Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Iceberg Lounge is as extravagant as ever—golden lights casting a warm glow over sleek black furniture, the quiet murmur of Gotham’s elite blending with the smooth jazz from the stage. The air smells of expensive cigars and top-shelf whiskey, yet Janet Drake barely notices any of it. Her focus is on the small hand in hers, on her little boy, Tim, whose fingers are wrapped so politely around her own, who walks beside her with measured steps, much too quiet for a child his age. Four years old, and he already knows how to be small, how to be careful, how to exist without drawing too much attention. He has learned that lesson far too young.

It makes her stomach turn.

She looks down at him as they walk through the grand entrance. His wide blue eyes dart around the room, taking in the gleaming chandeliers, the polished floors, the well-dressed patrons sipping their drinks in velvet booths. Awe flickers across his face, but he does not speak. He does not tug at her hand or point out something he finds interesting. She wonders, not for the first time, if he is simply too afraid to act like a child. If the years of living under Jake’s thumb have already begun shaping him into something quieter, something that knows it must be useful to be loved. Jake would say that’s a good thing. That love must be earned. That being good is the only way to deserve it.

Jake Drake, her husband. Her mistake.

Janet tightens her grip on Tim’s hand, as if to anchor them both. She is selfish and cruel—she has always known that—but at least she is not blind. She knows what is coming. Knows she does not have much time left. The diagnosis had come only days ago, delivered in quiet, sterile words from a doctor who had likely long since become numb to the weight of such conversations. Terminal. Unavoidable.

She had gone home after that, sat in her empty study, poured herself a drink, and tried to think of what would happen to Tim once she was gone. Jake would win. That much was certain. His claws were already buried deep into public perception—he was charming, influential, and knew how to play the game. If she died, Tim would be left with no one but his father. A man who only wanted a child to mold into an heir, who saw Tim as a legacy and not a boy.

That was when the thought had struck her.

Oswald Cobblepot.

It was insane. She had spent the entire day trying to rationalize why it wasn’t, and yet here she was. Standing in the center of the Iceberg Lounge, her little boy at her side, holding a contract in her bag that would name Oswald as Tim’s godfather. Not in the crime sense, of course.

Oswald had been her business partner for years now. He was a ruthless man, yes, but not without principles. He kept his part of the city safer than most, ensured that the truly dangerous criminals never took root in his territory. He was efficient, intelligent, and—most importantly—he had always been warm to Tim. On the few occasions she had been forced to bring her son to their meetings, Oswald had never been anything but kind. Tim, despite his shyness, had taken to him.

She watches as a familiar figure steps down the grand staircase, a glass of wine in one hand, his sharp eyes already on her. He is dressed impeccably, as always, in a deep navy suit with a matching tie. His limp is barely noticeable now, after all these years, though she still catches the way he shifts his weight subtly with each step.

Oswald Cobblepot—The Penguin.

His gaze flickers to Tim before he says anything, and then, just like that, the wine glass lowers. His sharp expression softens ever so slightly, his tone shifting as he turns to a nearby waiter.

"Prepare some tea." he orders.

Janet exhales.

It is only the beginning.

--

Janet exhaled slowly, adjusting her posture like she was bracing herself for a battle. “Oswald, I need to talk to you." she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She had spent enough years in business to know that men like Oswald Cobblepot respected strength more than desperation. If she wavered now, if she let him sense the full weight of her urgency, she risked him dismissing her outright. “Privately.”

Oswald’s lips quirked in amusement, his sharp eyes flicking between her and the small boy standing at her side. “Well, that certainly doesn’t sound ominous at all." he remarked, then tilted his head as he regarded Tim. His expression softened just a fraction—almost imperceptible, but Janet caught it. “And what about little Timothy? I don’t imagine our conversation will be particularly interesting for him.”

Tim’s gaze immediately dropped to the floor, obedient and silent. Always so careful. Always so small. Janet sighed, reaching down to smooth a hand over his dark hair, as if that could undo the years of conditioning that had already taken root in his bones. “He can sit with someone nearby." she said. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

Oswald studied the boy for a moment longer before he snapped his fingers. Almost instantly, one of his more respectable attendants materialized—a well-dressed man in a tailored suit, the kind of employee Oswald kept around when he wanted to appear polished and proper. “Young Master Drake will join us in my main office." Oswald instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Bring him some tea and something sweet.”

And with that, Oswald turned and led them up the grand staircase.

His office was much different from the cold elegance of the lounge below. It was warmer, the dark browns and deep greens giving it the feel of a study rather than a crime lord’s headquarters. The most striking thing, however, was the massive vulture perched comfortably on an elaborate structure—a playground designed specifically for the enormous bird. If there was one thing to be said about Oswald Cobblepot, it was that he was gentle with his pets.

The vulture peered out from a small cubby house within the structure, her sharp eyes locking onto Tim. She tilted her head, assessing him with a measured curiosity.

Tim’s eyes went wide. Not with fear—most children would have shrunk away from the sheer size of the creature—but with fascination. He was utterly captivated, though he tried so desperately to hide it. Because showing too much emotion was bad. Because reacting too much was bad. Because Tim had already learned that being too expressive made him vulnerable.

Janet felt sick for her son.

Oswald laughed, the sharp, pleased kind of laugh that came from recognizing something familiar in another person. “Would you like to give her a treat?” he asked.

Tim hesitated, his gaze darting to Janet for permission. She nodded, and he turned back to Oswald, giving a small, polite, “Thank you.”

Oswald pulled open the door to his mini-fridge, retrieving an ice block—small, frozen, simple. “She shouldn’t have too many of these, but she will be delighted to get another one today.” He smiled, then crouched slightly to meet Tim’s eye level. “Here, let me help you.”

Without hesitation, without second-guessing, Oswald scooped Tim up into his arms, lifting him effortlessly so he could reach the vulture’s perch. Tim tensed at first—clearly unaccustomed to being held—but the moment Oswald guided his small hand toward the bird, all of his apprehension melted away.

The vulture took the ice block delicately from Tim’s fingers, her beak precise and careful. Tim’s eyes shone with wonder, his entire face lighting up with unguarded delight. Oswald gestured toward the bird’s head, an unspoken encouragement. Tim hesitated, then slowly, so gently, reached out and patted her feathers.

And wasn’t that something?

Janet stood there, watching her son experience something new, something warm, something safe. And it wasn’t with her.

She was his mother. She was supposed to be the one to share moments like this with him. But she couldn’t. She had never been able to. She didn’t know how to hold him without fear. Didn’t know how to speak to him without the walls she had built around herself getting in the way. She had spent so long wrapped up in her own mistakes, her own regrets, her own damage, that she had let her son become collateral.

And here was Oswald—ruthless, dangerous, utterly self-serving Oswald Cobblepot—lifting her child without hesitation. Without fear. Without shame.

He was sharing his interest with Tim.

Something Janet had never been able to do.

And for the first time, she thought—maybe she was right. Maybe Oswald would be better for Tim than she ever could be.

--------

Oswald watched as his vulture, Antonia, preened like a spoiled cat, flaring her wings slightly before hopping down to the floor. She grabbed the thickly knotted rope that lay in her enclosure, tugging at it before jerking her head up toward the boy—an unmistakable invitation to play.

He chuckled, charmed by her antics. “Looks like you’ve made a friend." he said smoothly, glancing at the boy, who stood frozen in quiet awe. “Go on, play tug-of-war with her. It’ll be very helpful for me.”

The phrasing was deliberate. Oswald wasn’t blind. He had already picked up on the way the boy’s shoulders straightened at the word helpful, the way his fingers twitched as if waiting for permission to be useful. There was something heartbreakingly familiar in the gesture—he had once been a child desperate to please, desperate to prove his worth to people who saw him as little more than an inconvenience.

Janet, sharp as ever, flicked her gaze toward him, her expression guarded. She noticed. Of course, she had. She was testing him, and Oswald knew better than to give anything away just yet.

As Tim knelt down, tentatively grasping the other end of the rope, Antonia gave a playful yank. The boy’s lips quirked in the smallest of smiles, and though he didn’t laugh, Oswald could see the delight in his eyes as he pulled back with all the strength his small frame could manage.

Satisfied that the child was occupied, Janet leaned in, lowering her voice. “I have a proposal for you.”

Oswald hummed in amusement, leaning back in his chair. Janet Drake was many things—cutthroat, cunning, pragmatic—but she had never been reckless. She only proposed deals when she had already calculated every possible outcome, which meant this was something important. Something she had been sitting on for a while.

Janet reached into her bag and slid a document across his desk.

Oswald picked it up with nimble fingers, eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents.

It was a legal contract. A transfer of power.

If she died—which, judging by the way this was written, was not a distant hypothetical but a looming certainty—her 40% of Drake Industries stock would be placed in his hands. He would have full control over those shares for fourteen years. After that, 90% of her stock would be returned to Timothy Drake, and the remaining 10% would stay under his name permanently.

Fourt een years.

Oswald’s eyes flickered toward Tim, then back down to the fine print.

There were clauses—very specific clauses. This transfer of power was only applicable if Tim remained alive and in good health. The language was airtight, unmistakable. This wasn’t just a financial deal. This was a contract binding Oswald to protect the boy, to ensure his survival until adulthood.

Slowly, he set the papers down, fixing Janet with a sharp, unreadable gaze.

She met his stare without flinching. “I want you to be his godfather." she said simply.

Oswald didn’t reply. He let the silence stretch, studying her, weighing the truth in her words.

Janet inhaled deeply, pressing forward. “I will admit to you, I have not been a good mother." she confessed, her voice steady but bitter. “But his father is worse. Do not believe any lies that man tells you. This is why I’m coming to you with this offer.”

Oswald tilted his head slightly, intrigued despite himself.

“All I ask is that when I am gone, you check up on Tim every six months. More would be appreciated, but it’s not required. If, by some chance, you attain custody—which would be ideal—you’ll receive a lump sum, and all of Timothy’s needs will be covered by his trust fund.” She let out a slow, measured breath. “But that will be a battle in itself.”

Oswald didn’t blink.

A child.

A child trapped in a bad family.

Something inside him twisted—something old and buried, something that reeked of bruised knees, cold nights, and voices that called him useless and ugly and pathetic.

He thought of his mother, Gertrud Kapelput, and the way she had never called him any of those things. She had loved him, fiercely and unapologetically. She had raised him with kindness, and despite all of Gotham’s cruelty, she had told him that he was special. That he was meant for greatness.

And then he thought of his father, Elijah Van Dahl, a man he had known only briefly but who had treated him with gentleness, had looked at him with a softness that had startled him. His father had been a man of influence, one who had taught him that you could bring someone to their knees without killing them. That power was not always in bloodshed. This had shaped him for the better, meeting his father at 15, his father had been business savy and the rest of his family cuttroat, which was why even after finding him and his beloved… he could not bring them back home, he could barely even transfer funds, but he still did.

And yet, for all the love his mother had given him, for all the kindness his father had offered in secret, Oswald had still grown up in Gotham. He had been shaped by its underbelly, raised by its criminals and monsters. He had learned what bad men (and women) looked like—had suffered under them.

And now he was looking at a boy who already knew how to survive them.

Slowly, Oswald turned his gaze back to Tim. The child was still playing, still holding back his joy as if it were dangerous.

Oswald’s jaw tightened.

Finally, he exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but firm.

“Tell me everything about your husband.”

--

Oswald listened, his fingers steepled under his chin, as Janet laid out the full extent of her husband’s cruelty. Jack Drake was no mere neglectful father—he was something far worse. A man who could twist words and public perception until even the truth became a weapon in his hands.

Janet had already tried to free her son from him. She had already fought this battle and lost, not because she was wrong, but because Jack had turned the very system meant to protect people against her.

A stint in a psychiatric ward. A suicide watch. Lies told with such precision and charisma that they overshadowed the truth. Jack had claimed she was unstable, that she had planned to take Tim’s life alongside her own. That she was dangerous.

Of course, it had all been fabricated—but public image was everything. And Jack had secured his, standing at the helm of Drake Industries, playing the role of the concerned father while Janet, the real mind behind the company, was left doing the work without the recognition or power to change anything.

And Tim.

Jack’s cruelty did not typically take the form of bruises or broken bones—no, his was a slower, more insidious kind of torment. If Tim wasn’t useful, if he didn’t perform to his father’s expectations, he was made to feel like nothing. A disappointment. A burden. Worthless.

Oswald could feel his blood boiling.

He had made promises to his mother, Gertrud. Promises that he wouldn’t kill needlessly, that he would not let Gotham turn him into a monster. And, for the most part, he had honored those promises. He had learned restraint, had learned to wield power in ways that didn’t always involve blood.

But this?

Oh, he wanted to send a few men to pay Jack a visit. Wanted to make the man understand what true fear felt like.

But that would not solve this problem—not truly. Not in any way that mattered.

With effort, he pushed the anger down and glanced toward Tim.

The boy had been given a slice of cake by one of Oswald’s attendants—a delicate, finely made confection from one of the best bakeries in Gotham. And yet… he hadn’t touched it.

Oswald studied the child carefully. Tim was sitting stiffly, hands resting on the table, eyes averted. Not in disinterest, but in hesitation.

He was afraid to be a burden. Afraid to take anything.

Something in Oswald’s chest twisted, and before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“Master Drake." he said smoothly, keeping his tone light. “I haven’t tried that cake before. Could you do me a favor? Try it for me and give me a full report on what you think.”

Tim blinked, startled, but then—oh.

Oswald saw it instantly. The slight widening of his eyes, the way his fingers twitched before reaching for the fork. Eager to be helpful.

Tim took a careful bite, chewing slowly, as if testing the flavors. And then, for the second time since he had arrived, his expression changed. The smallest flicker of joy—quickly buried, but there.

Oswald tried not to let his satisfaction show, but something in him settled as he watched the boy take another bite.

And then another realization struck him.

Tim wasn’t just hesitant. He wasn’t just being polite.

He looked starved.

Not in the way of someone who hadn’t eaten in days, no—Oswald had seen true starvation before. But this was different. This was a child who had likely never been allowed to enjoy food. A child who had been fed just enough to function, but not enough to thrive.

He turned a sharp glare toward Janet, his eyes cold with accusation.

She met his stare evenly, already anticipating his judgment. “I know." she said, voice steady. “It’s why I’m here. I am trying to correct my mistakes.”

Oswald’s fingers curled against the armrest of his chair.

“I have a few years at most." Janet continued, her tone resigned but unwavering. “I am not a good mother. I have no time to fix that. This is why I am preparing. I cannot help him—I do not know how to help him. You are the best chance he has.”

Her gaze flickered to the contract on his desk.

“You don’t need to take this deal." she admitted. “But let’s be honest—there are only benefits in it for you.”

Oswald growled low in his throat. “For me?” he echoed, voice laced with disdain. His grip tightened on the arms of his chair. “And what about your son?”

Janet exhaled, as if she had expected this reaction. “And my son." she conceded.

Oswald stared at her for a long moment before shifting his gaze back to the contract. His mind was already working, already calculating the angles, the risks, the possibilities.

“I will do what I can." he said at last. “But custody battles are lengthy. They require evidence.” His lips curled slightly. “For now, add a clause that I will take him out on weekends.”

Janet shook her head. “That is not something I can force into the contract." she said. “Jack would have to be the one to allow it.”

Oswald’s expression darkened.

He was going to hate Jack Drake.

He could feel it already.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Tim is seven when his mother dies.

He knows, logically, that this is supposed to be a devastating loss. That he’s supposed to feel something deep and terrible, like a part of him has been ripped away.

But the truth is, he doesn’t know what to feel.

He should feel sadder. He does feel sad, but there’s a numbness beneath it, an emptiness that makes him wonder if he’s a bad person for not mourning the way he should.

Janet had only started trying when he was four. Before that, she had been absent in all the ways that mattered—buried in her work, avoiding him, unwilling or unable to be the parent he needed. Even when she did try, she always admitted that it wasn’t enough. That she couldn’t fix things. That she didn’t know how.

But she had tried. And that means something.

And now she’s gone.

And Tim is alone.

No, not alone—he still has Jack. But Jack has never really felt like a father. Not the way a father should be. And now, without Janet as a buffer, as weak a shield as she had been, Tim knows that things are only going to get worse.

At the funeral, he cries.

Not just because he misses her, but because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because standing in front of her casket, surrounded by people who never really cared about her, feels suffocating.

The room is filled with Gotham’s elite—business partners, socialites, investors, people who are only here because it’s expected of them. They murmur their condolences, but their words are empty.

And Jack?

Jack is at the bar, drinking.

Not because he’s grieving his wife, but because he’s realizing how screwed he is without her.

Because she was the one who kept the company running. She was the one who made sure things functioned. Jack only ever played the role of the charming, competent businessman. But now, without her, without the brains behind Drake Industries, he will have to step up.

And he knows he can’t.

So while Tim is standing there, small and lost in a crowd of strangers, Jack isn’t even paying attention to him.

And for the first time in his life, Tim truly understands just how alone he is.

Until—

A hand on his back.

Warm. Steady. There.

Tim stiffens, then turns.

Oswald.

He’s dressed impeccably, as always, his suit crisp and pressed, his gloves perfectly fitted. But he doesn’t look at Tim the way the others do. There’s no feigned sympathy, no shallow words meant to fill the silence.

Just… Oswald.

His godfather.

A man Tim has only ever seen in glimpses, only ever been allowed to spend short bursts of time with. But Oswald always made time for him. Always made sure he felt welcome. And now, here he is, standing beside him when no one else will.

Tim doesn’t think.

He just turns and buries his face in Oswald’s chest, fists clenching into the expensive fabric of his suit. He doesn’t care if it’s inappropriate, if it’s embarrassing—he just needs this.

Needs someone.

And Oswald… Oswald doesn’t pull away.

If anything, he shifts just slightly, one hand coming up to rest against Tim’s back, steady and reassuring.

Tim feels terrible—he must be ruining the suit, staining it with tears, but Oswald only says, voice as calm as ever,

“Suits can be dry-cleaned. I own a few dry cleaners around Gotham.”

It’s such an Oswald thing to say that Tim almost laughs through his tears.

And he clings tighter.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce Wayne is at Janet Drake’s funeral because it is expected of him.

Wayne Enterprises had worked with Drake Industries on several projects, and attending the funeral of a business partner is simply good etiquette. It maintains relationships, strengthens ties. It is what his father would have done.

But Bruce is not his father.

He walks through the sea of Gotham’s elite, offering condolences with the expected solemnity, but his mind is elsewhere. Always working, always watching.

And then—he arrives.

Oswald Cobblepot.

A man Bruce has kept under close scrutiny for years.

The so-called legitimate businessman of Gotham, who has never once been arrested, never once been formally accused, and yet—Bruce knows better.

Cobblepot operates in the gray space between crime and business, never dirty enough to get caught, never clean enough to be trusted. He has contacts in the underworld, deals in secrets, and though he is not ruthless in the way Gotham’s worst are, he is still dangerous.

A man who decides who lives and who disappears.

Bruce watches him carefully. He expects to see him exchange words with investors, to linger around the power players of the room, positioning himself as he always does—playing the game.

But instead, Cobblepot goes to the boy.

Tim Drake.

Bruce watches as Oswald pulls the child aside, away from the crowd, in a way that is—surprisingly gentle. Protective, even. He speaks softly, words Bruce can’t quite catch, but the effect is immediate.

Tim turns into him, clings to him like a lifeline, sobbing into the man’s expensive suit.

Bruce’s brows furrow.

This is not how the Penguin acts.

Cobblepot is calculating, strategic—everything he does is with intent, with some greater plan in mind.

And yet—this doesn’t feel like an act.

Bruce walks past them, slipping a tiny bug onto the table near them, ensuring he can hear what is being said. He expects whispered deals, veiled promises, some kind of manipulation.

But what he hears instead is—comfort.

No schemes, no ploys.

Just quiet reassurance.

Bruce keeps moving, but his mind lingers.

He does not trust Oswald Cobblepot.

Cobblepot has evaded Gotham’s justice system for years—not because he is innocent, but because he has learned how to do crime like a rich man. He makes sure that his streets are safe, that crime does not flourish in his territory, but that is not out of altruism—it is control.

He doesn’t kill indiscriminately, but he does kill.

He justifies it by choosing victims that even Gotham would not mourn—rapists, murderers, men too cruel for redemption. But killing is still killing.

And yet—there are those who consider him a good man, for those actions and others.

Cobblepot has poured money into Gotham’s infrastructure. He has funded orphanages, improved public transportation, built homeless shelters. There are people in Gotham who see him as their protector, as someone who does more for them than the city ever has.

But Bruce knows better.

No matter how much good Cobblepot has done, he will always be a criminal.

And criminals cannot be trusted.

So Bruce will watch. He will observe. He will keep an eye on whatever this is.

Because whether or not Oswald Cobblepot truly cares for Tim Drake—

Batman does not trust him.

--

Batman does what Batman does best—he investigates.

Gotham is a city of shadows, of criminals who slip through the cracks, and Oswald Cobblepot has always been one of the slipperiest. The Penguin is not like the Joker or the Riddler—he does not cause chaos for the sake of it, he does not revel in destruction. No, Cobblepot is calculated, controlled. He is the kind of criminal who understands Gotham’s systems and bends them to his will.

If he is taking a personal interest in Tim Drake, Batman needs to know why.

So, he starts with his most reliable source.

Jim Gordon.

Gordon sighs when Batman brings up Cobblepot. It’s not a sigh of surprise or annoyance—it’s resignation.

The relationship between Gordon and the Penguin has always been complicated.

Cobblepot is not a friend of the GCPD, but he is not their greatest enemy either.

