Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he shoves Tim through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim still can’t speak.

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

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

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

Tim goes pale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has no plan.

Batman would be disappointed.

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

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

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

"What the—"

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

Tim freezes, holding his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chains at Tim’s wrists remain.

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

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

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

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

Ra’s opens his eyes; they go wide.

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

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

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

King Phantom snaps his fingers.

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

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

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

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

Oh god. What have I gotten into.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ten years, echoes in his mind like a gong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phantom’s grin is pure sin. “Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Batman would say, review, assess and execute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I touch you?" Tim asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

For a moment, Tim forgets how to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dozens of eyes fix on him.

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

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

Everyone bows, low and shallow, murmuring as one:

"Your Majesty."

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

"Majesty."

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

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

The room waits, breath held.

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

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

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

The word lands like thunder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Krims."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phantom blinks, crosses his arms and pouts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dora and Frostbite exchange a knowing look.

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

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

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

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

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

The staff nods eagerly, clearly relieved by her clarity.

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

The staff scatters to carry out her orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Personal colors?" Tim repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim nods.

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

Tim focuses back on learning what he can.

"What's a coremate?"

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

"Phantom doesn't have one?"

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

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

"He needs a queen?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So my title is Temporary Consort?"

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

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

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

"Okay?"

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

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

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

"And your intentions?"

"To earn my freedom," Tim repeats.

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

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

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

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

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

"You—compelled me?"

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

"You worry for him," Tim realizes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

The door shuts neatly behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words land heavy, but not cruel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He makes a decision.

"Do you eat?" he asks quietly.

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

Tim nods to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…May I touch you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost human.

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

He is being held. Tight and safe.

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

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

He can't seem to find the skill now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sleeps deeper than he has in years.