 

“I like him,” Clint replies. 

And Tim — Tim files that away somewhere deep. 

The elevator dings before he can think about it too hard. Vision glides in, solid yet not, like a man half-borrowed from another dimension. His eyes sweep the room, pausing on Thor and Loki. “The perimeter scans registered unusual energy fluctuations.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Asgardians. You’re late.”

Vision tilts his head, considering Tim. “And new variables.”

Tim stiffens instinctively. 

Strange shifts beside him, almost imperceptibly, but Tim feels the brush of magic like a hand on his shoulder. 

“Not variables,” Stephen says smoothly. “Allies.”

Vision studies him another moment, then nods once and floats toward the window. 

Scott stumbles out of the elevator next, practically buzzing. “Okay. Okay. Don’t freak out. You can do this, Scott. You can—” he pauses, then, an octave higher, says “Doctor Stephen Strange?”

Stephen blinks. “Yes?”

“Oh my god.” Scott clutches his chest like his heart’s going to leap out of it. “You’re, like, my guy. I watched your surgical lectures back in grad school. You did that whole keynote on spinal nerve regeneration—”

Stephen visibly tries to retreat into the floor. 

“And then you turned into, you know, this.” Scott keeps going. “Magic. Capes. The whole deal. It’s insane. Can you— do you do parties?”

“No,” Strange says, flat. He glances at Tim like he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Could you?”

“No.”

Scott looks personally devastated. 

Peter snorts. Tim smirks and leans closer, whispering just loud enough for Peter’s ear. “Scott’s asking the right questions. Do you do parties, Pete?”

Peter’s red from his ears to his collarbone. 

Sam and Bucky arrive together not long after — though neither look happy about that arrangement. Tim notes the way Sam takes stock of him in seconds, weighing something behind his eyes. 

“You’re young,” Sam says. 

“I moisturize well,” Tim replies without hesitation. 

Bucky doesn’t comment. But his gaze lingers, steady and assessing, before he turns toward Steve.

The night drifts on like that — arrivals and introductions, overlapping voices, pizza boxes stacking higher. 

At one point, Clint and Scott start arguing over Mario Kart, controllers shoved into their hands by Peter. Tim ends up watching, perched too close beside Peter just to see the way his hands fumble. Strange hovers behind both teenagers. Tony and Bruce fall back into half-finished theories like they never stopped. 

And in the middle of it all, Thor laughs, Loki schemes, Pepper mothers, Rhodey sighs, and Steve looks shockingly un-judgmental. 

It’s chaos. It’s fragile. It’s almost warm. 

Tim sits in the eye of it, unsure if he’s supposed to laugh or run. 

———

Pepper is the one who inevitably calls it. 

She herds Tony away from his tools with a look, then herds everyone else with a warmer but no less firm tone. 

“Sleep,” she says. “Just for a few hours. Tomorrow will be worse if you don’t.”

Thor laughs about the indignity of mortal beds, Clint mutters about Scott’s snoring, and Natasha just tells them all to shut up and go to sleep. 

Tim stays quiet. He doesn’t like the thought of closing his eyes here — a strange bed, strange world, strange people. Even if some of them are familiar in a way that aches. 

He lingers at the end of the hall, waiting until the noise of doors shutting fades into silence. The carpet mutes his step, but it doesn’t matter; Strange is already there. 

Not in robes, not glowing with eldritch fire, but leaning in the doorway like he’s been waiting. 

Tim’s shoulders stiffen. “You following me, Doc?”

Strange doesn’t deny it. “My wards don’t recognize you here yet. I wanted to make sure they did before you tried to sleep. You and Parker.”

It sounds like an excuse. Tim almost smiles at that. “And? Do they?”

“They do now.” Strange’s eyes, sharp even in the dim light, stay on him a moment longer than comfortable. “And I wanted to check on you.”

Tim shifts. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Strange’s tone doesn’t change, but the weight of it presses against Tim like a hand on his shoulder. “It hasn’t even been a week since Christmas. But you’re here. That’s enough for tonight.”

Tim barks out a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “Yeah? Enough for you, maybe.”

Silence stretches. 

Then Stephen says, not unkindly, “I meant what I said, you know. Before the gala. You’re good at masks.” 

“If this is your way of asking for a costume, I have to tell you, you were my guy for that. The other ones are in a different universe.”