In a city drowning in crime, Gordon has had to make choices, had to weigh what he can and cannot fight against. He is not a man who likes compromise, but Gotham forces it upon even the best of them. And when Oswald Cobblepot can take down more criminals in a week than the police department can in a month, sometimes the right choice is letting the lesser evil go free to stop the greater one.

It is the same reason Gordon works with him.

Batman is a vigilante. He breaks the law. He beats criminals to near death and stalks the city like a phantom. If Gotham were a better place, Gordon would have arrested him years ago. But Gotham is not a better place. It is a war zone, and in war, you use the weapons available to you.

Even if those weapons are criminals like Oswald Cobblepot.

“Janet Drake made Oswald Cobblepot Tim’s godfather when the boy was four.” Gordon says, rubbing his temples as if anticipating Batman’s reaction. “Legally speaking, if she died—”

“She did die.”

Gordon exhales sharply. “Yeah. And that means Cobblepot does have some claim, whether you like it or not.”

Batman doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t like it. But he listens.

Because then Gordon says something more interesting.

“Oswald told me in confidence that he’s building a case against Jack Drake.”

Batman’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Adding to the reports Janet already filed before she died.”

Batman’s mind races.

Jack Drake. He remembers Janet’s attempted divorce. The rumors that Jack was manipulative, that he undermined her at every turn. But the case had gone nowhere. Janet had ended up in a psych ward, and Jack had walked away with control of the company.

Had there been more to it? Had Batman overlooked something?

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an explosion in the distance. Then, laughter.

Joker.

Batman clenches his fists. He doesn’t have time for this now.

He will have to make time later.

But later never comes.

By the time Batman returns to this investigation, the damage is already done.

By the time he looks into Jack Drake again, it will already be too late.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim lives alone.

It isn’t technically true. His father is still alive. There are still staff on the property. But the truth is, after his mother died, there was no place for him inside the main house.

He doesn’t sleep there. He doesn’t eat there. The house is Jack’s home, and Tim exists on the fringes.

Instead, he has been moved to an old staff house on the property. It was meant for groundskeepers decades ago, but no one had lived in it for years. The first night he was placed there, he thought maybe it was a punishment. Maybe he had done something to upset his father without realizing it. But Jack never said anything, and Tim quickly learned that, in his father’s mind, he was just... an afterthought. Not worth consideration.

That was fine. Tim knew how to adapt.

The staff house was old and falling apart. In the winter, the wind cut through the walls like knives, and in the summer, it became a furnace, suffocating and stifling. The first time it rained, he learned the ceiling leaked—badly. The first time he got sick, he learned that no one would check on him. The first time Jack forgot to buy groceries, he learned that if he wanted to eat, he would have to find his own food.

Tim figured it out.

There was an old apple orchard on the property, long overgrown but still bearing fruit. He learned how to climb the trees, how to pick the apples that weren’t too sour, how to store them so they wouldn’t rot too fast. He learned to recognize which wild plants wouldn’t make him sick. He found a neighbor’s chicken coop down the road and sometimes, if he was lucky, he could trade an apple or two for an egg.

Tim figured out how to cook.

At first, he burned everything. He burned his fingers, his hands, the one pan he had. But the internet was full of tutorials, and with time, he got better. He learned how to make apple stew, apple pancakes, apple sauce. He figured out how to make eggs without breaking the yolks. He learned to use spices—when he could steal them from the main house—so his food didn’t taste bland.

Tim figured out how to take care of himself.

He learned how to patch up his leaking roof with old tarps he found in the shed. He figured out how to boil water to clean a wound. He figured out how to keep quiet when he was scared, how to curl up under blankets and wait for the bad feelings to pass.

And through it all, he made sure Jack never noticed.

Because when Jack did notice him, it was never good.

Jack never hit him. Jack never even yelled at him. But when he did look at Tim, it was with disappointment, with cold assessment, as if Tim was just another investment that had failed to pay off. Jack made it clear in a thousand little ways that Tim was only valuable when he was useful.

So Tim became useful.

He made himself small. He made himself helpful. He made sure to never complain, never ask for things, never make a fuss. He kept his grades perfect. He made sure to never show up dirty or sick when Jack did see him. He never let Oswald find out where he really lived.

Jack hated Oswald Cobblepot.

More than that—he feared him.

And fear made Jack unpredictable. It made him pay attention in ways Tim didn’t want him to. So when Oswald came for his check-ins, Jack suddenly remembered he had a son, and Tim was dragged back into the main house. Given a warm meal. Given a bed with sheets that didn’t have holes in them. Given just enough to make sure Oswald never suspected the truth.

Oswald had given Tim a phone, prepaid with unlimited internet. Tim cherished it. Not because of the call feature—he’d rather die than ask Oswald for help unless he was actually dying—but because it let him learn. It let him find solutions to his problems. It let him figure out how to survive.

Because survival was all he had.

And he was really, really good at it.

--

Tim is confused and delighted the first time someone shows genuine interest in his photos.

The idea that anyone—especially someone like Oswald Cobblepot—would care about his pictures feels surreal. Tim’s photos were his escape, his secret hobby, something he did to get away from the quiet, lonely house, to take his mind off his father’s harsh indifference and the isolation he often felt. His photos weren’t anything special—just things he found on the property, in the orchard, or around the old staff house. Simple things: fireflies glowing in the dusky evening, the occasional stray cat he’d found, birds flitting in and out of the trees, the leaves and flowers in the garden. Nothing important. Nothing worth showing. Certainly nothing worth taking up anyone’s time.

But when Oswald came by last time and asked to see them, Tim hadn’t been sure what to expect. He hadn’t really shown anyone his pictures before—certainly not his father. Jack wasn’t the type to care about things like that. When Tim had handed over his phone, he’d felt exposed, vulnerable even, like someone might judge him for what was, to him, a deeply personal hobby. But Oswald didn’t judge.

Instead, Oswald smiled as he scrolled through the photos. He complimented Tim’s eye for detail, praised the way he’d captured the beauty of things that others might overlook. Tim had been floored. It was the first time anyone had said anything positive about his pictures, and it was from someone who didn’t have to pretend to care about him. Oswald didn’t owe him anything, yet here he was, showing interest in something Tim had never thought was good enough to share with anyone.

Then Oswald had said something that would stick with Tim for a long time: “I’d love to see more of your work, Tim. You have a rare talent.”

That praise had meant more to Tim than he realized. For once, someone had treated him like he mattered—like something he did mattered. It was a feeling that was foreign to him, yet he found himself clinging to it, something soft and fragile in the midst of everything else.

The next time Oswald came over, it was with a gift. A camera. A professional one, complete with all the lenses and settings that Tim had never imagined he’d have the chance to touch. He froze, staring at it in disbelief. He wasn’t used to receiving things like this, and certainly not from someone like Oswald. Oswald was kind to him, sure, but Tim had been trained to be cautious, to never take anything for granted, to never accept anything without expecting a price to pay later. That’s how it had always been with his father, and that’s what he had grown to expect from the world.

Tim looked at Oswald and then at Jack, uncertain. Jack was in one of his moods, his face tight with something Tim couldn’t quite read. His father’s expression was unreadable but gave away a sense of frustration and control, like he didn’t want Tim to get too comfortable, like he didn’t want to let Tim forget that he was still in charge here.

Jack’s voice broke through Tim’s thoughts. “Oh, Tim, look at that. That’s a great model. You thank Mr. Cobblepot.”

It was said in that unnervingly sweet voice, the one that Jack reserved for public displays, the one that made everything sound a little too much like an order wrapped in politeness. Tim’s heart skipped a beat. Wait. So… he was allowed to keep it? Was he allowed to have the camera, or was this just another thing he’d have to carefully guard until it went missing or Jack decided it was an issue? Either way, he didn’t want to risk angering Oswald. Not when the man had already done so much for him.

He looked back at Oswald, and before he could stop himself, he found his arms wrapping around the man’s waist in a tight, spontaneous hug.

Oswald jolted in surprise, clearly not expecting this display. For a moment, Tim felt the awkwardness, but Oswald’s arms wrapped around him in return, and Tim’s chest felt tight with a strange warmth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged by anyone—genuinely hugged. He quickly mumbled a thank you, his voice trembling with excitement. “I—I’m so excited to take more pictures now, Mr. Cobblepot. Thank you so much.”

As he pulled away, he could feel the eyes of his father boring into him, sharp and full of disdain. Tim’s stomach twisted. He had overstepped, hadn’t he? He had probably looked pathetic, like a child begging for affection, which wasn’t what he should have done. Jack would make sure Tim knew that later.

But right now, as he looked at the camera in his hands, a weight seemed to lift from his chest. This was the most thoughtful gift he had ever received. It wasn’t just the camera—it was the gesture, the recognition of something he loved. It was Oswald, a man who had no real reason to care, showing Tim that he mattered. That his interests, his passions, were worth something.

For just a moment, Tim let himself enjoy it. Let himself feel like he wasn’t just some forgotten, unwanted child.

As Oswald gave him a small, reassuring smile, Tim felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. This was worth it. It was worth the inevitable verbal abuse he would face from Jack later. Because Oswald’s kindness felt like a lifeline in a world that had rarely shown Tim anything close to real care.

Tim would keep it—treasure it—and do his best to capture more moments of beauty in the world, the way Oswald had seen in him.

--

Tim feels a little guilty as he thinks about the photos he hasn’t shared with Oswald. The ones of Batman and Robin. They were his secret, his daydreams captured on film in a way that no one else could understand. There was something magnetic about the two of them. Batman’s dark silhouette against the night sky, Robin with his bright colors, the two of them together in the streets of Gotham, fighting crime, saving people—Tim couldn’t help but admire them. Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he would picture them coming to save him from his father. He would close his eyes, imagining them breaking through the walls, swooping in to take him away from the life Jack Drake had set for him. They would tell him he was important, that he was worth something, and they would take him somewhere far away from this cold house and cold people.

Tim’s heart would race in these daydreams, feeling a mix of longing and hope. Maybe they would understand him, the way Oswald seemed to sometimes. But the images were more than just fantasies. They were his silent wish, a quiet rebellion against the life his father had forced on him. Sometimes, the photographs of Batman were almost like a silent cry for help, a way to preserve the feeling of being saved—something he could hold onto when everything else felt so lonely.

There was more, though. Tim had other photos, photos that were different from the ones he had shown Oswald—ones that made his heart beat faster with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Some of the photos were of Gotham’s infamous criminals—people like Kiteman and Catwoman. He wasn’t a fool; he knew these people weren’t saints, but he also knew they weren’t the same as the true monsters of Gotham. They wouldn’t hurt a kid like him. Kiteman, for example, was an oddball, a little sad and pathetic in his own way. He wasn’t a killer, not like the others. Tim had even snapped a photo of him one time, sitting on a rooftop, his kite barely fluttering in the wind. It was a fleeting moment of peace, a moment where Tim saw something human in the man beneath the ridiculous costume. He wasn’t dangerous.

Catwoman, too, was someone Tim didn’t fear. He’d caught her one night, perched on a ledge, her eyes watching the city below, the moonlight catching her sleek suit. She was dangerous, sure—Tim wasn’t naïve—but in that moment, she wasn’t someone who would hurt him. She was just a person, like him, alone in the night, trying to survive in a world that didn’t care. Tim liked to think that he understood that part of her, the loneliness. He even found himself admiring her, though he would never admit it to anyone. Maybe, in some strange way, Tim felt a kinship with these figures who operated outside the law. They were different from the true villains, the ones who had no empathy, no remorse. People like Joker or Scarecrow, who could never see him as anything but a tool, something to manipulate or dispose of. But Kiteman and Catwoman, they were just... people. Maybe even misunderstood, like him.

But even as he thought about them, a nervous knot formed in his stomach. What if Oswald didn’t approve of these photos? What if he found out about his admiration for Gotham’s criminals? Tim had been conditioned to be afraid of causing any problems, afraid of making anyone upset, especially Oswald. The Penguin was unpredictable, a person who sometimes felt kind, sometimes like a source of safety, but Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that Oswald’s kindness wasn’t entirely free.

Tim was perceptive for his age. He knew things, things that other children wouldn’t have understood. He knew about the contract his mother had made with Oswald when he was Four. Janet Drake had promised Oswald 40% of Drake Industries stock when she passed, a promise that would hold until Tim turned eighteen. Oswald had control over those shares for fourteen years, which meant that his well-being—his very survival—was directly tied to the success of Drake Industries. Tim didn’t need to be told that Oswald was doing everything he could to keep the company afloat. He was the majority shareholder now, and without Oswald’s steady hand, the company would have faltered long ago. It wasn’t hard to see that Oswald was only being so generous to Tim because he had a vested interest in his survival.

It wasn’t just the company, though. Tim could also see the way Oswald took a special interest in him, how the man made sure he was always healthy, always taken care of. He had always kept up with his check-ups, visiting at least once a month, far more frequently than the contract required. Tim had started to wonder why Oswald went out of his way to make sure he was well and looked after. Was it because he actually liked him, or was it because the more Tim thrived, the more money Oswald made? Maybe it was both. Tim didn’t know what to think. He wanted to believe that Oswald liked him for who he was, that the man wasn’t just keeping him alive for business reasons, but he couldn’t quite shake the fear that it was all transactional.

Oswald did seem to care, though, in his own way. He’d been kind to Tim, especially when it came to things like the photos. He’d made sure to bring Tim a camera—something that a child like him would never have been able to afford on his own. Tim couldn’t help but feel a little comforted by the gift, even if he was still unsure of Oswald’s true motives. Maybe he liked Tim because he was nice to Antonia, Oswald’s vulture. Animals, after all, were easy to understand, right? They didn’t lie or hide their intentions. They liked you because you were kind to them. Maybe Oswald saw Tim the same way. Maybe he just liked him because Tim was someone who could appreciate the beauty of the small, quiet moments in life—the same way he saw Oswald’s own love for his pet.

But Tim couldn’t entirely push away the nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Was he being naïve? Was Oswald just using him for the contract, or could there be something more to their relationship? Could the Penguin, a man known for his ruthlessness and manipulations, actually care for him?

--

Tim could hear the footsteps, the low muttering of voices, the occasional clink of metal from somewhere in the alley. A gang was heading his way. He wasn’t sure who they were, but the darkness of the street and their rough demeanor told him they didn’t belong in any part of Gotham that Tim knew. They looked dangerous, and his heart rate quickened, a familiar knot of fear twisting in his stomach. But he had trained himself to stay calm, to stay quiet, to disappear into the shadows before anyone could see him. He had become an expert at blending in, at going unnoticed. After all, it was the only way he could survive in a world like this.

His hand gripped the cold metal of the fire escape ladder, and he scrambled up, as quietly as he could. His small frame made it difficult to climb, but he had been doing it for years now, using every bit of the environment to his advantage. He was fast, nimble, and quiet, and tonight was no exception. He had to get to the roof, away from the gang, before they came any closer. The last thing he wanted was to be caught by them. He didn’t know what they would do to him, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be good.

His tiny hands gripped the rungs of the fire escape, his legs aching with the effort as he pulled himself up. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his mind raced. The gang was getting closer, their footsteps louder now, and Tim could see the shadow of their leader in the alley below. He was almost to the top, almost there. But then, just as Tim thought he had made it, a hand shot out and grabbed the back of his hoodie, yanking him upward with surprising strength. Tim gasped in shock, the sudden movement throwing him off balance.

He was hauled up and slammed onto the rooftop, landing with a soft thud beside a woman. Tim blinked up at her, heart racing in his chest. She was... something else. Her skin was green, stitched together in places as if she had been pieced together like a puzzle. Her hair was black, with a streak of green running through it, giving her a ghostly, almost otherworldly appearance. Her gaze was sharp, her expression stern, and she gave him a pointed look before rolling her eyes and setting him down on the ground beside her.

Tim recognized her immediately, though he hadn’t expected to run into her here, of all places. She was The Bride, a name that sent shivers down the spines of anyone who knew the rumors. She wasn’t like the other villains in Gotham. She was a ghost story, more cryptid than criminal. There were few people who had seen her and lived to tell the tale, and even fewer who knew her real story. Tim had read everything he could find on her, even though there wasn’t much. The Bride had been alive for centuries, running from a monstrous being known as Frankenstein. Whenever Frankenstein caught up with her, it always ended in a brutal fight, usually involving guns and explosions. Tim didn’t know how, but he could tell this wasn’t just some random encounter—this was something much bigger. Something that felt off.

The Bride kept her eyes trained on the alley, where the gang had just rounded the corner. The leader, a burly man covered in tattoos and scars, was shouting orders. Tim stayed frozen, too afraid to move, too afraid to make a sound. The Bride didn’t even hesitate. In a flash, her hand was at her side, and a gun was drawn. She aimed with deadly precision and fired. The gang leader dropped to the ground without a sound, a clean shot straight to the chest. The rest of the gang froze, eyes widening in shock, but it was already too late. The Bride was already on her feet, her gaze now fixed on Tim.

She didn’t say anything at first, just glared at him with an unreadable expression. Tim’s heart was pounding in his ears. He wasn’t sure if she was going to shoot him next. He certainly wouldn’t blame her. After all, he had just witnessed a murder. But then, she spoke, her voice gruff but not unkind.

“You should get out of here, kid." she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “This isn’t a place for a little one like you.”

Tim couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “Ms. Bride, can I please take your picture?”

The Bride froze for a moment, her sharp gaze shifting back to him. For a split second, Tim thought he had overstepped, that she would tell him to shut up or shoot him just to be done with it. But then, she let out a short laugh, sharp and incredulous.

“Jesus Christ, you’re one odd kid." she said, shaking her head. “How do you even know who I am?”

Tim shuffled nervously, suddenly realizing how strange it must sound. “You’re really cool." he said quickly, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t as weird as it felt. “And you should get out of here before Batman shows up.”

The Bride’s lips twitched, a smile breaking through her stoic expression. She didn’t answer his comment about Batman, but she didn’t need to. Instead, she shrugged and gestured toward herself.

“Alright, kid." she said, rolling her eyes but clearly a little amused. “You can take a picture.”

Tim couldn’t believe it. His hands fumbled for his camera, his fingers shaking with excitement. He snapped as many photos as he could, clicking the shutter rapidly, capturing every angle of the woman who was the stuff of urban legends. He had to make sure he didn’t miss anything. And then, just as quickly as she had appeared, the Bride threw something at him. It landed with a soft thud against his chest.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid." she muttered, clearly a little fondly. “You can keep that too.”

Tim looked down at the destroyed leather jacket now draped over his head, his mouth agape in awe. But when he looked up, she was already gone, disappearing into the shadows before he could even say thank you.

That was so cool.

Tim stood there for a long moment, his heart still racing with the thrill of the encounter. It wasn’t every day that a seven-year-old kid got to meet a cryptid-like figure like The Bride. And it wasn’t every day that a villain like her actually took the time to let him take her picture.

--

Tim was still buzzing with excitement by the time he slipped back into his tiny, rundown staff house. His heart hadn’t stopped racing from the night’s events—first the gang, then The Bride, and now this. He had a trophy. A real, tangible piece of Gotham’s underground, something that no one else could possibly have. The Bride’s jacket.

The second he closed the door behind him, he practically collapsed onto his bed, holding the jacket in his hands, running his fingers over the battered leather. It smelled of old gunpowder and smoke, like something that had been through more fights than he could count. He turned it over, examining the bullet holes, the torn seams, the places where the leather had frayed from years of wear and tear. This wasn’t just some random piece of clothing—it was hers. It was worn and broken and barely held together, but it had survived. Just like her.

And now it was his.

Tim let out a breathless laugh as he clutched the jacket to his chest. This was so much better than any of his pictures. Speaking of—Tim scrambled up, grabbed his camera, and started flicking through the photos he’d taken. Each one was a masterpiece, but there was one that stood out in particular. The Bride, her face caught in a faint, almost-smile, the moonlight casting sharp shadows over her stitched features. It was an image unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He had read about her, of course—she was more of a ghost story than a villain, someone who existed in the margins, rarely acknowledged by the larger supervillain community. She wasn’t looking for chaos or crime, not in the way Gotham’s usual rogues were. She just wanted to live, and every time she tried, Frankenstein found her again.

That was what made her so fascinating. She wasn’t a hero, wasn’t a villain. She was just trying to exist. And yet, no one ever let her.

She should’ve been furious with him for stumbling upon her hiding spot, for catching her in a moment of vulnerability. But she hadn’t been. She had been… aloof, but not cruel. And she had let him take her picture. That meant something. That had to mean something.

Tim sighed and set his phone down, glancing at the jacket again. He wasn’t sure what to do with it at first. Part of him wanted to hang it up somewhere, display it like a prized relic. But another part of him—one that was far more practical—knew exactly what he should do. This jacket was warm. Warmer than anything else he owned. And with autumn rolling in, soon followed by the brutal Gotham winter, he needed something like this. His little house barely kept the cold out, and his blankets were worn thin. This could help.

But first, he needed to fix it.

Tim went to the small sewing box he kept under his bed, the same one he used to patch up his blankets and occasionally his own clothes. He wasn’t the best at it, but he had taught himself how to sew out of necessity. If something ripped, he couldn’t afford to throw it away. He had to make do with what he had.

Pulling out a needle and thread, Tim carefully began stitching the jacket back together. He worked slowly, meticulously, reinforcing the weakest seams, closing up the worst tears. He even took one of his old flannels—the one that had gotten too small for him but was too sentimental to throw away—and used pieces of it as patches for the worst damage. It was a slow, patient process, but Tim found it calming.

As he worked, his mind wandered back to Waller.

The Bride was supposed to be in Blackwater, under Amanda Waller’s control. She wasn’t supposed to be in Gotham, wasn’t supposed to be free. Unless, of course, she wasn’t actually free. Maybe she was here on one of Waller’s missions. Tim was smart enough to know that Amanda Waller only sent her people after threats to national security—at least, that’s what she claimed. In reality, Tim had pieced together enough to know that Waller’s targets weren’t always about protecting the country. Sometimes, they were just inconvenient. People who had seen too much. People who threatened Waller’s control.

So what had the gang member done? He must’ve been involved in something—something big. Otherwise, why would The Bride have taken him out? Why would Waller have sent someone after him? It made Tim uneasy, but more than that, it made him curious.

Still, despite everything he had witnessed tonight, despite the fact that he had technically watched someone die, Tim felt… fine. Maybe he should have felt disturbed, but honestly? He didn’t. It wasn’t like Gotham was a stranger to death. And it wasn’t like that gang leader had been some innocent civilian. Tim had seen enough of Gotham’s underbelly to know that people like him weren’t worth losing sleep over.

Finishing his last stitch, Tim examined his work. The jacket was still scarred, still carried the evidence of its many battles, but now it was his. He draped it over his shoulders and immediately felt the warmth settle over him, the thick leather holding in his body heat like a protective shield. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. Like armor. Like a promise.

Tim curled up in bed, still wrapped in the jacket, a soft smile on his lips. He knew that, come winter, this was going to be a lifesaver. It wasn’t just a piece of clothing. It was proof that he had been there tonight, proof that he had met The Bride. And maybe—just maybe—it was proof that he wasn’t as invisible as he thought he was.

Tonight had been the best night of his life.

--

Tim had almost jumped out of his skin the moment he caught sight of him.

Joker.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. That was one Gotham rogue Tim wanted nothing to do with. He took risks, sure. He’d seen a lot of the city’s underbelly, had even spoken to some of its less dangerous criminals. But that guy? No. Joker would kill a kid just to hear the punchline. Probably had, more times than Tim wanted to think about. He had seen the crime scene photos online—the ones that made their way to dark corners of the internet before getting wiped. Kids with rictus grins, purple lips, and lifeless eyes.

Tim refused to be one of them.

So he didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He stayed pressed against the rusted railing of the fire escape, hidden in the shadows. His camera, normally glued to his hands, was tucked away. He wouldn’t risk it. He wasn’t an idiot. No picture was worth dying for.

Joker passed below, a sickly bounce in his step, flanked by a handful of goons. They stopped at the entrance of a run-down building, one of those places that looked condemned but wasn’t. One of his hideouts, no doubt. Tim watched—just long enough to see them disappear inside—before he bolted.

Up. Up. Roofs were safer than alleys, and Tim had climbed enough fire escapes in his seven years of life to know exactly where to put his hands and feet. He scrambled onto the rooftop, feet light against the tar as he sprinted for another exit. There. Another fire escape across the way. He practically dove for it, grabbing onto the railing and swinging himself over. He didn’t stop, didn’t even think about stopping, until he was several blocks away, heart hammering in his chest.

And then—he almost ran straight into someone.

He had been so focused on getting away that he hadn’t even noticed the figure in front of him until it was too late. He barely managed to catch himself before he went face-first into their back.

Black leather. A whip at the hip. A confident posture.

Oh.

Catwoman.

She turned, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Well, well. What have we here?"

Tim took a sharp step back, hands raised in a hasty apology. "Sorry, sorry!" he blurted before immediately dropping off the fire escape and onto solid ground. He needed distance, needed to put as much space between himself and that alleyway as possible. Joker was back there. And Tim had no interest in being anywhere near that maniac.

His brisk walk turned into something just short of a jog, his breath still shaky. But then—he felt it.

Someone watching him.

Not like Joker watching. Not the kind of watch that made his stomach twist with the certainty of danger. This was different. It was light. Amused.

He glanced up.

Catwoman.

She was trailing him from the rooftops, moving as effortlessly as ever, her silhouette cutting against the moonlight.

Tim let out a deep sigh. He stopped walking. Looked up at her.

She stopped too, tilting her head in the way cats do when they’re caught doing something they’re definitely not supposed to be doing.

"Catwoman." Tim said, exasperated. "You are very cool, but Joker is back there, and I am not sticking around. So if you want to steal something from me, please just come down and do it."

That got a laugh out of her. A real laugh. Not mocking. More… entertained.

"Well, aren’t you spunky?" she purred. "No, the only thing of value on you is that camera you’re clutching for dear life, and I don’t typically steal from kids. Unless they’re really annoying." She winked. "You, at least, are polite."

Tim relaxed—just a little. But he kept walking.

Catwoman didn’t leave.

She kept pace with him, shadowing him from above, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a lifetime dancing through the city’s bones.

Then, casually, like they were discussing the weather, she asked, "So. You wouldn’t happen to know which alley he went into, would you?"

Tim hesitated.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew how the game worked. Catwoman played both sides. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t a villain. She helped when it benefited her. But she did help sometimes. And she was asking for a reason.

"Hmm?" she prompted, playful. "Help a girl out, and I just might pass the tip along to a certain Bat."

Tim sighed. Fine.

He gave her the directions.

He didn’t know if she’d follow through, if she’d actually tip off Batman or if she was just gathering info for herself. But either way…

Joker wasn’t going to be alone for long.

Chapter Text

Tim really needed to rethink his life choices.

Not in a dramatic way—he wasn’t going to stop sneaking out at night with his camera, no matter how many people told him it was dangerous—but maybe, just maybe, he should take a short break. Because, at this rate, he was either going to get himself killed or adopted by one of Gotham’s rogues, and honestly? He wasn’t sure which was worse.

First, he had a run-in with Joker. Joker. That alone should have sent him into temporary retirement, at least until the nightmares stopped. But no, of course, Tim had to keep pushing his luck.

And now, here he was.

In a fire escape.

With a gun pointed at him.

Tim had wedged himself into an awkward position, crouched up in the metal corner, his limbs tucked in tight. It made him harder to aim at—less of a clear shot. The guy below was clearly not happy about that.

Tim hoped this was just a regular mugger.

A normal, run-of-the-mill thief who wanted cash and jewelry. Someone who’d take one look at Tim, realize he wasn’t worth the trouble, and leave.

But Tim knew Gotham. And he knew better than to count on luck.

The man shifted impatiently, gun still raised.

Tim, reasoning as fast as his brain could work, cleared his throat. "Look, I don’t have anything. I can’t even see your face. If you leave now, you’ll find a target with actual money. But if you shoot me? You get nothing and you draw heat." He inhaled sharply. "And drawing heat in Penguin’s territory is stupid."

It wasn’t an empty bluff. Oswald Cobblepot was not someone people wanted to piss off. He had eyes everywhere. And people who tried to step out of line—especially in ways that disrupted his business—tended to disappear.

The guy hesitated.

Tim could tell he was weighing his options, pacing back and forth just below the fire escape. That hesitation should have been a good sign.

Should have been.

"Come down." the man said. "Or I will shoot you."

Tim’s stomach plummeted.

Okay. Not a mugger.

Maybe a trafficker. Maybe someone worse.

Either way, Tim was not coming down. He’d rather get shot up here than walk willingly into whatever this guy had planned.

And then—

"Oh?"

A voice. Familiar.

And a second later—

Click.

Tim recognized the sound before he even saw the source.

The unmistakable click of an umbrella, deceptively elegant, concealing something far deadlier.

Bang.

The gunman staggered, dropping to the ground like a sack of bricks. Not dead—just unconscious. Penguin always kept his custom umbrella-gun loaded with non-lethal rounds when dealing with minor nuisances. Probably for Tim’s sake.

Tim exhaled shakily. That could have ended so much worse.

Oswald Cobblepot, always the picture of theatrical refinement, gave a soft huff and pulled out his phone. Within seconds, he was on the line with Gordon.

"Yes, it’s me." Penguin said, his tone one of mild annoyance. "I have a present for you. A trafficker—caught him trying to kill a child, of all things. Fortunately for you, this alley has cameras, so there shouldn’t be any trouble convicting him. Yes, I’ll be leaving him here for you. Don’t keep me waiting next time, James."

Tim should have left then.

Should have stayed quiet.

But he had too many close calls this week, and his survival instincts were running purely on adrenaline and the desperate need not to get caught. So he moved.

Quick as he could, he scrambled up the fire escape. He was out. Gone. He ran rooftops until he felt his lungs burn, weaving through Gotham’s skyline like he belonged there.

Which was why, when a car cut him off as he climbed down, he almost jumped out of his skin.

The door opened.

Tim found himself face to face with Oswald Cobblepot.

The man leveled him with a sharp look and then—without a word—patted the seat next to him.

Tim was in trouble.

Oswald sighed, rubbing his temples like he was warding off a migraine, then turned back to him. "What." he said, "are you doing out here so late?"

Tim swallowed. "Taking pictures."

Oswald closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaled, and then looked Tim over, checking for any injuries. When he was satisfied that Tim hadn’t been shot, stabbed, or otherwise harmed, he sighed again, deeper this time.

"Tim." he said, voice measured, "that’s— you don’t even have anything to protect yourself."

Tim paused.

That was… a practical response. Not an angry one. Not an exasperated parental one. Just practical.

Oswald Cobblepot was, if nothing else, a businessman. He saw problems, and he found solutions.

Tim just wasn’t sure if he was the problem or if Oswald was planning on giving him a solution.

And then—Oswald gave the driver an address.

Tim froze.

He recognized that address.

"Wait." he blurted. "Please, please don’t tell Jack."

Oswald scoffed. "Of course not. I’m not a fool, Drake." He shook his head, almost offended by the idea of it. "I will drop you off near the house, with the lights off. You will sneak in the way you came. And we will revisit this issue later."

Tim, holding back tears, nodded.

--

Oswald sat in the backseat of his car, meticulously cataloging potential items on his phone—things he could give to Tim that were both effective for self-defense and legal enough to carry in Gotham without getting the boy arrested. The balance was delicate. He needed Tim to be safe, but he also knew the city’s police force well enough to understand that a kid caught carrying anything too aggressive would wind up in more trouble than it was worth.

So far, his list included:

• A high-voltage taser. Not one of those flimsy civilian-grade ones—no, something effective, something that could drop a fully grown man in seconds.

• Pepper spray, but not the standard kind—something stronger, maybe even bear spray, though he’d have to check Gotham’s restrictions on that.

• A grappling hook—lightweight, collapsible, something Tim could keep tucked away. He wasn’t expecting the boy to swing across rooftops, but in a bad situation, it could provide a quick escape.

• And, of course, an umbrella. A proper one, designed with built-in self-defense measures. A net deployment function would be practical, something to entangle an opponent long enough for Tim to run.

Oswald’s fingers hovered over the screen as he considered another note. Discreet knife attachment?

No. No, he couldn’t risk Tim carrying anything that would make a court view him as the aggressor if he ever got caught. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Gotham’s justice system was a joke. If Tim so much as breathed the wrong way near a cop, they’d find a way to punish him rather than whoever had tried to hurt him.

So, no knife. But that didn’t mean Tim couldn’t learn how to defend himself in other ways.

"Tim." Oswald said, not looking up from his phone, "when you hit someone with an umbrella, remember to drive it under the ribs."

He left out the most important part—that if the umbrella did have a knife attachment, that strike would go straight into the heart.

Tim blinked at him, clearly confused, but he absorbed the information nonetheless. Oswald could see the gears turning in his head, the way his fingers twitched slightly as if already picturing how the move would work. Good boy.

A small, fond smile tugged at Oswald’s lips. My goodness, I see myself in you, little one.

This was precisely why he wasn’t going to tell Tim to stop going out at night. What would be the point? Oswald had been him once. A little older, perhaps—ten, maybe eleven when he started roaming Gotham’s streets—but still young. Still a boy who refused to sit quietly in the shadows when he wanted something.

And Tim wanted something. He had the same restless hunger in his eyes that Oswald had carried all his life.

That meant Oswald had a responsibility now. If he couldn’t stop Tim from walking Gotham’s streets, he could at least prepare him for it.

"You are a special, clever boy." Oswald murmured. The words came naturally, so familiar—his mother’s voice echoing in his memory.

Tim froze.

Oswald had expected some kind of reaction, but not this. Not the way Tim’s entire body went stiff, not the way his fingers clenched around his sleeves like he’d just been punched in the gut.

For a moment, he looked shell-shocked. Like the words had hit him harder than a bullet.

Oswald didn’t have time to ask why.

Because just as the car pulled up to its destination, Tim—clearly too thrown off to think—blurted out:

"That’s not where I live."

Oswald’s head snapped toward him.

Tim’s face went white.

He realized what he had just said and bolted, reaching for the car door handle like he could escape before Oswald could process it.

Oswald said nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He just waited.

And, sure enough, Tim hesitated.

Because he knew.

He knew he’d been caught.

Slowly, Tim turned back, shoulders slumped in resignation. His voice was small when he spoke. "It’s the house down there."

He pointed.

Down the old dirt road.

Oswald drove forward, his grip tightening on the wheel. He had no expectations—no high expectations, at least—but when he finally saw the place Tim had pointed to, something deep in his chest boiled.

That wasn’t a house.

That was a shack.

A barely-standing, half-rotted shack on the edge of the Drake estate. And suddenly, everything clicked.

Jack Drake, that fucking millionaire—

He lived in a mansion. He hosted events. He had money.

And yet, this was where his son slept?

The realization hit like a freight train. Jack must have been bringing Tim into the main house whenever visitors came by, keeping up the illusion of a good father before sending him back out here to rot.

Oswald gritted his teeth so hard it hurt.

I will gut him.

It was the first instinct. The easiest instinct. He would gut the man, shove his umbrella down his throat, and let the filth in his stomach spill across that pristine mansion he cared so much about—

But no.

No.

That wasn’t an option.

Oswald wanted to kill him. He wanted to make Jack Drake suffer in ways he couldn’t begin to put into words.

But where would that leave Tim?

If Oswald killed Jack, Tim wouldn’t inherit anything. The system would get involved. Social services. Courts.

Oswald wasn’t naive. He knew how Gotham worked. A kid like Tim? Alone, without money, without leverage? He’d end up somewhere worse.

And Oswald was not letting that happen.

Not to Tim.

So he took a slow breath. Forced himself to steady.

And then, in a voice so calm it was almost chilling, he said:

"Timothy, my boy. I think we should discuss some alternative living arrangements."

--

Oswald Cobblepot had seen many pathetic men in his lifetime. Cowards, con artists, sniveling liars who slithered through Gotham’s gutters thinking themselves kings. But Jack Drake?

Jack Drake was something else.

He was the kind of comfortable coward who sat atop his wealth, insulated from consequences, shoving his own flesh and blood into filth while pretending it didn’t exist. Oswald had met criminals with more integrity than this man. At least they owned what they were.

Jack Drake, though? He was the kind of man who let his son live in a shack while hosting charity galas.

And that—that was something Oswald couldn’t stomach.

Tim had tried to make it seem better.

The boy had led him inside, voice bright, showing off what little repairs he could manage with a child’s hands. "Look, no mold! I even did the roof so it doesn’t leak."

Oswald had clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

He’d looked up at the ceiling, and yes, technically—the work was well done. The shingles were patched with care, the beams reinforced in a way that showed effort. Tim had done this himself.

And that was what made Oswald sick.

A child had to learn how to make his own roof not leak, while his father lived in luxury.

"That is very good work, Tim." Oswald admitted because it was. "But that is not the point. Me and your father will have a little chat tonight."

Tim looked nervous.

Oswald smiled, or at least tried to—though he knew it probably still bared his teeth too much. "I promise, just a chat."

Tim didn’t look convinced.

Oswald didn’t care.

He left Tim there, not because he wanted to, but because if he brought him along, Jack would have an excuse to pretend to be a loving father in front of an audience. No. Oswald wanted to catch him alone, in the dark, without his little lies to shield him.

He got in his car and drove to the main house, fingers drumming against his umbrella. His mind was already crafting the narrative.

Oswald was many things, but above all, he was a businessman.

And businessmen always knew how to negotiate.

Jack Drake’s butler answered the door.

Oswald didn’t even pause.

He shoved past the man like he was nothing, because in the grand scheme of things, he was. A mere hired hand, paid to look the other way while a child lived in a goddamn shack. The butler didn’t so much as try to stop him. Good. That meant he wasn’t a fool.

Oswald stormed through the manor, his shoes clicking against marble, ignoring whatever protests came from the staff. He didn’t need directions—he had been in enough homes like this to know where a man like Jack Drake would sleep.

The master bedroom.

Oswald slammed the door open without hesitation.

Jack Drake bolted upright in bed, eyes wild, hands flailing for some kind of weapon—a lamp, a book, anything.

"Jack, Jack, Jack." Oswald drawled, stepping forward, savoring the way the man shrunk at his presence. "We need to talk."

"Cobblepot? What are you—"

"Oh, Jack." Oswald cut him off, voice sharp and mocking, "did you know that your son almost got killed tonight? Oh yes, that little shack of yours? Not very safe, is it?"

Jack’s mouth opened, his mind already spinning some excuse, some way to twist things—

Oswald didn’t let him.

"Jim Gordon already knows."

A partial lie. Gordon did know that a child had been involved in an alley incident. The cameras weren’t clear enough to prove it was Tim, but Oswald didn’t need them to be.

"But don’t worry." he continued, his voice syrupy with venom. "I made a deal with him, Jack, my friend. I don’t want your boy taken from you over a simple mistake." He spat the last word.

Jack’s face paled.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew what this was. A threat.

"So." Oswald went on, now leaning closer, eyes cold, "instead, here’s what’s going to happen. You will make sure that shack you call a home actually has hot water, heating, and air conditioning—because I know it doesn’t, Jack.*"

Jack opened his mouth, but Oswald slammed a contract down on the nightstand before he could speak.

"And." Oswald continued, "I will be taking your son on weekends."

Jack froze.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that." Oswald sneered. "Consider it a kindness that I’m only asking for weekends. Because if I wanted to, Jack, I could have his bags packed tonight. I could have social services here by morning with enough evidence to bury you."

Jack swallowed thickly.

Oswald watched him, waited—watched the wheels turning in his little rat brain as he tried to weigh his options.

And in the end, he did exactly what Oswald knew he would.

He sighed. A defeated, tired thing. "Fine."

Oswald smirked.

"Good man." he said, patting Jack’s shoulder in mock affection before gripping it just a little too hard. "Now, sign."

Jack hesitated. Only for a moment.

Then he grabbed a pen and signed away his spine.

Oswald snatched the contract back the moment the ink dried, tucking it neatly into his coat.

And then—finally—he let his expression drop.

He leaned in. Close enough that Jack could feel the heat of his breath against his ear.

And in the softest, coldest whisper, he said:

"If I ever find out that you so much as touch him wrong, Jack… I will take him away. And there will not be a shred of your miserable life left when I’m done."

Jack didn’t breathe.

Oswald smiled.

And then, with all the grace of a satisfied businessman, he straightened his coat, smoothed out his sleeves—

And walked out the door.

--

Tim flinched when Oswald came back in.

He hadn't expected him to return so soon, and for half a second, his mind scrambled for something to do. Something helpful.

Had he forgotten something? Had he failed to complete some unspoken expectation? His father hated when he just sat there, when he wasn’t useful. Tim tried to think, tried to remember—

But then Oswald smiled.

It wasn’t one of those wide grins, the kind that showed too many teeth and made him look sharp, but it was genuine. And happy. And maybe a little bit scary—but not in a way that was directed at him.

"So, Tim, my boy." Oswald said, his voice oddly light, carrying something almost… pleased. "Your father and I agreed that I will be taking you to my home on weekends. I will be teaching you self-defense, and he has sworn to me that the repairs for this place are coming—the hot water, the climate control. So! Pack the things you don’t want your father to see into my car, and we will go to my house outside the city."

Tim blinked, still absorbing the words, still waiting for the catch.

"You like orchards?" Oswald asked suddenly, his voice picking up speed. "I will take you on a tour of them in the morning! I also have a whole massive aviary we can look through!"

Tim stared.

The man was talking fast.

That meant… he was nervous? Or maybe just excited? If Tim studied him right—and Tim was good at studying people—Oswald wasn’t trying to impress him, exactly. He was trying to… figure out what Tim would like most.

Not what would be most convenient.

Not what would be most proper.

Just what Tim would like.

Tim didn't know how to respond to that.

But he did know how to follow instructions.

Pack what he didn’t want his father finding. That was an order.

Tim moved automatically.

He didn’t have much.

His phone was already in his pocket—filled with books and shows, most of them downloaded from… well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly paying for streaming services. He didn’t own many physical things, not that mattered.

But there was the Bride’s jacket.

And his pictures.

The jacket was precious, gifted from someone who saw him—not just as Jack Drake’s kid, but as a person. It still smelled faintly like her, like leather and a trace of smoke, even after all this time.

The pictures were all he had of his mother.

Those went into his bag, carefully wrapped.

By the time he was done, there was barely anything in the small duffel he packed. Just those two things, really.

When he looked up, Oswald was watching him.

There was something unreadable in his expression—his eyes flicked from the tiny duffel back to Tim, then back to the bag. Like he was noting something.

And then Oswald nodded, like he’d made a decision.

"Alright then!" he clapped his hands together, as if to shake off whatever thought was in his head. "Off we go!"

Tim had never been outside Gotham before.

Not really.

Maybe once, when he was too young to remember, but this—this was new.

The city lights faded behind them as Oswald drove, the roads stretching longer, the buildings getting shorter. They weren’t too far from Gotham—this was that weird middle-ground area, where the forests and farmland started creeping in.

Tim pressed his face slightly against the car window, eyes flicking across the unfamiliar landscape. It was dark, but the moonlight glowed over the trees in a way that made everything feel almost… unreal.