“Timothy,” Strange says, and it’s earnest enough to cut Tim raw. He moves like he’s about to take a step forward, but catches himself, and stays planted against the doorframe. “Just– just don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Let someone in besides just Wong and I. Tony. Peter. Hell, even the annoying one with the magic questions.”

Tim doesn’t answer. He can’t. The words lodge somewhere in his chest, burning. 

Stephen pushes off the wall, straightening. “Get some sleep, kid.” A pause. Then, softer: “You deserve it.”

Tim watches him walk away. And Tim doesn’t feel like arguing. 

———

The room Tony gave him is too big. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, a soft bed that looks like it can swallow him whole, and the faint hum of the city bleeding in through the glass.

Peter’s already in there. He’s kicked off his shoes and is lying diagonally across the bed like he doesn’t know what to do with all the space. He sits up quickly when Tim comes in, grinning sheepishly. “Uh. Hi. I wasn't — I wasn’t stealing your side or anything. I just– it’s really big.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, dropping his bag by the dresser. “Biggest bed you’ve ever seen?”

Peter laughs nervously. “Kinda, yeah.”

Tim doesn’t smile, exactly, but his lips curve. He crosses the room and sits close enough that Peter goes rigid. Just close enough that their knees brush. 

“Relax,” Tim murmurs. “I’m not gonna bite.”

Peter makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh. “That’s— uh— reassuring.”

The silence stretches, softer now. Not empty. Tim leans back on his hands, watching Peter from the corner of his eye. The air feels charged, humming with something that isn’t quite spoken. 

Peter’s knee is still pressed against Tim’s, warm even through the thin fabric of his sweats. He hasn’t moved it, but he hasn’t leaned closer, either. His hands are twisted in the blanket, fingers picking at a loose thread, like if he lets go, he’ll float right off the bed. 

Tim tilts his head, studying him. “You’re uncomfortable.”

Peter startles. “What? No! I mean—” he fumbles. “Yes? But not in a bad way! Just– you do this thing.”

Tim blinks. “What thing?”

“That.” Peter gestures vaguely at all of him, flustered and bright red. “The— leaning in, and the looking, and the saying things in that voice like you’re trying to break my brain.”

Tim’s lips quirk. “Oh. That thing.”

Peter groans and flops backward, covering his face with both hands. “See? You know what you’re doing.”

Tim leans back on his palms, letting the quiet hum of the city through the window fill the space. “Maybe.” 

A beat. 

Then, softer: “Or maybe I just want to see if you’ll stay.”

Peter’s hands drop. His eyes, wide and earnest in the dim light, catch Tim’s like a wire pulled taut. “I’ll stay,” he says quickly, voice catching. “I mean — I’m here. With you. So– yeah.”

Tim looks away before the burn in his chest gives him away. He focuses on the skyline instead, the neon bleeding into the dark. “You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.”

“Maybe not,” Peter admits. “But I know you’re worth it.”

Tim’s breath catches. No one ever says things like that to him. Not without an agenda. Not without getting hurt. 

He forces himself to move, lying back beside Peter so their shoulders brush. The ceiling stretches above them, empty and pale, the kind of blank canvas that begs to be filled. 

For a while, neither speaks. There’s just the sound of their breathing, syncing and unsyncing, the rhythm of two people trying to fit in the same quiet. 

Tim turns his head first. Peter’s staring up, lips pressed tight, the words crowding his throat but remaining unsaid. 

“Ask,” Tim says softly. 

Peter blinks. “Ask what?”

“Whatever you want to. You’re practically buzzing.”

Peter hesitates, then turns onto his side so he’s facing Tim. “Okay. then… What happened? To you. I mean—” his voice drops. “What did you lose?”

Tim stares at him, the question a knife sliding between his ribs. His instinct was to deflect. Joke. Shut down. Anything but tell the truth. 

But Peter’s eyes don’t waver. 

Slowly, deliberately, Tim reaches down and grabs the hem of his shirt, then tugs it over his head. He lets it fall between them, bare skin catching the faint glow from the city. 

The shirt hits the floor with barely a sound. 

Peter stares. 