And the stars—

You couldn’t see stars like this in Gotham.

Tim pulled out his camera.

He was careful—kept the flash off, made sure the soft sound of the shutter was as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to be a bother. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful or like he wasn’t paying attention.

But he wanted to capture this.

The way the sky stretched wide over the highway. The way the trees blurred into streaks of silver.

The way the air itself felt different out here.

Oswald noticed.

Tim wasn’t sure how he knew that Oswald noticed—maybe it was just something in the way the man’s hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, or the way he glanced at Tim in the rearview mirror.

But then Oswald smiled.

Not in a way that expected anything.

Not in a way that demanded a response.

Just a simple, quiet smile.

And Tim… didn’t quite know what to do with that.

Because this?

This didn’t feel like a test.

This didn’t feel like something he had to pass.

This just felt… like something that was happening.

Tim shifted in his seat, clutching his camera, still unsure.

Oswald just kept driving.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim let himself look out the window, let himself watch the stars—

And breathe.

--

Oswald notices immediately—the duffel Tim packed is small.

Too small.

He had expected something light, sure—Tim wasn’t the type to have much, not when Jack Drake barely gave him the bare minimum. But Oswald had bought things for the boy, had personally made sure that Tim had clothes, books, a laptop, all those things sitting pristine and untouched in the fake bedroom in Drake Manor.

None of them were in the bag.

Because that wasn’t where Tim lived.

Oswald clenched his teeth, his grip tightening on the steering wheel for a moment before he forced himself to relax. Fine then. He would buy them again, and this time, they would be put in a room in his house.

Tim would have a place there. A real one.

It was only when they hit a red light that Oswald’s gaze flickered down—just for a second—toward the duffel bag.

A few photos had spilled out.

He hadn’t been trying to invade the boy’s privacy, but they were right there, and his sharp eyes caught details instantly. They were library printouts, slightly grainy, cheap paper—but they had been handled with care.

Mostly Batman and Robin.

Of course.

Oswald felt a twinge of amusement at that, though he didn’t let it show. He supposed it wasn’t shocking—Batman and Robin were popular in Gotham, especially among kids. The Bat had always had that presence, that reputation that balanced between fear and admiration. Oswald himself didn’t hate the man, not really. He could be preachy sometimes, yes—Oswald had no patience for the self-righteous, especially when it came from someone who had money and resources.

Punching petty thieves who had nothing? Annoying.

But Batman also went after people like Joker. Like Professor Pyg.

Oswald’s grip on the wheel tightened again.

Those people? Oswald hated.

Killing kids—not because they were dangerous, not because they had done something, but just for fun, or for some disgusting personal desire? That was something Oswald could not stand.

Did he think they deserved to die?

Yes.

Would he kill them himself?

…No.

Oswald wasn’t that man. Not anymore.

But if Batman wanted to handle them by throwing them into Arkham? Fine. That was enough.

And, Oswald thought smugly, it wasn’t like a man dressed as a bat had more real power in Gotham than he did. The Bat was a symbol, sure, a hero, but his influence only stretched so far. Meanwhile, Oswald’s ran deep.

They both loved Gotham—the city, the state—but only one of them owned it.

Still.

This wasn’t about him. This was about Tim.

So Oswald kept his tone light as he asked, "You like Batman and Robin? They’re always popular in Gotham."

He even let out a little chuckle, hoping to ease the boy into the conversation.

Tim jolted, his eyes flickering from Oswald to the photos—and immediately scrambled to shove them back in his bag, his movements quick and nervous.

Oswald chuckled. "Kid, it’s fine to have hobbies and heroes."

Tim hesitated.

Like he wasn’t sure if Oswald meant it.

Like he was waiting for the catch.

Oswald’s expression softened. He didn’t push.

Instead, he let his gaze flicker to one of the other photos—one that had almost gone unnoticed in the scramble. Not Batman. Not Robin.

A woman.

Pale, almost zombie-like in appearance.

And Oswald knew that jacket in Tim’s duffel. It was hers.

"So who’s the lady you got the jacket from?" he asked, voice casual. "Not a Gotham villain or hero, I assume?"

Tim’s entire demeanor changed.

He lit up.

Whatever nerves had been there just seconds ago vanished, replaced with an energy Oswald hadn’t seen before. Tim sat up straighter, his hands gesturing as he started to talk.

"That’s the Bride!" he said, his voice carrying a flicker of excitement. "She’s amazing. She—she’s not from Gotham, actually. I met her when she came through the city, just passing through, but she—"

Oswald listened.

And as Tim talked—his voice steady, his words tumbling quickly in that way people did when they cared about something—Oswald felt something settle in his chest.

This?

This was good.

Let the kid have his heroes.

Let him have something to admire.

Oswald would make sure no one took that away from him.

--

Tim is very good at knowing when to stop talking.

It’s a skill he’s learned over years—how to gauge the exact moment when his enthusiasm might start to annoy someone, when his excitement might cross into something bothersome, when the person he’s talking to might start to lose patience.

So he cuts himself off at the right time, neatly wrapping up his rambling about the Bride, despite the fact that he could easily go on for hours. He could talk about all the lesser-known heroes, the ones who don’t get the big spotlight but are still out there making a difference. The ones who get written off as urban legends or weirdos, but Tim knows they exist.

And Oswald, surprisingly, had seemed genuinely interested.

Not in the fanboy way, of course—Tim isn’t stupid. He can tell when someone is listening to be polite versus when they actually care. Oswald had that sharp, calculating look to him, like he was considering something.

Tim wouldn’t be shocked if he was already running through potential ways to find the Bride, maybe even thinking about hiring her if she ever got out of jail.

Which, honestly, would be pretty cool.

But he doesn’t say anything about that.

He just settles back in his seat, pressing his forehead slightly to the cold window as they continue out of the city, the dark roads stretching long ahead of them.

And then—

Tim gasps.

Because for the first time in his life, he sees an aurora borealis.

It’s stunning.

The sky is dark, the deep, inky black stretching over the land, but above them, shimmering ribbons of green and blue ripple through the clouds, dancing in slow, mesmerizing waves. It’s like something out of a dream, something too beautiful to be real, but there it is, right in front of him.

Oswald hums, clearly noticing Tim’s reaction. There’s a small, almost amused smile on his face, and after a moment, he carefully pulls off to the side of the road, stopping at a scenic lookout.

"Well, we can hardly drive past something like this, can we?" he says, adjusting the heat so the car stays warm.

Tim is too stunned to reply, still staring up.

Oswald presses a button, and suddenly—

The sunroof opens.

Tim jerks slightly in surprise, but then—oh.

Oh.

The view just got even better.

He watches in complete, silent awe as the lights shift and move above him, their soft glow casting a gentle, eerie radiance across the dark landscape.

Gotham, as a state, is still relatively new—at least in the grand scheme of things. Tim knows that. It broke off from the rest of the country, took a chunk of Alaska along with it, and no one really complained because Alaska didn’t want it. Gotham was a place that didn’t fit anywhere else, a state made from criminals, outcasts, and the ones who refused to leave.

And maybe because of that, everything here felt a little different.

The forests were darker than most—not just because of the lack of light pollution, but because the trees themselves were a deeper green, almost unnaturally so. It made for a strikingly distinct border, a sharp contrast between Gotham’s lands and the rest of the world.

Tim had always thought of Gotham as his whole world.

But now?

Now he was seeing beyond it.

Even in the depths of winter, the sky here was alive.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—Tim felt something close to peace.

He tilted his head back against the headrest, the warmth of the car’s heater keeping the chill at bay as he simply watched.

Oswald didn’t say anything.

He didn’t rush Tim, didn’t interrupt his quiet moment of wonder.

And Tim appreciated that more than he could ever put into words.

--

Tim isn’t sure how long he stayed outside, but it was long enough for his fingers to start stinging from the cold, even with the two oversized coats practically swallowing him.

Oswald had insisted on layering him up before letting him step out—first shoving the Bride’s coat onto him, and then, for good measure, throwing his own thick, expensive one over it.

Tim had felt ridiculous.

But he had also been warm.

So he hadn’t complained.

Instead, he had taken photos, adjusting the settings on his camera quickly to capture the aurora properly, the swirling bands of color that stretched across the sky like something out of a dream. The view from here was stunning, so different from Gotham’s usual bleakness.

And then, on impulse, he had turned and snapped a picture of Oswald.

Oswald had been caught completely off guard—his sharp features slack with surprise for half a second before he had barked out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement.

Tim had taken a few more as the man laughed, the warm glow of the car’s heater lights contrasting against the eerie blues and greens of the sky behind him. The colors mixed in a way that almost didn’t seem real, like something out of a painting.

They were easily some of the best photos he’d ever taken.

But Tim didn’t get much more time to admire the scene.

It was cold.

Like, really cold.

So he rushed back to the car, practically throwing himself into the heated seat, and Oswald simply shook his head again, still grinning as he pulled back onto the road.

Tim was relaxed by now, warm again, settled back in the seat as they drove further into the countryside. The roads stretched long and dark, only the faint glow of distant lights dotting the landscape.

Then, suddenly—Oswald pulled over.

Tim blinked in confusion as the man stepped out and headed into a small petrol station, vanishing inside for a moment before emerging again with—

…flowers?

Tim furrowed his brows, watching in silent curiosity.

He hadn’t even known gas stations sold flowers, at least not in Gotham City. Maybe they did out here?

He thought about asking.

But he hesitated.

Something about Oswald’s expression had shifted.

There was something sad there.

Not the usual cold, sharp sadness that he sometimes saw in adults, the kind that made them bitter or angry. This was something… softer.

He doesn’t ask.

But Oswald tells him anyway.

"My mother passed away." he says, his voice quieter than usual. "Not recently, but it still feels too soon. I’m going to lay these with her memorial when we get there."

Tim doesn’t say anything.

Oswald keeps going.

"She lived out here." he explains, his grip on the flowers tightening slightly. "She loved it. It was better than any home she’d ever had in the past. There’s only one butler on staff now, but she’s a kind woman. My mother never wanted staff to begin with, but I convinced her when she met Long."

Tim listens carefully.

Oswald’s voice is careful, almost like he’s choosing his words very deliberately.

"Don’t be frightened by her appearance when we arrive." he adds after a pause. "She is kind."

Tim frowns slightly at that, turning the words over in his head.

That was… an odd thing to say.

Was she just—

Oh.

Before he can even finish that thought, he sees her.

A figure leaps down from the roof of the house as they approach—

Not human.

Tim stares.

A dragon woman.

Bright red scales, long blonde hair, a sharp, regal posture.

She lands effortlessly, like jumping from the roof was as easy as stepping down a flight of stairs, and then she smiles, her sharp teeth gleaming in the low light.

"Hello, young Master Drake." she says, her voice smooth and warm, almost soothing in a way Tim doesn’t expect. "I will lead you to your room."

Tim—

Tim has no idea what to say.

So he just nods, gripping the strap of his duffel bag tightly.

Oswald laughs again, shaking his head.

"Told you not to be frightened." he mutters.

--

Tim tries not to look too embarrassed as Ms. Long reaches down and takes his bag from him. It’s something that, in the moment, feels unfamiliar to him. Butlers were technically supposed to do that, right? They were meant to take care of things like bags and coat racks, but no butler in his life had ever actually done that for him. It slipped his mind, but now that Ms. Long had done it, he suddenly felt a strange weight of discomfort, though he couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to being taken care of like this—he didn’t need it. He didn’t want to feel like a kid who couldn’t carry his own things.

But he couldn’t deny the feeling that crept into his chest. There was something… comforting about the way she took the bag so easily, without hesitation, without judgment.

"Please follow me." she says, her voice soft and pleasant as she leads him inside the house. Tim steps past her and takes in his surroundings.

The house is much larger than he expected, but it doesn’t feel cold or intimidating. It’s big, but it feels oddly homey at the same time. There’s warmth in the woodwork, a balance between space and intimacy that makes it feel less like a mansion and more like a place someone could really live. The design elements are bold—Hungarian, Tim thinks, recognizing the heavy influence in the wood carvings and the painted tiles. He stops for a moment to look at a few of the decorations, his eyes drawn to the intricate swirls of design that cover the walls.

He passes a framed photo on the wall and his eyes linger for a moment longer than they should. It’s a picture of Oswald, a younger version of him standing next to an older woman who looks to be in her sixties. The woman is elegant, with soft but also sharp features that almost remind Tim of the kind, refined way Ms. Long speaks. This must be Oswald’s mother

Ms. Long seems to notice Tim’s curiosity and catches his gaze as they walk past the photograph.

"I think Mrs. Kapelput would have liked you." she says softly, her voice almost wistful. "From what Master Kapelput has told me."

Tim blinks, not entirely sure how to respond. There’s something warm about her tone, but the mention of Oswald’s mother feels almost like an invitation to remember that someone loved him, that someone cared about him long before the name “Cobblepot” came into Tim’s life, even if she never knew him.

Oh —he just realised that She addressed Oswald as Master Kapelput.

That was it—Cobblepot was Kapelput. Just anglicized.

They continue up the stairs, and Tim’s eyes widen as he notices the grandeur of the space. The room she leads him into is massive, far larger than any bedroom he’s ever had before. It’s not just the size, though—there’s something about the way the room is laid out that takes his breath away. There’s a loft area that stretches into the rafters above, a sort of open space that looks perfect for climbing, but Tim quickly squashes the thought. Probably not the best idea to make a mess of things right now.

He stares up, amazed at the loft’s open space, the way the light filters in from the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the room. This is more than just a bedroom—it’s a space, an experience, the kind of room that makes a kid feel important.

Ms. Long watches him, smiling gently. "It is to your liking?" she asks, voice laced with a hint of concern.

Tim can only nod, his jaw slightly agape. He’s still in awe of the room—the bed, with its real sheets, the comforter that looks as though it could swallow him up, soft and warm. A place where he could actually sleep, in a bed that didn’t feel like something he had to share with the ghosts of old memories.

Ms. Long seems to notice the slight hesitation in his movements. She watches him take out the few things he owns—mostly books on his phone and camera, and a jacket that clearly has sentimental value.

Without a word, she leaves the room, and when she comes back, she’s holding something small in her hands—a crochet dragon plush.

Tim stares at it, confused.

"I have a lot of free time, other than feeding the birds and making sure the grounds and memorial are tidy." she explains, as if it’s a simple thing. "I crochet random things to keep sharp. This one is for you."

Tim is almost speechless, his mind still trying to catch up. He’s not sure how to react to this act of kindness—he doesn’t know why she would want to give him something like this, a small homemade gift. He fidgets awkwardly, clutching the plush in his hands.

"I... I couldn’t—" he starts, unsure how to explain why this feels so strange to him.

But Ms. Long cuts him off with a tilt of her head, her expression kind and resolute.

"Do you like it?" she asks simply.

"Well, yes..." Tim trails off, his words quiet as he watches the woman. He’s not used to this kind of attention, not used to people giving him things just because.

"Then I want someone who likes it to have it." Ms. Long replies, with finality in her voice. It’s not a suggestion, just a simple truth. She smiles and turns to leave, her footsteps soft against the floor as she exits the room.

Tim stands there, staring down at the little dragon plush in his hands. Slowly, he hugs it close, the softness of the crochet fabric soothing in his palms.

--

Tim never thought he’d be in a situation where Penguin—Oswald Cobblepot himself—was taking care of him on weekends. And not just in a bare-minimum, here’s some food, don’t bother me way, but actually taking care of him. It was weird, but a good weird. A weird that made Tim feel... safe. Which was an unfamiliar feeling in itself.

The new things Oswald had given him were incredible—practical, well-made, expensive. Things meant to last. Things that weren’t hand-me-downs, or barely-holding-together thrift store finds. A proper coat, lined with real wool that kept him warm even in Gotham’s frigid air. Shoes that actually fit him, ones he could run in without feeling like they’d fall apart at the worst moment. Gloves, thick and soft, covering up the evidence of how much time he spent outside. He’d never really had things like these before, things that weren’t just the cheapest option, things meant for him. Not just some kid who had to make do.

But of all the gifts, it was the umbrella that he used the most.

A grappling hook inside an umbrella.

Tim loved it.

It was one of the coolest things anyone had ever given him, and it made getting around Gotham so much easier. He was smart—he didn’t do anything too reckless with it. No swinging between skyscrapers like Batman, no diving off rooftops just for fun. But still—a seven-year-old alone at night in Gotham had to take some risks, and this made those risks way more manageable. He could reach rooftops faster, cross alleys without needing to find fire escapes, and most importantly, get away from trouble when trouble inevitably found him.

Not that Oswald knew just how much Tim used it.

Penguin picked him up every Friday after school now. Like clockwork. Tim would get into the car, Oswald would be there, and—without fail—there would be some new Batman and Robin merch waiting for him.

It was so embarrassing.

But also... kind of the best thing ever.

Today, it was a giant Robin plush. A ridiculous, oversized, adorable stuffed bird with a tiny Robin mask, a little cape, and stubby wings. It was so soft that Tim was pretty sure he could use it as a pillow. Maybe even as a bed. It was completely over-the-top, something no one else would ever think to get him, something that made Tim’s ears burn because he didn’t deserve something so nice, something so obviously bought just to make him happy.

"You like it." Oswald said from the driver’s seat, watching Tim out of the corner of his eye as he tried not to look like he wanted to hug the stupid thing to his chest.

Tim scowled, his face heating up. "I didn’t say that—"

Oswald just smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

The plush sat in Tim’s lap for the rest of the drive.

When they got to the estate, Tim immediately ran to the aviary. The birds were incredible—so many different kinds, all of them clearly well taken care of, their enclosures built to give them space to fly, to be birds.

He loved it out here.

Still, he was a little disappointed that Oswald’s pet vulture, Antonia, wasn’t here. He missed her. She was weird in the best way, more like a cat than a bird, watching people with an almost judgmental intelligence.

"She doesn’t get along with the others." Oswald explained when he noticed Tim looking around for her. "She prefers to be in the city. She’s particular."

Tim understood that.

"Next time, we’ll stop by my office before coming out here." Oswald promised. "You can spend some time with her there. She likes you, you know."

Tim’s chest felt warm at that.

He liked her, too.

Chapter Text

Tim had spent years documenting Batman and Robin. Years and he’s still only seven . And despite that, despite all of his careful observation and meticulous work, somehow, he’d managed to let Robin sneak up on him.

It was mortifying.

One second, Tim was sitting on the rooftop, sorting through his freshly developed photos, deciding which ones were the best and which ones he could enhance later. The next, a voice— too close, way too close —quipped, "You know, usually people ask before taking someone’s picture."

Tim jumped. Instinct kicked in before he could even think. He grabbed his umbrella—his grappling-hook-equipped, Penguin-gifted, totally-not-meant-for-attacking-actual-vigilantes umbrella—and smacked Robin in the chin.

And also the nose.

Robin yelled, stumbling back, clutching his face. " OW! What the hell, kid?! "

Tim’s heart nearly exploded out of his chest.

" Oh my god, oh my god, I’m sorry! " He scrambled forward in horror, dropping the umbrella like it had personally betrayed him. " I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know who— You snuck up on me, I just— Oh, your nose, don’t tilt your head back, that’s not how you stop a bloody nose, you have to pinch it—"

Behind him, something fluttered.

Tim froze.

It was a very distinct sound. A sound he’d heard many times before but never this close.

He turned slowly.

Batman.

Standing there in all his terrifying, shadow-drenched, six-foot-plus, brooding Bat glory.

Watching all of this.

Tim wanted to die.

" I’m sorry! " He was already apologizing again before Batman could say anything. " I really— I did not mean any harm, I swear, I—"

But then a different kind of guilt crept in.

Because if he could recognize Robin... then other people could too.

Tim swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. "I need to tell you something.” There was a pause from the kid “M aybe Robin shouldn't do quadruple somersaults anymore... " He hesitated before adding, " Only one person that young can do them. "

Dead silence.

Then—two pairs of eyes locked onto him.

Batman’s white lenses stared at him with an unreadable intensity.

Robin’s expression flickered from pained to startled, his nose still bleeding.

Tim fidgeted under the weight of their combined attention, unsure what else to say. " I just— " He shifted uncomfortably. " I don’t want you to be found out. I mean, I met you when I was really young, so I don’t think anyone else will figure it out but... maybe just don’t. "

For a moment, there was no reaction.

Then Robin— Dick Grayson, Tim’s brain supplied unhelpfully— grinned.

" Do him! " he said excitedly. " Do Batman! "

Tim’s face burned.

Batman let out a heavy sigh.

" No way." Robin said "You know? "

Tim mumbled, " Well... " He hesitated before mumbling again, " It was kinda weird when a billionaire adopted a kid and then, not too long after, Batman had a kid following him around. "

Robin burst out laughing.

" Holy shit. "

Batman looked like he was going to get a migraine.

--

Tim sat in the Batcave, small and stiff in the too-big chair Batman had set him in, feeling like he was stuck between waking and dreaming. The cavernous space was surreal, lined with monitors, gadgets, vehicles— everything he had spent years documenting, watching, analyzing. It was a dream come true, in theory. But in reality?

It felt like a nightmare.

Because Batman was not happy.

He wasn't yelling, wasn't hurting him, wasn't even being that mean. But he was interrogating him, and Tim felt like he was on trial for something he hadn't even realized was a crime.

" Who have you told? " Batman asked, his voice firm but not unkind.

" No one. " Tim shook his head quickly, heart pounding. " I would never. That’s— That’s kinda why I warned you. I just wanted to help.*" His throat tightened. His hands curled into the hem of his too-big hoodie. He could feel himself starting to tear up, which was bad. Crying was bad. Crying made adults madder.

Batman’s gaze didn’t soften.

" Not even the Penguin? "

Tim startled at that, eyes going wide. " No! That would be dumb— " He spoke fast, too fast, trying to sound reassuring. "But— but also be careful. He does think Batman is at least a millionaire, but I don’t think he thinks it’s you. You’re a billionaire. That’s—totally different. "

Batman exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a sigh, but Tim still flinched.

Above them, Robin dropped down from the rafters, landing lightly on his feet. " Can you lay off the kid, B? " Dick tilted his head, giving Tim an easy grin. " Not his fault he’s a super detective or something. "

Batman’s jaw tensed. " His grades only started dramatically improving since he started living with the Penguin on the weekends. " His piercing gaze was back on Tim. " There has to be more to this. "

Tim blinked. " Huh? "

He had no idea where Batman was going with that, but he wasn’t about to lie. " Oh, that’s because Oswald made sure I wasn’t just sleeping in a shack anymore. " Tim shrugged, like this was just a normal thing to say. " It was hard to sleep there. "

A heavy silence settled over the cave.

Batman and Robin both stared at him.

Tim squirmed. " Uh— I mean—" He realized belatedly that they were horrified. He'd spoken too bluntly. Said too much. He had to fix it. He had to make it okay.

" Well, it wasn’t really a shack." he tried again, voice quick and placating. " Jack— my dad— he didn’t want to see me after Janet’s death. I was a reminder, y’know? So I got moved to the old servants’ house. It wasn’t that bad. "

Neither of them looked convinced.

Not one bit.

Tim knew that look. Adults made that face when they thought something was wrong. And if they thought something was wrong, that meant problems.

And problems were bad.

Tim sat up straighter, forced a bright smile onto his face, tried to make it seem okay. " I mean, it had a roof! And walls! It wasn’t— I mean, yeah, it got cold, but I had blankets. And the pipes didn’t work, but there was a sink in the main house, so that wasn’t a big deal." He laughed like it was all fine, like he wasn't scared of what would happen if Batman started looking too closely.

Batman’s expression darkened.

Tim wanted to sink into the floor.

But before anything else could happen, an alert blared through the cave—Scarecrow was attacking the city center.

Tim had never been so relieved for a villain attack.

Batman was already moving, pulling up the security feeds, strategizing. But before he left, he threw one last glance at Tim, gaze still unreadable. " Robin. Take him home. "

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Robin didn’t look as relieved.

Even as they left the Batcave, even as he swung them across rooftops, even as he dropped Tim off at the house Oswald had bought for him, Tim could feel that look still burning into the back of his head.

Like Dick knew.

Like Batman knew.

Tim thought, hoped, prayed that this was the end of it.

It wasn't.

B ut

by the time Batman did get around to actually looking into Jack Drake...

The damage had already been done.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Tim found out Jason had died, everything clicked into place.

Tim was only eleven, but he had spent years watching, analyzing, and understanding Gotham’s vigilantes in a way that no one else seemed to. He had figured out their identities when he was seven, but that had been the last time he had come face-to-face with Batman—when the Dark Knight had loomed over him, demanding to know how a child had unraveled his greatest secret. After that, Tim had stayed in the shadows, watching from a distance, taking photos of the Bat in action, and observing from afar.

That was also the year Robin disappeared.

Dick Grayson had moved on to become Nightwing, and for a time, Batman operated alone—until the same year there was another Robin. Jason Todd. He had only been Robin for about four years, he had been perfect but now, there wasn’t a Robin anymore.

Tim had never met Jason, but he had watched him.

Four years of red and green darting through the skyline, of a different kind of Robin. Harsher, rougher, but still there. Tim never met him—maybe he should have. He still kept his camera trained on the rooftops, snapping pictures from a distance. Batman, Robin… and sometimes Batgirl.

Batgirl. … Why is is always Joker, Barbara first, now Jason.

Barbara Gordon still makes an occassional appearance as Batgirl, if Batgirl is what is needed and not Oracle, but no one likes when she has to, it hurts her, it probably makes her injuries worse, and if she keeps doing it she will become fully paralysed. Batgirl, now Oracle That changed when the Joker got his hands on her.

Jim Gordon never talked about it, and Batman rarely acknowledged it, but the only reason Barbara was still still able to walk, even if only on good days—was because of Oswald Cobblepot.

Some of Penguin’s men had been across the street when it happened, working on something entirely unrelated, until they saw the Joker force his way into Gordon’s home. There was an unspoken rule in Gotham’s underworld: No one messed with the Gordons. No one but Penguin himself, and even then, only when he felt like it and typically that was just bothering Gordon to come pick up criminals that Penguin incapacitated, ones he didn’t think needed to be disappeared like he did some of the most vile but bad enough or annoying enough to get off the street. Barbara Jr. was, begrudgingly, under his protection. (Oracle has tried to be a real menace with his finaces but is pissed to find out everything is rich man legal… more annoyed to find out Bruce uses the same rich man legal loop holes.)

By the time Penguin’s men realized what was happening, the bullet had already been fired, but the torture had only just begun. He was clearly standing over her, ready to beat her over and over but Joker never found it funny when his fun was interrupted, and it was interrupted spectacularly when bullets started flying from across the street. The goons abandoned whatever job they had been assigned to, shooting until Joker left. The Joker barely escaped with his life, and Barbara was rushed to a private medical facility before the police even had a chance to respond. It wasn’t a miracle, but it was enough—enough to save some of her mobility, enough to keep her alive, enough to make Penguin insufferably smug when he reminded Gordon who had really saved his daughter… also who paid her medical fees because Penguin has personal hatred towards people going bankrupt to pay medical bills, like his mum did.

This is much worse then Barbara this time though, it was bad with Barbara but she had lived and is living well… Jason… Jason is gone.

So Tim had watched Batman after even more closely. He’d analyzed, seen the shift in Batman’s movements—the more brutal takedowns some getting close to causing permanent damage to the criminals , the lingering on rooftops, the empty, haunted silence that followed every mission. The moment Tim saw Batman spiraling, he knew.

Robin was dead.

And Batman needed a Robin.

It wasn't even a question for Tim. Of course he had to do something.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to train him at first. Had barely even humored the idea. Tim had practically thrown himself into proving he could do it. He had the skills. He had the intelligence. He had the dedication.

And maybe, maybe— if he worked hard enough, if he was good enough, if he proved himself enough— Batman would need him too.

The training was brutal. Harder than anything he’d seen Bruce put Dick or Jason through.

Tim tried not to mind.

Bruce never yelled at him, never hit him outside of training, never did anything that his brain should have labeled as "bad." and yet…

Some nights, when he was dragging himself to his feet with bruises darkening under his suit and his breath hitching from a too-hard hit, he wondered if this was what he had spent years preparing for. If this was why he'd taught himself to never complain, to never make a problem, to never push back against the things adults told him were "necessary."

Because Tim had always been preparing.

For something.

He just hadn’t known what.

Alfred worried.

Tim could tell from the way the older man would press an ice pack into his hands after training, how he would frown whenever Tim tried to pass off injuries as nothing. The look on his face when Tim had cracked a rib —(his fault, really, he’d moved wrong, he hadn’t braced properly, he should have been more careful)—had been awful.

" Master Timothy." Alfred had said, voice low, carefully even. " You will be seeing Dr. Thompkins today. "

Tim had insisted it wasn’t necessary.

Alfred had not cared.

He had driven him there himself, all but marched him into the clinic, and when Tim had finally been ushered away, he could hear yelling.

Alfred was yelling at Bruce.

Tim wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

But Leslie was kind. She’d patched him up, spoken softly, asked questions that Tim could not answer.

He had nodded and agreed and smiled and lied.

Because none of this was Bruce’s fault.

Bruce was helping him.

And sure, maybe the training was hard, and maybe it hurt, and maybe—maybe it was pushing him more than Bruce had pushed Jason or Dick, but...

But Tim wasn’t like them.

He hadn’t grown up in a warm, affectionate family like Dick.

Hadn’t grown up in the streets, fighting tooth and nail for survival, like Jason.

Tim had grown up with nothing.

Not in the physical sense. He had always had a house, had clothes, had food—his father made sure he had things.

But things weren’t love.

They weren’t safety.

They weren’t family.

Tim had spent his whole life walking on eggshells, trying to be invisible, trying to be useful, because being either inconvenient or a problem meant being ignored.

Or worse— noticed.

Noticed and picked apart and belittled and told, in so many passive, distant ways, that he wasn’t worth listening to unless he was making himself needed.

So he made himself needed.

By Oswald, who had given him stability on weekends.

By Batman, who needed a Robin.

By Gotham itself, which needed a Batman who wasn’t spiraling into something darker than he could come back from.

And if that meant training until he couldn’t breathe? Until his body ached and his ribs cracked and his fingers trembled from exhaustion?

Then so be it.

It wasn’t like anyone at home would notice.

Jack barely even looked at him anymore.

His father spent most of his time in a drunken haze, locked away in his office, occasionally emerging for galas or networking events where he could manipulate everyone into thinking he was a good man.

Tim didn’t matter to him.

Hadn’t, really, since his mom died.

And maybe that hurt, in a way Tim would never say out loud, but…

It made this easier.

He could be here.

He could train.

He could be Robin.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

--

Oswald Cobblepot is going insane.

The first time Tim came home with bruises, Oswald had assumed the boy had simply gotten into some trouble while tailing Batman. Gotham is a dangerous city, after all, even for someone as bright and resourceful as Tim. A few scrapes and bruises? To be expected.

The second time, it was worse.

Dark, deep bruises—ones that took days to fade, ones that made Oswald seethe inside, though he kept his expression neutral. Who did this?

The third time, Tim was limping.

And that— that —was when Oswald decided that someone was going to die.

He didn’t ask immediately. That wasn’t how Tim worked. Oswald had spent years navigating Gotham’s social elite, playing politics with the criminal underworld, twisting words, reading people. He knew when someone was hiding something.

And Tim was hiding something.

Oswald had always thought of himself as an observant man, but Tim Drake? That boy had layers. Oswald had never met a child so naturally adept at covering up pain, at deflecting , at lying without actually lying. It was something Oswald recognized.

Because it was something he had once done himself.

So he played it slow. He watched.

At first, he suspected Jack Drake. Obvious conclusion. The man had already all but abandoned the boy—Oswald had seen the records, had heard the rumors. A widower who spent more time at the bottom of a bottle than raising his kid? A textbook case of neglect.

Oswald had Selina check. Paid her good money too.

Jack barely acknowledged Tim’s existence.

Too drunk, too caught up in his own self-pitying world to be the one laying hands on the kid.

That should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

Because if it wasn’t Jack, then who the hell was it?

Tim refused to talk about it. Always an excuse. Always something about tripping, or falling, or some nonsense explanation that Oswald knew better than to believe.

It was infuriating.

And if Tim wasn’t going to tell him, then Oswald was going to make sure the kid could handle himself.

The conversation happened on the drive out to the house for the weekend. Oswald’s fingers drummed against the wheel as he thought about the best way to approach it. He couldn’t just ask again. Tim would shut down, change the subject, twist the conversation into something else. The boy was smart. Too smart for his own damn good.

So Oswald did what he did best.

He planted an idea.

"Tim." he said, casual as anything, keeping his tone light. "You know… if someone was hurting you, and they happened to be near a staircase… well, accidents happen, don’t they?"

Tim blinked at him.

Oswald gave a little shrug, tapping the steering wheel idly. "People fall downstairs all the time. Or, I don’t know… off rooftops." He kept his voice even, careful. Suggesting, not pushing.

Tim stared for a second, then nodded slowly.

Oswald knew that look. Tim was filing the information away.

He felt a sliver of satisfaction—at least the boy was learning. If Tim wasn’t going to tell him who was hurting him, then at the very least, Oswald would make sure Tim knew how to handle it.

Except.

A few moments later, Tim spoke up. "That’s… a good idea, Mr. Cobblepot. I mean, in case I run into a mugger or something while I’m taking pictures."

Oswald’s fingers tightened on the wheel.

Tim had missed the point.

No

Tim had a tell, one he just commited by being overly polite, He always called him Oswald when he’s relaxed, but It was always Mr. Cobblepot when he’s avoiding something.

So maybe—maybe he’d understood it perfectly and just didn’t think it applied to whoever was hurting him.

That was… worse.

So much worse.

Because Tim had committed the advice to memory, but his mind had gone to strangers. To thugs. To the muggers in alleyways.

Not to a teacher.

Not to a classmate.

Not to whoever the hell was doing this to him.

Oswald’s grip on the wheel was white-knuckled.

He was going to find out.

And when he did?

God help whoever it was.

Chapter Text

Tim has practically moved into Wayne Manor on weekdays without anyone noticing—except Alfred.

Of course, Alfred noticed.

But no one else had. Not Bruce. Not Dick.

Not that Tim really expected them to.

Dick wasn’t even speaking to Bruce anymore. Tim wasn’t family. Not really.

Alfred told him otherwise, told him he belonged, treated him like he was someone worth caring for. But Alfred was like that, wasn’t he? Too kind. Too willing to pretend things were better than they were.

Tim wasn’t a Wayne.

And that was fine.

Family wasn’t great most of the time, anyway.

His mother had never been great, even when she tried. Near the end, there had been moments— brief flickers —where she seemed like she might have wanted to be something more, something better. But it had been too late by then, hadn’t it?

And his father—

No.

Not at all.

Tim doesn’t think about that.

What does surprise him is Oswald. Oswald likes him.

That’s… strange. Hard to believe.

And Ms. Long, too—Oswald’s butler who always ruffled his hair and called him "sweetheart" and made sure he ate whenever he was over.

But that doesn’t count.

None of it really counts.

Because Oswald only took him out of pity.

Tim is sure of it. Absolutely sure.

(He’s wrong, but Tim never sees himself clearly.)

It feels strange not being useful to them.

Oswald doesn’t need anything from him, not really. Not the way Bruce does. Not the way Gotham does. He’s helped— of course, he’s helped. He figured out who was selling Oswald’s information inside his company, pointed him toward better business decisions. But… that was small. That was nothing.

Oswald was fine without him.

Bruce, though?

Tim can be useful to Bruce.

He can be useful to Gotham.

That should be enough.

But Bruce is pulling away.

It’s subtle, but Tim sees it. Feels it.

Bruce hesitates when he looks at him now. As if he’s questioning whether he should have taken Tim in at all, whether he should have any Robin at all.

No. Please, no.

Tim needs this.

Bruce can’t stop. He can’t.

Because what else is Tim supposed to be?

What else does he have?

But then, one day, things go wrong.

Not as Robin.

Not in the way Bruce fears.

Tim isn’t in costume. He isn’t patrolling.

He’s just Tim Drake.

And it’s a gala.

It happens fast.

The Joker. A bang.

Tim’s father is dead.

Just like that.

And Tim feels… nothing.

No, that’s not right. He feels something.

But it’s mixed. Twisted. Confused.

Because Jack Drake was his father, but he had never really been a dad.

Tim was never enough for him. Never what he wanted.

And even now—even now, in his final moments—Tim couldn’t help him.

But there’s no time to think about that.

Because hands grab him.

A needle—

Icy liquid floods his veins.

Tim collapses.

And the last thing he hears is laughter.

Harley Quinn’s voice, light and sing-song, a lullaby of madness—

"Oh, you poor, poor boy… we’re gonna have so much fun!"

Darkness.

----

Tim wakes up to hell.

Neon lights flicker overhead, casting sharp, nauseating shadows. Reds and purples, greens and yellows—garish, clashing colors swirling in the periphery of his vision. The air smells like copper, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of rotting carnival food.

He tries to blink.

He can’t.

His eyes won’t close.

There’s a sharp, stinging pain along his eyelids—wet, pulling, raw. He feels the cold bite of thread and needle, the unnatural tightness keeping his eyes wide, wide, wide.

Tim chokes on his breath.

"Oh, whoopsie-doopsie! Looks like someone needs another dose of the night-night juice!"

Harley Quinn’s voice is light, sing-song, mocking.

He barely has time to process the words before the needle pierces his neck, a fresh dose of the drug pushing into his bloodstream. Tim realises something, The joker probably would have prefered him awake for this… this is some twisted mercy coming from the old parts of Dr Harleen Quinnzel.

Cold.

Tim shudders, but then everything fades.

He slips into darkness.

When Tim wakes again, his mouth hurts.

It isn’t his stitched-open eyes that bother him the most. No, it’s the pull, the deep, burning agony stretched across his face.

His lips .

Something isn’t right.

His breathing is ragged, and when he tries to speak, he can’t.

His lips are pulled wide.

Stitched.

The thread bites into his skin, cutting deep into his cheeks, stretching his mouth into a grotesque smile.

Oh.

Oh.

Tim tries not to panic.

But his stomach roils. His heart slams against his ribs.

He’s stitched up. His eyes, his mouth—

Why?

A slow, deliberate laugh fills the air.

The Joker.

Tim forces himself to breathe.

The clown steps into view, a grin splitting his face —mirroring the one carved into Tim’s.

"You’re awake!" Joker claps his hands together, delighted. "Ah, just in time! "

Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

Because he knows better.

This man wants a reaction. He wants pain, wants fear, wants amusement at someone else’s expense.

Tim won’t give him that.

(But God, it hurts. )

Joker crouches down beside him, tapping Tim’s cheek with gloved fingers— right along the stitches.

Tim clenches his fists.

"Now, now, no need to be so serious! I did all this just for you, y’know! Just wait ‘til you see yourself, kiddo. Gorgeous. "

Joker giggles.

Tim doesn’t make a sound.

The Joker stands up, stretching.

"You’re probably wondering why you’re here, huh?" he muses, pacing the length of the room. "Well, kid, it’s simple! I wanted a new sidekick! A new protégé! And you, my friend, are just perfect. "

Tim feels his pulse spike.

"But why you? " Joker tilts his head, as if considering. "I gotta admit, I wasn’t sure at first. I mean, you’re a bit of a nobody, aren’tcha? A rich kid with a daddy who never gave a damn. "

Tim’s jaw tenses.

Joker grins.

"See, I didn’t even have to dig for that one. Harls figured it out. Can you believe that? Your dear old dad had been gaslighting you for years. And Batsy —oh, ho-ho!— Batsy didn’t even notice! "

Tim barely breathes.

Joker leans down, voice dropping to a whisper.

"That’s why you’re perfect, kiddo. You already know how to break. "

Tim’s stomach churns.

"See, I’ve been thinking… Batsy needs a joke. A real one. Something big. "

Joker kneels down beside him again, tilting his head.

" And what’s funnier than Batman’s own failure coming back to kill him? "

Tim goes still.

His blood turns to ice.

"That’s right, sport! I’m gonna make you my very own little Bat-Killer! You’re gonna be the punchline Gotham never forgets! "

Joker laughs.

And Tim?

Tim clenches his fists so tight his nails dig into his palms.

He can’t fight. Not yet.

Right now, there’s only one thing he can do.

Endure.

--

They’re annoyed with him. Which is honestly rich coming from the people who kidnapped and tortured him.

Brainwashing, as it turns out, is not the instant gratification they thought it would be. It’s slow. It takes time. Joker’s whole game of “breaking the kid” has gone on for two weeks now, and Tim still hasn’t cracked.

Tim doesn’t break the way they expect him to. He doesn’t rage, doesn’t sob, doesn’t beg them to stop. He just persists. He holds on to himself with that same stubborn determination that made him hunt down Batman after Jason died, that same quiet, meticulous patience that made him realize Bruce needed a Robin in the first place. Tim endures.

And that is really starting to piss them off.

Harley, in particular, is furious. And not just because her brilliant plan of gaslighting and torture hasn’t worked yet. No, Harley is pissed because one of her precious hyenas— Budsie —has decided he likes Tim better.

That should not be a big deal. But it is. Because every time Tim gets dumped in his usual corner of the funhouse after Joker’s latest monologue or “lesson." Bud wanders over and plops his big furry head in Tim’s lap, letting out a chainsaw-like purr.

Harley sees it and sneers.

"Unbelievable." she mutters, hands on her hips as she glares down at them.

Tim absently scratches behind Bud’s ears, feeling the vibration of the creature’s contentment against his legs. The weight of the hyena is oddly grounding. Comforting, even.

"Didn’t peg you for a dog person." Harley finally says, her voice pointedly sharp.

"Hyenas aren’t dogs." Tim murmurs, his voice hoarse from disuse and the tight pull of stitches.

Harley scowls deeper. "That ain’t the point!" she snaps, but then her gaze flickers—sharp, smug. "Y’know, we found out Batsy kept putting off an investigation into Jack Drake. "

Tim doesn’t react, but inside, his stomach twists.

Harley leans in, grinning. "Yeah, fun, huh? Means he didn’t care about you getting knocked around. Just swept it under the rug. "

Tim shrugs. "And you don’t care that you’re getting abused."

Harley freezes.

It’s just for a second. Just a momentary flicker of something on her face—something raw, something unguarded, something ugly.

Then she sneers at him, sharp and defensive. "Watch your mouth, kid."

Tim doesn’t look at her. He scratches under Bud’s chin, feeling the massive animal twitch happily under his touch.

Harley watches.

Finally, she sighs, arms crossed. "How the hell’d you make Bud like you so much? Even Lou likes you, and those guys don’t warm up to nobody like that."

Tim shrugs again. "I like hyenas." His voice is quiet. "Watched videos on them. Read about them. But… probably I just got lucky."

Harley’s expression twists.

Tim knows that look. It’s doubt. It’s irritation. It’s the bitter annoyance of a woman who refuses to think too hard about the choices she’s made.

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but then she sees it— the stitch at the corner of his mouth pulling deeper.