He doesn’t mean to — doesn’t mean to let his eyes trace every line, every mark carved into Tim’s skin — but he can’t help it. The scars aren’t random. They’re a history written in pale ridges and angry, faded lines. Some straight and neat, some jagged and messy. Some shallow enough to fade, others deep enough to look permanent, like they had been stitched into him with fire. 

Tim’s eyes don’t move. He’s watching Peter instead of watching himself, like the only thing that matters is what Peter does next. 

Peter’s throat works as he swallows. His hand hovers, fingers trembling just above Tim’s skin. “I–” his voice breaks. “Tim, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” Tim’s voice is soft. Flat, but not unkind. He breathes in through his nose, and exhales slowly. “I want to. I trust you.”

Peter looks at him, really looks at everything: the sharp line of his jaw, the exhaustion under his eyes, the faint red chafe on his throat where the suit rubbed raw. And under all of it — that same weight he’s been carrying since the rooftop, since before Peter even knew him. 

So Peter nods and lets his fingers fall. 

The first scar he touches is a thin line across Tim’s chest. Barely visible. Peter brushes it with the tip of his finger, light as a whisper. “This one?”

Tim’s mouth quirks, humorless. “Batarang. My hands weren’t steady enough yet. I slipped.”

“How old were you?” 

“Thirteen.”

Peter exhales hard, like the number itself hurts. His lips press against the scar, warm and gentle. Not trying to erase it — just acknowledging it. 

Tim doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch or lean in. He just lets it happen. 

Peter’s hand drifts higher, skimming across Tim’s chest, pausing at another pale slash near his collarbone. “And this?”

“Knife. Penguin’s men. Caught me by surprise.”

Peter presses another kiss there. His lips linger against Tim’s skin like he’s trying to breathe the pain out of it. 

Tim’s eyes close, lashes dark against his cheeks. His breath stutters. 

Peter moves lower. His hand finds a rougher scar, jagged and thick across Tim’s side. His voice drops, almost reverent. “This one looks like it hurt.”

Tim swallows. “Crowbar. The—” he stops, jaw tight. “The Joker. He– I wasn’t the only one.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with someone Peter doesn’t know yet. Someone he can hear in the way Tim’s voice falters. 

Peter doesn’t push. He just bends, kissing the scar slow, deliberate, his lips lingering longer this time. 

Tim’s fingers twitch against the sheets. His breath hitches like he doesn’t know what to do with the softness. 

Peter pulls back just enough to look at him. “Every one of these,” he says, voice trembling, “is proof you kept going. You’re still here.” 

Tim’s laugh is sharp, bitter. “Barely.”

“Still here,” Peter repeats, firmer now. His hand presses flat against Tim’s chest, right over the steady thud of his heartbeat. “That counts.”

Tim’s eyes snap open. They meet Peter’s, and for a second it feels like neither of them are breathing. 

“Peter,” Tim whispers. 

“I’m here,” Peter says again, softer this time. Like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tim’s chest rises unevenly under Peter’s palm. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just stares at him like he’s weighing something impossible. 

And then Peter sees it — just the smallest flicker, the way Tim’s eyes soften, not sharp or calculating, but raw. Open. 

That’s when Peter leans in. 

There’s no hesitation this time, no stutter or trip or too-fast rush. His lips find Tim’s and it isn’t careful. It isn’t neat. It’s wet, messy, salt still clinging to Tim’s mouth from the tears he hasn’t finished shedding. 

Tim makes a small sound — half gasp, half something else — and then he’s kissing back. Not with the precision of a strategist or the practiced tilt of someone who knows how to disarm with charm. But with want. With need. 

His hand finds the small of Peter’s back and presses him closer, like the only thing that makes sense right now is less space between them. 

Peter lets him. More than that, he gives in, presses harder, tilts his head just enough for the kiss to deepen into something bigger than either of them. Something that doesn’t feel like it has an ending. 

Tim breaks first, but only because he needs air. His forehead falls against Peter’s, breath ragged. His lips are swollen, red, shining faint in the low light. 

And for the first time, his voice is quiet, unguarded. 

I could build a life on that, he thinks. 

Peter’s chest squeezes. He doesn’t know what to say — doesn’t know if there is anything to say — so he kisses him again. Slow. Sure. A promise. 

They stay there for a long time, lips barely brushing, breath mingling. The kiss feels like it’s still happening even after it breaks — like neither of them is willing to let it go fully. 