She grimaces.

Tim doesn’t react.

He can feel it now, that slow, dreadful realization. They aren’t just keeping his mouth stitched shut as some temporary punishment. They’re changing him.

The stitches have already cut through the sides of his lips. Not just shallow cuts, but deep. He can feel it healing— wrong, permanent. The corners of his mouth stretched, the skin forced to mend into this grotesque mockery of a smile.

Tim feels like he’s losing his mind.

Not in the way Joker wants.

Not in the way that means he’s breaking.

No.

More in the way that means he’s stopped caring.

The doses of laughing gas aren’t helping, either. He knows what it does— weakens his mind, lowers his defenses, makes everything seem funnier than it should.

But even through the haze, Tim knows who he is.

And he knows this:

He is not going to break.

He is not going to laugh for them.

And when he gets out of here— because he will get out of here —he will never let them do this to anyone else ever again.

--

Tim knows he’s losing it.

Week three, and his thoughts are twisting.

That quiet, steely promise he made to himself— he will never let them do this to anyone else ever again —has curdled into something sharper. Something hilarious.

It would be funny, wouldn't it? If the Joker died.

Not just died— died slowly.

Tim should probably be disturbed by that. Maybe he would be if he wasn’t constantly drugged out of his mind on laughing gas. But he is. So when the thought comes, when he pictures it—Joker screaming, choking on his own laughter, knowing it’s finally over for him —Tim laughs.

And because his filter is long gone, because Joker and Harley never considered what happens when you dose someone for weeks at a time, he says it out loud.

"Wouldn’t it be hilarious." he slurs, grinning around the torn-up corners of his mouth, "if you died slow?"

Joker cackles. Like, full-body, hunched-over, slap-the-table cackles. Because of course he does. Joker’s so far gone that he thinks everything is funny.

Harley, though.

Harley doesn’t laugh.

Tim, even through the haze , catches that flicker of unease in her face.

The way her body tenses, the way she actually pulls back. Just a fraction. Like she’s realizing something. Like maybe, just maybe, this has gotten away from her.

Tim would feel victorious if he wasn’t pretty sure she put something in his skull.

Which, by the way, he knows she did.

He barks out another giggle, even though it hurts, even though the stitches pull and burn , because oh, this is funny. "You put something in my head."

Harley stiffens.

"How the hell do you know that?" she demands, and oh, she’s actually spooked now.

Tim just grins at her— grins, even though it stretches the healing wounds even further. His face aches. His skull pounds. He can feel the stitches in his scalp, tight and itching.

He doesn’t know what she put there, but he knows it’s something.

The only thing that stays the same in this whole mess?

Bud.

Bud is still affectionate. If anything, the big guy is more affectionate now, curling up against Tim’s side, nudging at his shoulder when he starts drifting too far.

Tim lets his fingers sink into Bud’s fur, grounding himself. The warmth of him, the solid weight of him, helps keep Tim here.

Harley is still staring at him, that unease settling into something else.

Tim finally gives her an answer.

"He wants to be a dad."

Harley blinks. "What?"

Tim sighs, like it’s so obvious. His voice is hoarse from weeks of disuse, from screaming, from the gas, but he forces the words out.

"I don’t remember when you asked, but you wanted to know why he likes me." He gestures vaguely at Bud, whose ears twitch. "He thinks I’m a broken cub that needs to be comforted."

Harley goes still.

Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Her fingers twitch against her thigh.

And for the first time in three weeks, there is something almost like regret in her face.

Just for a second.

But it’s there.

Tim sees it.

... but that can't be right, unless she's having a brief moment of lucidity. Well that makes sense, Tim doesn't think Dr Harleen Quinzel would have wanted to do this to a child... but well they've made there choices, could have made better ones.

Lou nudges against her leg, looking up at her like he’s confused.

Harley, still quiet, absently pats his head.

Tim doesn’t say anything else.

Neither does she.

--

Week four.

Tim has lost it.

Not in the way they wanted. Not in the way that would make him into their perfect little broken puppet.

No, Tim has lost it in a way that makes him laugh with something shattered and raw in his chest as he stands there, gripping a gun he doesn't even remember taking.

He doesn’t know where it came from. Maybe Joker, maybe Harley, maybe one of the goons—who the hell cares?

Because right now, it’s in his hands.

And it's pointed at the Joker.

Joker is still talking, still laughing, because of course he is. Everything’s a joke to him. Even this. Even now. Even when Tim Drake—drugged, stitched, beaten, broken—has finally turned a gun on him.

Tim’s grinning. His face hurts. His scars pull. His mouth is permanently stretched wider than it should be.

He can still feel the stitches in his lips, his eyelids, his skull.

And yet he’s grinning, laughing along with him.

He wants to kill him.

He should.

But… but this is still Tim Drake.

Tim Drake is a stubborn little bastard.

And Tim Drake doesn’t kill.

So he adjusts his aim.

Bang.

Joker screams, his laugh turning into a shriek as his knee explodes in blood and shattered bone.

Bang.

The other knee. Joker collapses, twitching and shrieking , rolling onto his side as his fingers twitch and grasp at the wounds. Blood seeps between his fingers.

Tim could have shot him in the head.

But he didn’t.

And then—everything goes fast.

Joker is still laughing, even through the pain, even through his screams, because of course he is, because it’s all a joke to him.

And then he pulls another gun.

Tim barely registers it, dazed, half-drugged, his body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline and laughing gas.

Joker’s still laughing. If he can’t make the kid kill Batman, he can at least kill the kid.

Tim knows, in that split second— he’s not fast enough.

And then the wall explodes.

Bricks collapse on top of Joker, cutting his laugh short as he disappears beneath the rubble.

Oswald.

Oswald is here.

Penguin storms in, furious, manic, absolutely unhinged in a way Tim has never seen before.

He grabs Tim, shoves him at Batman.

And then he’s screaming at Bruce.

Screaming that if Bruce doesn’t get his kid to the hospital right now, he will kill him.

Tim doesn’t understand.

Everything is spinning.

He doesn’t get why Oswald is here, why Batman is here, why Nightwing is here, why they’re all here.

Did they team up?

That seems… weird.

Why would they do that?

Why would they—?

Oh.

It takes Tim longer than it should to realize —Oswald is here for him.

Oswald is here for him.

That’s… odd.

Tim blinks, dazed, slumping against Bruce’s chest.

Nightwing is here too. That’s odd. He’s… grabbing Joker and Harley.

Penguin is still yelling.

Bruce is still holding him.

Everything is so much.

Tim thinks maybe… maybe he should sleep.

Maybe he can sleep now.

Maybe, for once, he’s safe.

--

Tim wakes up.

And for the first time in weeks, it isn’t to the sharp, acrid stench of laughing gas clogging his throat or the sickly-sweet, stale smell of old popcorn and rot. There are no neon lights flashing, no distorted carnival music bleeding through the walls, no Joker’s laughter drilling into his skull.

Instead, the air is clean. The light is soft, dimmed on purpose. The silence is peaceful instead of oppressive.

For a moment, he doesn’t believe it.

His body is heavy, sore, sluggish. He feels like he’s been floating for days, weeks— and maybe he has. Maybe he’s still dreaming.

But then he blinks.

Blinks.

And oh, that’s— that’s new.

His breath hitches as the sensation rushes over him. His eyes burn, but they’re his again. No stitches pulling at his skin, no thread holding his eyelids open against his will. Just his eyes, his body, his control.

It takes him a moment to process, to even recognize what he’s feeling.

Relief.

It hurts, but it’s his.

His tongue shifts in his mouth, and the moment it touches the inside of his cheek, there’s a sudden jolt of movement beside him.

“Oh, wait—try not to touch the sides of your mouth too much.”

Tim recognizes the voice instantly.

Dr. Irene Laviero. One of Oswald’s personal doctors. Not just any doctor, either—a world-renowned one. He’s met her before, when Oswald made him come in for a cracked rib. She’s one of the few people who respects his intelligence, who speaks to him like he’s a person instead of a kid.

He focuses on her, his vision swimming, adjusting, clearing.

“Are you ready to hear some of the report on your injuries?”

Tim swallows, his throat dry, aching.

“Please." he croaks.

She nods, professional and calm.

“We don’t want to retraumatize you, but in order to help your mouth heal properly, we had to stitch the grooves that developed from the forced oral commissures into the cheeks. Unfortunately, there’s likely too much scar tissue and damage for a successful commissuroplasty in the future.”

Tim’s stomach twists. His hands grip the sheets beneath him.

“But." she continues, steady, careful, “the good news is that, due to the method of the stitches, there is no reduced mobility or flexibility. Other than a slightly altered smile—your oral commissures extending a little longer into the cheeks—you should regain full function. Essentially, while you may have what some might consider a Glasgow smile, your mouth will heal normally otherwise.”

Tim barely hears the end of it. His mind latches onto the words— Glasgow smile, too much scar tissue, no repair possible.

He feels sick.

His hand twitches, fingers pressing lightly against his cheek, tracing along where the stitches must have been. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until his voice comes out, shaky but determined.

“Did you find what was in my head?”

Dr. Laviero’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something gentle in her tone when she nods.

“There was a microchip implanted in your skull designed to influence brainwaves." she tells him plainly. “We only found it because you kept repeating it, over and over. It didn’t appear on X-rays, but when we performed an MRI, the chip reacted aggressively—attempting to tear itself out of your skull. That’s what led us to it.”

Tim stares at her.

His breath is shallow. His heartbeat pounds in his ears.

A chip.

A chip in his brain.

Joker, Harley, put something in his head.

And he had been right.

He had felt it.

He had known.

Across the room, a voice grumbles.

“We shouldn’t be overloading him with all this information right now.”

Bruce.

Bruce is here.

Tim barely has the chance to process that before another voice cuts in, sharp and bristling.

“A patient is entitled to their medical reports." Oswald snaps, his cane hitting the floor with a sharp clack as he moves. “And let’s be honest, Wayne—if we didn’t tell him, do you really think Tim wouldn’t break in and find it himself?”

Tim turns his head just in time to catch Bruce’s face twisting. His jaw clenches.

And then, all Bruce says is—

“Hnn.”

Tim almost laughs.

Almost.

But his mouth hurts.

Everything hurts.

So instead, he just lets himself breathe.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Tim doesn’t hear the fight.

He doesn’t hear the sharp clack of Oswald’s cane as he paces, nor the quiet, measured breaths of Bruce Wayne as he holds himself back from responding too harshly.

Tim doesn’t hear the tension coiling in the air like a storm about to break.

He sleeps—draped in a hospital bed, his body mending, healing, rebuilding itself from the horror it’s endured.

But just outside his private hospital ward, voices are rising.

"You won't be getting custody." Oswald snarls, his voice low, dangerous, filled with venom. His limp is more pronounced as he leans heavily on his cane, but there’s nothing weak about him. His presence fills the room, his rage barely contained. "Why do you think you even stand a chance? I have been his guardian on weekends for years now. I have legal written consent that I am his godfather. He will be living with me. Or do you think you can just throw your money around and get whatever you want?"

Bruce remains calm, composed, but there’s a flicker of something steely in his eyes.

"I have experience raising children." he says evenly.

Oswald lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. It isn’t mocking —it’s disgusted.

"Oh, you have experience." he sneers. "One child who hates you, who’s only here for Tim.” Motioning at a fast asleep Dick Grayson in the waiting room “ Then One dead child. And now this—now Tim. You didn’t do enough. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of hero? You didn’t save Tim from the Joker. You didn’t even save him from his own father. "

Bruce’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists. The mention of Jason’s death is a raw wound, even years later, even unspoken.

"How—" Bruce starts, voice clipped, but Oswald cuts him off.

" How do I know? " Oswald spits. "I just found out —but let’s face it, you started acting like a vigilante the moment your parents died. Even as a kid, it wasn’t hard to guess that the other little brat hanging around Selina was her new friend Bruce Wayne. I just assumed maybe it wasn’t you, I thought maybe you weren’t stupid enough to let children fight alongside you because of your past."

Bruce's expression doesn't change, but something in his stance shifts—subtly, guarded.

Oswald presses forward, voice sharp and cutting, his sharp noise pointed up as he glares up at Bruce Wyane

"But no, looks like you learned the wrong lesson—that kids should be soldiers. Or at least Tim should. You were the one who gave him that cracked rib, weren’t you?" Oswald’s face twists in disgust. "Training, hopefully. "

Bruce doesn’t respond immediately.

Oswald is breathing heavily, angry, frustrated, but there’s something else in his expression—something that almost looks like guilt.

Bruce finally sighs, his shoulders relaxing just slightly, the tension lessening—but not disappearing.

"I’ve been considering having no more child sidekicks." he says, voice measured. "No matter how much they beg."

Oswald lets out another sharp laugh.

"I can't stop you." he growls. "You can do whatever the fuck you want. I’d be a hypocrite if I said otherwise. I was in gangs at ten. Tim is thirteen. If he wants to keep working with you, I won’t stop him."

Bruce’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

"You just —"

Oswald rolls his eyes.

"You already trained him." he snaps. "You already chose a kid who was risking his life going out and taking pictures of your enemies. He got attacked not as Robin, but as Tim Drake. So no, Tim is not safe. And I know he won’t stop working with you."

Bruce says nothing, waiting.

"But I don’t want him to be Robin anymore." Oswald says firmly, his fingers tightening on his cane. "Robins die. I want him to be his own vigilante. We’ll work something out—he can still be your ally, but I will not let you make him think he’s lesser than the others."

Bruce’s expression darkens.

" Excuse me? "

Oswald steps forward, standing his ground.

"You heard me." he says coldly. "Did you ever train the others that hard? Did you break their bones? "

Bruce's eyes narrow, his stance shifting.

"And don’t think I didn’t see that look on your face when you found him." Oswald continues, voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "You didn’t look at him like he was Tim. "

Bruce’s fingers twitch. His entire body goes still.

Oswald doesn’t finish the sentence, but they both know what he means.

Bruce hadn’t looked at Tim like he was Tim.

He had looked at Tim like he was the last Robin.

The one who died to Joker.

--

Oswald steps back into the hospital room with quiet determination, his movements careful but purposeful as he approaches the chair beside Tim’s bed. His cane makes a soft click against the polished hospital floor, a rhythmic sound that seems almost deliberate in the otherwise still room.

He settles into the chair beside Tim, exhaling a long breath, adjusting his coat before leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. There’s something almost protective in the way he watches Tim—like a sentry standing guard, like a man who has fought tooth and nail to keep what is his safe.

Bruce watches from the doorway, and for the first time, he sees it.

Not the crime lord. Not the ruthless strategist.

But a father.

A father watching over a son.

It’s startling in its honesty, in the way Oswald doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t try to make himself look tougher or more detached. There’s no mask here, no pretenses, just a man sitting at a hospital bed, watching over a boy who has been through hell.

Bruce doesn’t know what to say to that.

"You cracked Tim’s rib?"

Dick’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and unrelenting.

Bruce’s eyes snap to him. Dick is sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, slouched just enough to look relaxed, but Bruce knows better. Knows that anger when he sees it. Knows the way Dick’s fingers twitch against his arms, the way his shoulders are held just a little too tight.

"You were awake?" Bruce asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Dick scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You were talking with Penguin, of course I was awake. You didn’t think to tell me that Penguin is Tim’s dad?"

Bruce exhales through his nose, leveling Dick with a steady gaze.

"Tim is not Oswald’s son." he says carefully. "His father died a month ago. His mother—"

" You know damn well I’m not talking about that." Dick snaps, his voice carrying an edge that Bruce rarely hears directed at him. " That is his father. I don’t care if it’s not biological. The man hasn’t slept in the last month looking for him. He’s poured insane amounts of money into finding him, into tracking down anything, anyone, any lead. A greedy man like Penguin wouldn’t do that if he didn’t care. "

Silence.

Bruce says nothing.

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists.

"You also didn’t answer my other question." he says, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. " Did you crack Tim’s rib? "

Bruce is silent again.

And that tells Dick everything.

His breath comes out sharp, his fingers digging into his arms as he glares at the floor. " He told us. " His voice wavers, just slightly. " He told us what his dad was doing, why didn’t we look into it? Why didn’t we see it? We should have— " He lets out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. " He told us his dad made him live in a shack! "

And this time, all the anger isn’t even directed at Bruce.

It’s directed at himself.

Bruce moves, reaching a hand out towards Dick’s shoulder, but Dick jerks away.

"Don’t touch me right now." he says, his voice cold, firm.

The room falls into silence again, heavy and suffocating.

Then—

The door swings open, and Oswald steps out.

His presence is immediately felt, the sharpness in his expression making it clear he is barely holding himself together. His grip on his cane tightens, his fingers clenching at the handle with barely concealed frustration.

"Tim is awake." he says, voice flat, but there’s something else there too—something weary.

Bruce and Dick immediately stiffen, eyes snapping toward him.

Oswald exhales sharply through his nose.

"I didn’t think yelling could get louder than me screaming at Bruce earlier." he mutters, shaking his head. "But apparently, I was wrong. "

His fingers tighten around the handle of his cane, his gaze flickering to the side.

"I think he’ll fall back asleep soon, but…"

Oswald hesitates.

For a moment, just a brief moment, he looks like he doesn’t want to say whatever it is he’s about to say. His lips press together, his jaw clenching, his entire frame stiffening.

And then—

He forces the words out.

"Tim has asked me to relay something." he mutters, his voice tight. "I don’t want to say it. But I will."

Bruce and Dick both watch him, both feeling the weight in the air.

Oswald’s fingers twitch around his cane.

"He says…"

His teeth grit together.

"He doesn’t want you to blame Bruce. Or yourself. For what happened to him."

A heavy silence.

Bruce’s chest tightens.

Dick’s breath catches.

Because of course that’s what Tim was thinking about, hearing the fight.

Not about himself.

Not about his pain.

But about them.

About making sure they weren’t hurt. About making sure they didn’t blame themselves.

This thirteen-year-old kid, lying in a hospital bed after being tortured, after weeks of horror, is still thinking about them.

Oswald snarls, turning sharply back toward the room.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t have to.

Bruce and Dick are left standing there, their hearts breaking just a little more.

-------

Oswald exhales slowly through his nose, Tim gently takes his hand… which is a surprise, the boy doesn’t often ask for comfort. So Oswald’s grip tightens slightly around the hand Tim is holding. He had stormed back into the hospital room, still seething from the argument with Bruce, but the second Tim’s fingers curled around his own, all that frustration, all that rage dulled into something quieter, something heavier. He had been prepared for a conversation, maybe even an argument about what was to happen next, but not this.

Not Tim looking at him like that, eyes sharp, unwavering, filled with something so unyielding that Oswald almost felt like the child in the room.

"You cannot kill Joker."

His eye twitches. His fingers flex against his cane. It takes everything in him not to let his immediate reaction show on his face.

He doesn't hide much from Tim. He never has. Not because he can't—Oswald Cobblepot can lie with the best of them, can manipulate, can deceive and twist words into things that sound like the truth—but with Tim, it's never been worth it and often times Tim will still know, the sweet brat is too perceptive.

But this?

This, he does not know if he can give.

"Tim—" He starts, his voice carefully measured, a warning hidden beneath the name, but Tim interrupts.

"No, I mean you CANNOT. Physically CANNOT. "

Tim’s grip tightens, his expression growing more desperate, but not in fear—no, not fear, something worse, something akin to knowing.

"I realised something." Tim breathes out, trying to steady himself, trying to force calm into his voice even as his heartbeat pounds. "You cannot kill him."

Oswald stares at him, truly stares.

Confusion flickers across his face, barely-there, a crack in his usual calculated expressions.

Tim sees the moment he has Oswald’s full attention, and he takes a breath, steadying himself against the sheets.

"There is something wrong with him." Tim says slowly, purposefully. "Not—not all the obvious things. Something else. If he dies…"

Tim swallows. His fingers clench.

"If he dies, he will come back. Somehow worse. "

Oswald doesn’t react at first. He just studies him, takes in every micro-expression, every flicker of fear, of certainty.

Tim knows something.

Tim has seen something.

"I was going to kill him." Tim admits, voice barely above a whisper. His fingers twitch slightly against Oswald’s own. "I was going to shoot him. I had the gun, I had the chance. " His breath stutters slightly, and he shakes his head. " But I saw it. "

He exhales sharply, a tremor running through his frame.

"I saw…" Tim’s voice wavers for just a second, but he pushes forward, his determination outweighing the strain. "I saw something. "

He looks Oswald in the eyes, gaze unwavering, dark, haunted.

"If you kill him." Tim says, voice low, final. "He comes back worse. Just leave him alone."

Tim’s breath is heavy. He knows how ridiculous it sounds, knows that if he were saying this to literally anyone else, they’d write it off as trauma, as delirium, Even Batman and Robin .

But Oswald believes him.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, but something about the certainty in Tim’s voice, the sheer conviction in his eyes—Oswald knows better than to dismiss it.

He huffs, shaking his head slightly, his fingers twitching in agitation.

"That is certainly ominous." he mutters dryly, rubbing his thumb over his cane.

Tim doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile.

Because it’s not funny.

Oswald exhales sharply, thinking.

The chip they had pulled from Tim’s head had been embedded deep. Designed so it wouldn’t have shown up on X-rays, designed to influence brainwaves, to turn Tim into another him when he was older.

How many failsafes had Joker put in place other then that foiled one ? How many layers of horror had that man weaved into the world? How many actual deals with the devil had he made?

Oswald has seen things, heard things. He has seen Lazarus Pits drag people back from death. He has seen monsters, demons, horrors that should not exist. The world is not ruled by reason, by logic. It is ruled by power, by madness.

And the Joker is madness incarnate.

Oswald breathes in through his nose, lets the silence stretch between them before exhaling sharply.

" Fine. "

Tim blinks.

Oswald rolls his eyes, shifting his grip on his cane. "I believe you." he mutters, as if it physically pains him to say it. " Unfortunately. "

Tim relaxes just a fraction, his fingers loosening slightly.

Oswald exhales.

"I won’t kill him." he mutters. " Regrettably. "

It is not the promise Tim wants. It is not a happy agreement, it’s drenched in absolute bloodlust… Tim does wonder if this means Oswald will take this as at least being able to try to kill Harely Quinn on sight… but not the Joker.

Tim knows Oswald.

And Oswald does not break his word… to Tim at least.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim stares at the mirror, his breath slow and steady, his fingers gripping the edge of the sink. He’s finally out of the hospital. Finally free from the scent of antiseptic, from the sterile white walls and too-soft pillows that made him feel trapped rather than safe. But now, standing in front of his own reflection, the reality of what’s been left behind hits.

He looks normal. He looks fine. Until he smiles.

The second his lips pull back, exposing his teeth, his stomach churns. His hands twitch with the urge to wipe it off his face, to shove it away, to pretend he never saw it. But he can’t. Because it’s there. It’s real.

The scars curve just a little too high into his cheeks, thin but permanent. The Glasgow slits Joker left him with, the ones that had bled so badly Oswald had nearly lost his mind when he saw them.

Tim exhales through his nose, gripping the counter tighter, studying it. Hating it.

The scars aren’t even that deep. They’re barely noticeable thanks to the careful stitches Dr. Irene had put in, and the insanely expensive anti-scarring cream Oswald had practically drowned him in. If he doesn’t smile too wide, if he keeps his mouth shut, no one will even notice.

But he notices.

Because when he does smile—when his teeth are visible—it’s not his. It doesn’t feel his.

It’s a mockery.

His eyes still crinkle at the edges, still hold the same warmth, the same life, but his mouth—his mouth —is wrong.

It’s something else.

It’s Joker.

His jaw tightens. His fingers flex.

He will not let this be his.

Tim never really smiled with his teeth open anyway. That’s fine. Laughing— real laughing—will be the only time he has to be careful, the only time he’ll need to make sure he covers his mouth.

Not because he’s ashamed. Not because he finds the scars ugly.

Tim could care less about ugly.

But because it’s not him. Joker has left him with something that isn’t him.

And that is something he cannot accept.

He exhales, straightens, resolves.

There are ways to smile without opening his mouth. Ways to laugh without letting that twisted version of himself show.

He’ll figure it out.

He has to.

When he steps out into the living room, Oswald is already sitting at the table, waiting for him. His cane rests against the side of his chair, and there’s a small stack of papers in front of him.

Oswald doesn’t hover, not anymore. He had in the hospital, barely sleeping, constantly watching Tim as if afraid he’d disappear the second he looked away. But now that Tim is out, now that he’s home, Oswald has been careful to give him space.

Not too much.

Just enough.

Tim sighs, dropping down into the chair across from him. "You wanted to talk about my new costume?"

Oswald looks at him carefully, analyzing. Always analyzing.

Tim doesn’t fidget under the scrutiny.

After a moment, Oswald hums, reaching for the papers in front of him. "Costume and name." he corrects, sliding them over. "Since you are no longer Robin, it is only fitting that you have something of your own."

Tim’s fingers hover over the sketches before he sighs, picking them up.

He knew this conversation was coming. Knew that Oswald wasn’t going to just let him go back to the same title, the same image, when Joker had taken that from him.

And…

And maybe that’s fair.

Because Batman had barely even looked at him since he woke up.

Tim had seen the way Bruce’s shoulders had tensed, the way his expression had shut down when he first saw Tim conscious. And maybe—maybe it was Tim’s own paranoia, his own issues creeping in—but for a second, just for a second, Tim had wondered if Bruce had been disappointed.

Because he wasn’t Jason.

Because he had lived.

And wasn’t that ironic?

Tim had spent years proving himself. Years trying to be good enough. And now that he was too much, too scarred, too broken, Bruce couldn’t even look at him properly.

Batman doesn’t need him anymore.

And maybe… maybe that’s fine.

Because Tim doesn’t need to be Robin anymore either.

But Batman still needs someone.

And Tim won’t let him go back to that dark place.

If a Robin isn’t there to keep him from falling, then Tim will find another way.

Even if he has to become something else entirely.

Tim hums, looking over the sketches. Something about them doesn’t feel quite right. The designs are good— too good, actually. Oswald had drawn them himself, and that’s surprising. Tim hadn’t known Oswald could sketch, but thinking about it, it makes sense.

The elite of Gotham—especially those who clawed their way into the upper echelons of high society—always needed something to set them apart, some talent, some skill to keep up appearances at galas, to play the game properly. Oswald had been among them, once upon a time. He had held an established place among Gotham’s powerful, mingling with its richest and most dangerous figures. It stands to reason that he would have taken art classes at some point.

Of course the Penguin could draw.

Tim’s fingers run over the designs, feeling the weight of them. The costumes are functional, armored, but none of them feel right. They don’t feel like him.

Oswald must recognize his hesitation because he pushes another folder toward him, his expression carefully neutral.

Tim tilts his head. “What’s this?”

Oswald steeples his fingers. “I personally like this one, but you may not. However, if you choose it, it will match the theme of the present I purchased for you.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. A present? Oswald has been buying him things constantly since he was discharged from the hospital— food, books, tech upgrades for his laptop —but this feels… different.

Slowly, he opens the folder.

His breath catches.

The rest of the costume’s design is unfinished, but the mask and glider suit are already complete. The mask is vulture-shaped, sleek and angular, an imposing silhouette meant to intimidate. Not garish and ridiculous, it is actually far shorter then real vulture beaks but gets the point across. The cape, meanwhile, is more than just fabric—it’s an actual glider suit.

Tim’s fingers trail over the sketches.

The material looks vaguely like feathers but sleeker, bulletproof. The way the feathered texture is layered around the neck and shoulders makes it harder to stab, designed to deflect blades naturally—like how real feathers protect birds.

It’s genius.

Tim barely notices himself reaching for a spare piece of paper, but before he realizes it, he’s sketching. His hands move with a purpose, the lines rough, somewhat childish, but with a distinct style. His drawings have always leaned more toward cartoonish, almost anime-like, but they get the point across.

Oswald watches him in silence, intrigued.

Tim adjusts the design, adding a black and red color scheme, incorporating a stylized bird emblem on the chest. The utility belt stays—the same one he always wears—but with a splash of yellow. Not too bright, but a throwback to his Robin costume.

Most people associate Robin with red and green, but Tim’s Robin had been red and yellow.

That’s his.

He carefully tears the sketch out and places it alongside the cape and vulture cowl, slotting it into place.

Oswald leans forward, analyzing the design. Then he nods, expression approving.

Tim feels a small warmth bloom in his chest.

Damn it, he likes Oswald’s approval way too much.

"Red Vulture." Tim murmurs, almost as if asking permission.

Oswald nods again. "That does sound like a good name. Is that what you want?"

Tim nods.

Oswald smiles. "Well, it will fit your new partner quite well."

Tim barely has a moment to react before Oswald suddenly calls out, "Scrap!"

There’s a blur of movement, a massive shadow overhead, and then—

A Giant South American Vulture lands in the room, wings spreading out dramatically before folding neatly against its body. It’s huge, nearly four feet tall, with dark plumage and piercing eyes.

Tim stares.

Scrap is… scarred. Missing a few claws. But regal in how she holds herself, proud despite the damage.

She tilts her head at Tim and makes a cute little squawk.

Tim blinks. He had expected something… vicious. Instead, she almost reminds him of a cat.

Cautiously, he reaches out—

Scrap leans into his touch, fluffing her feathers, practically preening under his hand.

Tim is thrown.

Oswald chuckles. "She’s a rescue." His voice is softer now, almost fond. "I do not use birds in my work— not real ones anyway. However, she was recently being auctioned off in the black market. Meant to be a trained killer—designed to go for the eyes, to tear. "

Tim freezes, looking at the bird again. She had been bred for violence. But she’s… leaning into his hand, completely content.

"I didn’t pay for her." Oswald continues, voice hardening. "That would reinforce the breeding of animals for blood sport. What happened to her former owner is not your concern, but I will say this—he is not dead, but he will never return to Gotham."

Tim doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need to.

"But Scrap needs this now." Oswald says, watching as Tim scratches gently under the vulture’s chin. "She was trained to be a weapon, but she is not what they wanted. She does not kill. She does not love to fight. "

Oswald’s voice softens again.

"But she does attack if a gun is aimed at her master. She can track people when given a silent command. She can respond to many, many commands. " A small smile. "Mostly, though, she will be your eyes."

Tim looks at Scrap again. The vulture—this trained killer —is currently pressing against his hand, making tiny content noises.

Tim exhales.

He thinks she’s perfect.

--

Scrap even knows how to go outside to use the bathroom. That is impressive.

She’s well-trained in ways that surprise Tim—she listens, she watches, and she understands things far quicker than most animals he’s interacted with. She loves him too, in that way animals just seem to know who their people are. She’s taken to snuggling into his lap whenever she gets the chance, pressing her massive body against him, fluffing her feathers as if to demand pets.

It’s honestly kind of adorable.

Tim had assumed a vulture—especially one trained for combat—would be more aloof, more aggressive, but Scrap is… different. She really is a lot like Oswald’s pet vulture, Antonia.

Tim had once thought it was strange, Oswald keeping a vulture as a pet, but now? He gets it.

He thinks about renaming her—Scrap doesn’t really fit her—but she knows that name. She responds to it instantly, her head perking up when Oswald or Tim calls her. She knows who she is. Changing her name now would just confuse her, and Tim doesn’t want to take that from her.

Her mutilated feet make him sad, but they don’t seem to bother her. She walks fine. She flies fine. She lives fine.

He wonders if she was bred for fighting, if someone intentionally crippled her when they realized she wasn’t the kind of monster they wanted. It makes him angry, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Scrap is here now. She’s safe.

And honestly? Vultures aren’t monsters.

People think they’re ugly, or sinister, or somehow evil because they eat the dead, but vultures are sweethearts.

Tim had gone down a rabbit hole about them after meeting Antonia once, and it turns out zookeepers actually love vultures. Out of all the animals they work with, vultures rank high on their list of favorites. They’re playful, but not dangerously so. They’re food-motivated, but they also love toys and games. The only real downside for busy zoo workers is their silliness —they love tugging on shoelaces, stealing objects, playing with anything they can get their beaks on.

They’re also shockingly clean.

Despite their reputation, vultures love baths. They groom themselves constantly. The only time they smell bad is if they vomit—one of their self-defense mechanisms.

They’re also brilliant. Nearly on the level of corvids like ravens and crows.

And most importantly? They keep the world from falling apart.

Without vultures, nature would collapse.

Vultures are nature’s cleaners. They eat the dead. They purge disease from the environment. Where other scavengers might spread sickness, vultures’ stomachs are so acidic that they destroy bacteria and pathogens entirely. Without them, the corpses of animals would rot where they fell, contaminating water sources, spreading plague and death.

In places where vultures have gone extinct, outbreaks of rabies, anthrax, and botulism have followed. Other scavengers—rats, feral dogs—take their place, but they can’t do what vultures do. They only spread the sickness further.

Vultures protect the world from decay.

It’s why the moniker Red Vulture fits so well.

All Tim has ever wanted is to help clean up Gotham.

Batman thinks of Gotham as his city. His responsibility. His burden.

Tim has always thought of Gotham as something sick.

Not something rotting. Not something in desperate need of purging.

It isn’t a corpse, not yet. It’s an ecosystem out of balance.

Like the regions where vultures were wiped out , poisoned by those who misunderstood their purpose , Gotham has been thrown into chaos by forces that don’t understand what it needs to heal. And just like those places, the solution isn’t to burn it all down or let it collapse under its own weight.

The solution is reintroduction.

Vultures do not kill.

They don’t fight in the same way a bat or a Robin does.

They observe. They think. They wait.

They are patient. They are efficient. They know exactly where to strike , where to tear away the filth without disturbing the delicate structure of what must remain. They don’t rip apart the living. They only take what is already dead , what is poisoning the world.

So maybe Tim doesn’t have to go out there and punch people like Batman. Maybe he doesn’t need to crack skulls or throw himself into the fire the way a Robin is expected to.

Maybe he can fall back on his detective skills instead.

And not to brag— but if anyone in Gotham could rival Batman’s investigative mind, it was Tim.

That was always his strength. The thing that made him different from the other Robins. He wasn’t the acrobat. He wasn’t the bruiser. He wasn’t the strategist or the survivor. He was the one who thought first , the one who pieced the puzzle together , the one who figured out who Batman was before he even met him.

So maybe that’s the kind of vigilante he should be.

Not the one chasing after Joker or Riddler, not the one fighting the big, flashy rogues.

But the one digging deeper.

Because Batman fights the monsters that rise to the surface—the villains that demand his attention, the ones who scream for chaos. But Gotham’s worst evils aren’t always so loud. Some of them hide in silence , thriving beneath the notice of the Bats and the Rogues alike.

The real poison isn’t in the supervillains. It’s in the system itself.

In the trafficking rings that swallow Gotham’s children.

In the black-market clinics that butcher the poor for organs.

In the corrupt landlords that keep entire blocks trapped in poverty , in the employers who disappear workers that complain, in the police precincts that cover up which rich heir killed who this week.

Those are the things that make Gotham worse.

Not the grand spectacles. Not the supervillains in costumes. Not even the crime families.

But the systematic horrors. The ones that let everything fester.

So Tim won’t be a Bat.

Tim won’t be a Robin.

Tim will be a Vulture.

He will watch from above, circling Gotham with keen eyes. Watching. Waiting. Looking for the sickness that no one else will see.

And when he finds it , he’ll do what vultures do best.

He will strip it away , piece by piece, until all that remains is something strong enough to survive.

Tim loves Gotham.

And he’s going to make it better.

Chapter Text

When Tim steps into the Batcave for the first time since the incident, there’s a brief moment of silence .

Nightwing and Batman are both there, waiting for him. Tim can tell by their body language that they’ve been thinking about this conversation for a while , preparing for it, trying to figure out what to say to him.

Tim doesn’t want an apology.

They look at him with that tight-jawed, guilty look, and before either of them can speak, he waves them off.

"You have nothing to apologize for." he says. "It's not like you made Joker do this or something."

Batman and Nightwing exchange a glance.

"No." Nightwing says after a moment, shifting on his feet. "We're not talking about that. We're talking about your dad. "

Tim’s stomach clenches.

Bruce speaks next, voice carefully measured. "We should have known. You told us things that—if we had really been paying attention —should have raised every red flag imaginable. But we didn’t see it. Or we didn’t want to see it. And we're sorry for that."

Tim sighs and shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about Jack. He barely thinks about Jack now. The only time he even comes to mind is in comparison to Oswald.

"Look." Tim says, arms crossed. "Oswald tried. He was actively working to get me out of that household, and even he couldn’t do it the legal way. What chance did you have?"

Batman doesn't answer, but his jaw tightens. Nightwing rubs the back of his neck.

Tim presses on, voice dry but honest. "Jack covered his tracks well. He was a public figure , and he was good at looking respectable. He knew exactly what to do to keep people from noticing anything was wrong. Hell, he had my mother committed when she tried to leave. He made the entire city believe she was crazy. He was already doing the same thing to me, slowly. The school thought I was just shy. A little too quiet, a little too tired all the time. But they never did anything because they were probably bribed. Mandatory reporters don’t just ignore obvious signs of neglect unless someone’s paying them to look the other way."

Bruce’s hands curl into fists. His shoulders are so tense that Tim can almost hear the grind of armor plates shifting.

Nightwing mutters something under his breath. Tim doesn’t quite catch it, but he knows it’s something angry.

Tim shrugs again. He isn’t trying to make them feel better —because that isn’t his job, and honestly, he doesn’t blame them. But he also isn’t trying to make them feel worse.

"It doesn’t matter now." Tim says simply. "Jack's dead. I’m out. And I was lucky—I didn’t even have to pretend to be sad for the public. His funeral already happened before I got out of the hospital. I didn’t have to show up, and no one cared. "

That’s what really cements how little Jack meant.

No one cared. No one noticed that his only son didn’t bother to attend.

The man spent his whole life controlling everything around him, forcing people into his version of reality—and in the end, he died alone.

There’s nothing more to say.

--

Nightwing is many things—acrobatic, fast, charming—but what he is above all is emotionally intelligent.

He can read people better than the rest of the Bat-family combined, which is why he knows when to let something go.

Tim is done talking about his father.

Bringing it up again right now, poking at it , would do nothing but make Tim overthink. Nightwing knows exactly how Tim’s mind works— if he spirals, he’ll start to feel bad that he doesn’t feel bad. And that’s the last thing he needs.

So Nightwing does what he does best. He changes the subject.

With a grin, he sneaks behind Tim and grabs his cape , rubbing the fabric between his fingers before dramatically throwing it over his shoulders like a dramatic cloak.

"Holy shit , this is so soft." he says, eyes lighting up. "And I bet it’s super warm if you flip it inside out. Little Vulture. "

Tim preens.

There’s something undeniably satisfying about Nightwing immediately using the name. Even if it’s not exactly "Red Vulture." it’s close enough. Tim has known Nightwing for too long—he knows he’s the type to shorten names or make up nicknames.

Tim smirks, crossing his arms. "Oh yeah. The cape is designed to keep heat in, in case I get trapped somewhere cold or have to fight Mr. Freeze. Also, I know nicknames can sometimes be longer than actual names, but ‘Little Vulture’ is longer than ‘Red Vulture.’"

Nightwing finger-guns at him, grinning. "Not if I’m saying it L-I-L . Lil’ Vulture. "

Tim rolls his eyes but can’t help but smile. "Uh huh?"

Before Nightwing can keep teasing, there’s a loud shriek from above, and then a blur of dark feathers as Scrap lands perfectly on Tim’s arm.

Nightwing flinches—just a little. Because let’s be honest, she is massive up close, and her hooked beak and sharp gaze are a little intimidating. But then she settles, preening her feathers, and looks at him with sharp, intelligent eyes.

Tim smirks. "Oh, by the way, this is Scrap. She’s good for recon. She also might rip a gun out of someone’s hands every once in a while. Just a warning."

Nightwing eyebrows shoot up. "Okay, that’s actually badass."

Tim shrugs like it’s no big deal. "She’s trained to recognize threats. But she’s also got a silly side. Watch this—Scrap, play!"

Before Nightwing can even ask what that means, Tim tosses him a pull toy. Instinctively, Nightwing catches it.

The moment he does, Scrap leaps forward and clamps onto the other end with her beak, tugging excitedly.

Nightwing stares in utter disbelief as the massive vulture starts playing a game of tug-of-war with him like a dog. Her wings half-flare in excitement, and she makes an eager, almost joyful squawk as she tugs back.

Tim watches with barely concealed amusement.

Nightwing, who was at first slightly creeped out by the idea of Tim having a vulture for a partner, now finds himself laughing.

"Okay." he says between tugs, "I take it back. She’s adorable."

Scrap gives a victorious shriek and yanks the toy out of Nightwing’s grip , flapping her wings excitedly as she tosses it up and catches it.

Tim grins, scratching under her beak. "Told you."

Chapter Text

Everything hurts.

Kon’s existence screeches into being , blaring alarms and raw, agonising awareness forcing him into life. His brain is packed full of information , things he knows but doesn’t remember learning. A jumble of history, language, and fake memories —a life he didn’t live but somehow feels like he did.

He doesn’t know his name.

Humans have names, right? That’s something he’s sure of. He frantically looks around the glass tube encasing him, searching for anything that might tell him who he is. His gaze lands on a label , written in cursive. It either says "K013" or "Kon."

Yeah, no contest. "Kon" it is. Who wants some nerd name with numbers in it?

His breath comes ragged and fast. He’s aware of his body now, and something feels wrong. The memories in his head don’t match what he sees—what he feels. His arms are too long, his fingers sharper , his teeth heavier in his mouth. He lifts a hand—no, a paw. He has paws?

That’s not right.

That doesn’t match the memories.

He roars in frustration, body slamming into the glass. His mouth snaps open, and—he cackles. A raw, barking sound that shouldn’t be coming out of him. His heartbeat thunders in his ears , pure animal panic taking over, instincts screaming that he is trapped, confined, unnatural.

A group of scientists leap back in shock, white coats flaring as they scramble away from the thing they created.

One man doesn’t move.

Bald, dressed in a pristine suit, he stands before the tube with his hands folded behind his back. His expression is bored.

Kon meets his eyes and hates him immediately.

The man doesn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, he calmly dictates to a tape recorder.

"K013 is not what I was expecting. Adding the mutagen extracted from the infected mosquito during the mass outbreak in New York has granted success in providing one of the clones with actual life. However, the results are less than perfect. It seems the mutagen was tainted with hyena DNA despite having obtained a sample that should not have been compromised. This will serve as a basis for our next attempt."

Kon growls , deep in his throat, teeth bared.

K013 sucks as a name. Clone isn’t a name either.

He grits his teeth, narrows his eyes at the bald bastard, and snaps:

"Hey, old man, name’s Kon. Not K013."

That finally gets a reaction.

The bald man’s brows lift slightly. His eyes flick to Kon’s face. A pause. Then— a smile.

It’s the worst smile Kon’s ever seen.

He turns back to the recorder, still ignoring him.

"Subject K013 has human-level intelligence. The subject will not be scrapped as I initially thought. It may not be what we intended, but it can be repurposed."

Kon rolls his eyes. He’s pissed off and still in pain , but at least he’s figured out one thing for sure.