Peter shifts first. Not away. Just down, slow, careful, like gravity itself is tugging him lower. His lips graze along Tim’s jaw, his throat, and then hovers above another scar. 

“This one?” His voice is hushed, reverent. 

Tim’s voice is quiet. “Steph.”

Peter lifts his head just enough to look at him. “Your friend?”

“My best friend.” A thin smile pulls at Tim’s mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We were sparring, and I got distracted by a joke. She… she had a rough family life, but she wanted to do good. I thought we’d take on the world together.”

Peter bends again and kisses the scar slower this time, lingering like he’s anchoring Tim to the present. His lips stay until after Tim exhales, shaky. 

Another scar, thinner, slices down his arm. Peter’s lips brush it, warmer this time, before asking softly, “This one?”

“Jason.” The word is heavy. “My brother. He was Robin before me, but he– he died young. Really young.” His voice thins, like he’s forcing it out. “He came back, but not the same. Angrier. He hated me for a long time, maybe still does.”

Peter kisses the scar again, firmer, like he can replace that anger with gentleness. Tim makes a sound — half choked, half swallowed. His eyes close. 

Peter pulls back just enough to whisper, “But you loved him.”

Tim nods, jaw tight, tears caching at the edges of his lashes. “Still do.”

Another scar. Lower, on his ribs. Peter’s lips find it and linger. He doesn’t rush. 

Tim swallows. “Dick. He tried to save me from the blow. My first brother. My–” he stops, breath catching, then pushes through. “My safe place. When I was Robin, when I was nothing else, he– he made me feel like I mattered.”

Peter kisses it again, then again, slower and deeper. His mouth stays there, pressing warmth into the pale line. 

Tim trembles, tears slipping free, quiet and unannounced. 

Peter doesn’t point it out. He just moves lower, brushing his lips over a scar along Tim’s side. “And this one?”

Tim’s breath stutters. “Damian. My youngest brother.” His voice almost breaks on the name. “I— when I came here, I didn’t even remember he existed. But I loved him. I’d do anything to keep him safe. But he died, too. Barely fourteen. And I couldn’t—” his words fracture, crumble. 

Peter kisses it. Once. Twice. A third time. His lips linger long, longer, until Tim’s breath shakes apart under him. 

Now the tears spill, slipping down Tim’s cheeks. His body shudders, but he doesn’t push Peter away. 

“You couldn’t save them,” Peter whispers, pulling back just enough to meet Tim’s eyes. “But you loved them. That mattered.”

Tim lets out a sound, broken, muffled by his own clenched teeth. Peter doesn’t stop. He moves higher, to the scar carved ragged across Tim’s chest. His lips hover. 

This time, Tim’s eyes are wider, wet, full of grief. His voice is a whisper, frayed. “Bruce.”

Peter presses his mouth to the scar, slow and firm. He doesn’t move for a long time, just rests there like he’s breathing life back into it. 

Tim shakes. A sob tears out of him, raw, unstoppable. His hand grabs at Peter’s shoulder clutching, like he’s afraid he’ll vanish too. 

Peter pulls back only enough to whisper, lips still brushing Tim’s skin. “Your father.”

“My father,” Tim echoes, voice breaking. His face twists, pain written raw across it. “I loved him more than anything. I thought— I thought I could make him proud. I thought—” he can’t finish. The words collapse under him. 

Peter kisses the scar again. Softer. Then again, and again, each one like an anchor, pulling Tim back from drowning.

Tim sobs quietly, shoulders shaking, but he doesn’t hide. Doesn’t retreat. He lets Peter see him, lets Peter hold him there in the open ache. 

And through the blur of tears, he remembers Strange’s voice — clipped, precise, almost irritated when he’d said it, but kind all the same: Let someone in besides Wong and I. 

Tim’s breath catches. This is what it means. Not strategy, not calculation, just Peter, kissing every wound like it matters. 

When Peter finally lifts his head, his own cheeks are wet. He looks at Tim like he’s seeing all of him — not just the scars, but the boy beneath. 

“I’m here,” Peter says again, voice rough but certain. “I’m not leaving.”

Tim lets out a sob that’s half laugh, half grief. His hands cup Peter’s face, pulling him in, kissing him hard, wet, desperate. Not smooth, not neat. Just real.

And, for now, real is enough.