This guy? Pompous dick.

--

Kon has been stuck here for weeks.

The room is lined with something green , something that burns in a way he can’t explain. He knows it makes him weaker— Kryptonite, they call it—but they only use it directly on him sparingly. The scientists aren’t total morons. If they kill him, they’ll lose their shiny new test subject.

Doesn’t mean they’re nice about it.

They poke, prod, and experiment, running him through tests like he’s some high-tech lab rat. Strength tests, agility drills, endurance assessments, pain tolerance. Some of it is just straight-up torture. And then there’s the worst part.

The shrink sessions.

Kon would almost prefer the pain tests over those. At least when they’re shocking him or cutting him open, something happens. Sitting in a room with a woman who keeps asking him how he feels? That is straight-up excruciating.

He knows she’s just another cog in this messed-up machine, one of them. But out of everyone here, he tolerates her the most. She doesn’t treat him like a mistake , like the scientists do. Doesn’t ignore him like the bald guy. She actually listens when he talks, even when he’s being a smartass.

Which is probably why she’s the only person here who actually realized he was bored out of his mind.

She called it "enrichment." Like he was some zoo animal.

Kon whined about it immediately.

“You gonna toss me a rubber ball to chase too?” he had griped, slouching dramatically in the chair. “Or, like, give me one of those fake bones they give dogs?”

She’d sighed and changed it to "mental stimulation." That was marginally better.

She introduced him to something called a laptop. Which, as far as Kon can tell, is basically just a super thin TV.

And on that laptop, she played a show.

"Wendy the Werewolf Stalker."

Kon was hooked instantly.

It was so stupid.

So stupid and so good.

The action was awesome , the one-liners were cheesy in the best way , and Wendy was dope as hell. She had this whole leather jacket, crossbow, no-nonsense attitude thing going on, and Kon just got it.

Like, sure, it was dumb. The werewolves looked fake as hell , and the dialogue was super overdramatic. But it was fun. And fun is something he’s never really had before.

Which is why it sucks that now they’re using it against him.

Every episode is a reward.

Behave in the tests? One episode. Cooperate with the shrink? Another one. Don’t mouth off for a full day? Maybe even two episodes.

It’s total bull.

But it’s still better than nothing.

So Kon huffs , slouching in his chair, glaring at the laptop as the scientists discuss whether or not he "earned" an episode today.

He already knows he hasn’t. He got pissy during the strength tests earlier and called one of the lab guys a chump.

Worth it.

…Still sucks, though.

--

Kon’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps as he glares at the new tube being set up across the lab. Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong.

He’s seen them make adjustments to the equipment before, seen new machines come in and out, but this? This isn’t just equipment. This is something new.

Or maybe... someone new.

He strains his eyes , trying to make out the label, dreading what it might say. He’s K013. If that tube has a K014 stamped on it, then—

Then what?

Then he’s replaceable?

They already treat him like he’s nothing, a failed experiment, a mistake they’re just making use of until they can figure out something better. But if they make another one— a better one—

Then what happens to him?

Kon doesn’t know.

And he doesn’t want to find out.

The tests slow down that day. The shrink doesn’t show up. The scientists are too focused on the new setup , whispering among themselves in clipped, professional tones. That night, they come for him with that stupid green rock.

He fights, of course. He always fights.

But Kryptonite makes him weak. The second they press it against his skin, he collapses , limbs trembling as they drag him back to his tube.

K013.

And then he sees him.

Lex Luthor.

Kon knows his name now. He’s heard the scientists talk about him, whisper about him like he’s some kind of untouchable god. But all Kon sees is a smug bastard in a suit.

And that smug bastard is holding something.

A tool. Small, sleek, lined with Kryptonite, humming with some faint, terrible energy.

Luthor smiles at him, a cold, clinical thing.

"I had such high hopes for you, K013." he muses, rolling the device between his fingers. "But your willfulness is becoming a problem. Fortunately, I have just the solution."

Kon’s stomach drops.

Luthor keeps talking, explaining something about "adjustments." about "fixing" the "disobedience in his neural pathways."

Translation: he’s about to mess with Kon’s brain.

No.

No, no, nononononono—

Kon thrashes, his body screaming in pain , but he doesn’t care. He can’t let this happen. He won’t.

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts—

And then—

Something inside him breaks loose.

A wave of energy bursts out from him, an invisible force that rips through the lab like an earthquake. The ground beneath him shatters , the machines around him explode , the tube holding him splits open with a crack like thunder.

Kon barely has time to think.

All his mind can grasp is one word.

RUN.

He’s out of there before the dust settles , shooting into the sky with no real plan, no direction—just pure, desperate instinct.

And then—

Cameras.

A city. Bright lights. People.

They're staring.

Kon’s bare feet skid against the rooftop he lands on, his breath still ragged . He can hear people yelling , see flashes of cameras below.

Oh.

Oh, this is bad.

He doesn’t even know what city this is. Metropolis? He’s heard the scientist talk about that one at least ?

He’s never been outside before.

Not like this.

He’s free.

But— he doesn’t know what to do with that.

The panic is rising again , and he makes a split-second decision.

Fly.

Just go.

Anywhere but here.

So he takes off again, streaking through the night sky. The air is cold , but he barely feels it. The world below him is a blur . This should be exhilarating. The wind against his skin, the weightlessness, the sheer speed.

It would be fun.

If he wasn’t scared out of his mind.

He’s in a much darker city now.

And then—

BANG.

Something hits him.

It doesn’t hurt , but he’s already panicked , already on edge . His body locks up , and before he can correct himself—

CRASH.

He slams into something metal , the impact sending a horrible screech through the alleyway.

For a second, everything is still.

And then—

The smell hits him.

Rotten food.

Trash.

Oh.

Oh, he just crashed into a dumpster.

Great.

Kon groans, rubbing his head as he shifts in the pile of garbage.

--

Kon’s chest rises and falls too fast, his breath coming out in sharp, ragged gasps. He can’t get enough air. His ears ring, his vision blurs at the edges, and his whole body feels wrong—too light, too cold, too much.

His heart hammers painfully.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

It’s like his brain is fighting itself. One part is screaming at him to move , to run , to hide —while the other part is telling him that nothing makes sense and he doesn’t even know what he’s running from anymore.

He’s scared.

God, he hates that.

He feels so weak.

His claws dig into the side of the dumpster as he curls in on himself, tucking his fur-covered arms around his knees. He whines without thinking , a high, pitiful sound , and immediately feels even lamer for it.

Like, come on, man.

He finally gets out of that hellhole, finally gets to breathe real air , and what’s the first thing he does?

He crashes into a dumpster and has a breakdown.

So cool. So dope. So impressive.

God, he’s such a loser.

He groans and shifts, pressing his face into his arms , ignoring how the disgusting garbage juice is seeping into his fur . His white coat, marred with cream spots , is getting stained , and something in his messy black hair shifts .

Oh.

A banana peel.

Great.

He lets out a miserable whimper and stays there.

Screw it.

If this is freedom, freedom sucks.

Tim watches from the rooftop, narrowing his eyes at the dumpster kid.

This is... weird.

The Justice League is freaking out over a dangerous maybe Kryptonian experiment escaping from LexCorp, and Tim had been expecting something a little more... well, apocalyptic.

Not a scrawny, panicked kid curled up in the trash.

Like, yeah, sure, technically he’s a Kryptonian. The Tactile Telekinesis thing is kind of terrifying, and Lex calling him a weapon isn’t a great sign, but...

The photos from the escape didn’t show a killer.

If anything, Tim saw a scared kid blasting his way out and running for his life.

A kid who could’ve wrecked everything in his path but didn’t.

Lex is full of shit.

Tim had tracked the kid’s flight path here, mostly out of pure morbid curiosity , but now he’s absolutely sure that the League is wrong about him.

This isn’t a monster.

This is a kid having a panic attack in a dumpster.

Well.

Shit.

Tim exhales and pulls his cape tighter around him, debating his options. He could wait this out, let the kid calm down on his own , but given the way he’s shaking , that’s not happening anytime soon.

And Tim really doesn’t want some trigger-happy Gotham goon finding him first.

So.

Time to make a new friend.

With a light hop , Tim drops down from the rooftop, landing softly next to the dumpster. The kid doesn’t even flinch. That’s how deep he is in his own head.

Yeah, okay, definitely not a threat right now.

Tim sighs and swings himself over the edge, landing inside with a metallic clatter.

The kid’s ears twitch , and he barely cracks one glowing red eye open, sluggish and unfocused.

Tim meets his gaze and raises a brow. “Yo.”

The kid blinks.

Then stares at him like he just grew a second head.

Okay. Progress.

--

Tim was wrong about one thing.

The guy is big .

Like, okay, sure, compared to Superman, maybe he looked kinda scrawny in those blurry surveillance photos. But now that Tim is actually in the dumpster with him —yeah, no, this dude is jacked .

Like, solid muscle under all that fur , broad shoulders and chest, thick arms. It’s kinda unfair, honestly.

Tim bites back a sigh and shifts to kneel beside him. God, this kid is a mess. His fur is matted with garbage juice , his hair is a disaster, and his glowing red eyes are still glassy and unfocused . Yeah, he’s not out of the panic attack yet.

Tim keeps his movements slow as he reaches out, carefully plucking the banana peel off the guy’s head and flicking it aside.

“Okay, big guy." Tim says, voice steady. “I need you to breathe for me, alright? Let’s do five things—tell me five things you can see.”

-

Oh.

Oh, this is so much worse.

Kon groans internally.

He’s already a mess , already pathetic , already a damn Kryptonian having a breakdown in a dumpster , and now he’s got this guy—a literal masked hero—seeing him like this?

Kill him. Kill him now.

And worse?

WORSE?

He accidentally used his powers and looked under the mask.

And holy shit, the guy is hot.

Not in the conventionally attractive, model-like way, but in the scrawny, nerdy, hasn’t-slept-in-weeks, ridiculously-competent kind of way.

Kon wants to die.

The hot guy is touching him.

Pulling garbage off of him.

Not even looking disgusted about it.

Which, great , because that means he definitely pities Kon instead. Awesome. Fantastic. That’s way better .

He wants to growl , wants to snap at him , tell him to piss off so he can sulk in peace , but then—

“Look, big guy." the cute guy says, voice calm but firm. “We gotta get you out of the dumpster. I’ll hide you at my place. Sound good?”

…What?

Kon blinks at him.

Help?

Just like that?

No strings attached ?

No orders, no demands, no commands, no expectations ?

His ears twitch , the lingering panic still clawing at his brain , making him doubt everything . But he’s not stupid.

He won’t turn down a lifeline when it’s offered. Even if there are strings attached later.

Kon nods.

The guy tilts his head , watching him closely , like he’s reading him like a damn book.

“…I’m guessing with your power set." he says, “and the way you blushed… you may have looked under my mask.”

Shit.

Kon tenses.

The guy just smirks.

“So let’s keep that a secret between us, okay?” he says, before softening just a little. “Can you move?”

Kon tries.

He really does.

But the adrenaline is wearing off, and the kryptonite exposure is catching up fast. His limbs feel heavy , his muscles are sluggish , and when he tries to stand, his legs buckle.

He shakes his head.

The guy sucks in a breath.

“…Sorry about this." he says, bracing himself. “But I’m pretty sure the only way this is gonna work is if I carry you bridal-style. We need to get out of here now, so… no time to complain.”

Wait. What?

Before Kon can process what’s happening , before he can argue or struggle or even react properly , the scrawny hot nerd actually picks him up.

Like, full-on bridal carry.

And then he just starts running.

Holy shit.

Holy shit, that’s hot.

-

Tim’s back is going to hate him for this.

Like, yeah, he’s carried worse. Dragged Killer Croc out of a burning building once. He can handle it. He’ll suck it up.

But God, this guy is heavy.

Heavy in the way a guy made of pure muscle is heavy , heavy in the way that means Tim’s core is gonna be screaming at him tomorrow morning.

But it’s fine.

He can already hear sirens in the distance —which means Lex’s goons aren’t far behind.

And there’s no way in hell he’s letting them take this kid back.

So he grits his teeth, adjusts his grip , and keeps running.

----

Tim barely feels his feet hit the ground as he cuts through the orchard, moving fast but controlled, ducking under branches, sidestepping overgrown roots. He knows this place like the back of his hand, even in the dark.

The Drake manor— or what’s left of it —would be too obvious a hideout if Batman gets involved . Even if it’s been abandoned for a while, someone might still check in on it eventually. No, Tim has a better spot in mind.

Not the manor.

Not the house.

The shack.

The place where he actually lived for years.

It’s small, hidden, and most importantly, nobody else gives a shit about it.

And Kon, who has been kind of relatively quiet this whole time (which, honestly, was kind of a miracle considering his whole vibe), suddenly looks around in wonder as they break into the clearing. Tim hadn’t expected that.

“You live on a farm?” he asks, voice rough, strained, but still managing to sound cocky about it somehow.

Tim startles a little, up until now, the guy had mostly just been grunting, growling, and making feral noises.

Ehhh. Tim cringes internally.

“Where I used to live is… a lot to unpack right now." he admits, adjusting his grip slightly. “It wasn’t a nice place, but… it’s hard to find, and that’s all we need.”

Kon hums, sounding thoughtful.

Tim glances down at him, noticing that his ears perk up slightly, like something about that answer made him happy. Before he can think too much about that, though—

“What’s your name, by the way?” Tim asks.

And oh.

That gets a reaction.

Kon blinks up at him , like the concept of someone actually asking that is completely foreign to him.

But then his whole face lights up —not in a cocky, self-assured way, but in a way that feels real. Genuine. Like this is the best thing to happen to him today. Maybe even in his whole life.

“I’m Kon." he says, proudly.

Then, a little softer—

“And today was a bad day.”

And then, immediately after that, like it physically pains him to admit weakness:

“I ain’t no loser, I promise.”

Tim snorts.

Jesus. The kid is like a wounded stray dog trying to pretend it isn’t limping.

He shifts his grip slightly—Kon isn’t struggling anymore , just kind of resting against him , all big, heavy muscle, and Tim does the best shrug he can with his hands full.

“Hey, I never said shit." he says, amused. “I think you’re pretty cool so far. You’re just rolling with my plan.”

Kon shifts in his arms, fake bravado cracking just a little bit, like he’s not sure whether Tim is joking or not.

“…You think I’m cool?” he asks, sounding suspiciously hopeful.

Tim just nods.

And finally— finally —they reach the shack.

The power’s been cut off for a while now, but honestly? It’s not like that changes much. The place barely had power to begin with.

Tim doesn’t bother fishing for a key.

Mostly because he doesn’t have one.

Instead, he just picks the lock, still holding Kon in his arms, because no way in hell is he setting him down just to pick him up again.

Once the door swings open , he steps inside and dumps Kon unceremoniously onto the bed.

Kon squawks indignantly.

Tim chuckles.

“Sorry, sorry." he says, grinning. “You’re all muscle, Kon.”

And just like that , the guy forgets he was mad.

The hyena kid preens.

--

Tim ducks into the other room, shedding his Red Vulture gear for something more comfortable—just a hoodie and shorts, something simple. His suit’s all reinforced fabric and armor plates, but honestly? Right now, it feels too heavy. And it's not like Kon doesn't already know his face, so there’s no point in keeping the mask up.

His voice carries easily through the thin walls.

“Well, you already saw my face." he calls out, tugging the hoodie over his head. “And if you figure out anything else, it’s gonna be pretty obvious who I am, so I’m just asking you now—don’t tell anyone my secret identity.”

Kon makes a noise from the other room, somewhere between an amused scoff and an interested hum.

Tim steps back out into the main room , shaking out his hair a little before leaning against the doorframe.

“Name’s Tim." he continues, crossing his arms. “Haven’t really finalized the last name yet—don’t really like ‘Drake’ even though it’s my mother’s name, and ‘Cobblepot’ has way too much baggage attached.”

Kon just laughs .

Not in a mean way, more like Tim just said something genuinely funny.

“Dude." Kon grins, gesturing vaguely at him. “You have no fashion sense. Like, none. Good thing you’re better at lifting people than dressing yourself.”

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, that’s rich." he mutters, motioning at Kon. “Says the guy literally covered in garbage.”

Kon sniffs indignantly.

Tim doesn’t bother hiding his smirk.

But— right. He wasn’t kidding about that identity thing, so they’ll have to figure that out later. For now, though? Kon looks half-dead , and Tim figures step one should be getting him something to eat.

He unclasps his belt pouch , pulling out a small emergency snack pack.

Kon eyes it suspiciously.

“What’s that, a fanny pack?” he teases, grinning.

Tim snorts.

“It’s a utility belt pouch, actually." he corrects, matter-of-factly. “And it’s filled with bland foods that don’t make starving kids puke when they try to eat them.”

That makes Kon pause.

His grin falters , just a little.

His head tilts, curious.

“Why do you need that?” he asks.

Tim hesitates.

And yeah. He could lie. Or skirt around it. But that’s never really been his style.

People deserve answers when they ask for them.

Even if those answers suck.

“…Child Trafficking ring." Tim says simply, shrugging.

Kon blinks.

He doesn’t get it.

Tim can tell. The way his brows furrow, the way his mouth opens just a bit before shutting again— he doesn’t know what that means.

Oh.

Tim kind of hates that he has to explain it.

But still— he does.

“Very few, but some adults keep kids prisoner." he says, keeping his voice calm, even. “And then they sell them off for various bad things.”

Kon goes still.

And then—

“So does that mean I was trafficked?” he asks, voice tight. “Lex was gonna cut me up for parts for his next clone.”

Tim frowns.

Oh. That.

That’s bad.

“…Legally, no." he says, voice softer now. “But… honestly? Basically.”

Kon’s shoulders tense.

Tim doesn’t let the silence settle for too long.

“You’re a survivor, though, not a victim." he says firmly. Then, shoving the pack of plain crackers into Kon’s hands, he adds—completely deadpan:

“Now eat your plain crackers.”

Kon stares at him.

Then, slowly, carefully , he pulls one out.

“…These suck." he mutters.

Tim just smirks.

“Yeah." he says. “But they won’t make you puke.”

--

Tim's mind moves fast—calculating, adapting, forming a plan on the fly. This is good. Really good.

Because now that he's actually looking at Kon , something important clicks into place— his eyes.

The red glow is gone. Instead, they're brilliant blue , and that’s perfect.

The defining feature of all those shitty, low-quality security photos that LexCorp were tossing around? The even worse civillan footage on phones? Glowing red eyes. That was the only clear thing in those images. They didn’t even capture that Kon’s a hyena mutant. Just the glow. The beast. The horror story.

But here? Now? Kon doesn’t match that description anymore.

That gives Tim a plan.

He turns to Kon, grinning sharply.

"Alright." Tim starts, tone shifting into something more confident, more assured. "I'm gonna call someone I trust. He doesn’t always follow the law to the letter, but that’s kind of what we need right now. The law says you’re a wanted experiment, but you’re not. "

Kon watches him carefully, his expression shifting from exhausted confusion to something more interested.

"See, K013 is wanted." Tim continues. "But that’s not you. You told me yourself. "

He tilts his head, smirking.

" Your name is Kon. Got it?"

Kon grins , sharp teeth flashing. He leans back , cocky again, but his tail flicks, betraying his excitement.

"Oh, I’m picking up what you’re laying down, dude. "

Tim nods, already pulling out his burner phone.

"Good." he says, then gestures vaguely toward Kon’s face. " Keep your eyes blue. "

Kon scoffs.

"Dude, I can’t control that." he admits, rolling his eyes. "I mean, it just kinda happens when I get really freaked out or pissed off. "

Tim hums.

He can work with that.

"Alright, so I just don’t make you feral in fear or anger." He shrugs. "Easy."

Kon gives him a look.

Tim ignores it.

Because now? It’s time to make a call.

He doesn’t dial Oswald— his dad —no, not for this. This is business , so this is Penguin.

The line clicks.

Before Oswald can even greet him , Tim’s already speaking.

"Hey." he says, casual as hell. "I need a lift. Also—is Dr. Robert Kirk Langstrom there? And is he willing to have a backdated son? Because I can have the documents made and hacked into the mutant registry. "

There’s a pause.

Then, Oswald hums.

It’s not suspicious, just considering. He trusts Tim, that much is obvious. There’s some rustling , then the sound of a private elevator descending.

Tim waits, muted and deafened — no access to the conversation happening on the other end.

That’s fine. He knows how this’ll play out.

Dr. Robert Kirk Langstrom— formally Man-Bat —has been working in Penguin’s labs for a while now on only ethical and morally good projects . Tim’s the reason he’s cured. Well, not cured exactly— Robert’s still a giant bat-person, but he has his mind back.

And honestly? That’s what matters.

Tim figured out that the New York mutagen strain —the one that might be connected to those turtle superheroes —could fix him. Reverse the madness, let him think again.

So yeah. Langstrom owes him.

And Tim’s calling in that favor.

After a few more moments, the line unmutes.

Langstrom’s voice filters through , lightly amused.

"A mutant like me ?" he repeats, chuckling. "Of course. I’ve had my son for—what, a few month s now? Ever since I was cured. "

He pauses , and Tim can hear the slight smile in his tone.

"Since Penguin is my employer , and since I lodge here , my son lives with me. But—he also has a room on the same floor as you. You two are best friends , after all. That sound acceptable? "

Tim grins.

"Wonderful." he says smoothly. "Thank you."

Langstrom just laughs.

"You’ve done plenty for me , Young Drake." he says, voice warm. " Time to repay the favo u r. "

The line clicks off.

Tim exhales, turning back to Kon—who’s watching him , wide-eyed.

"Well." Tim smirks, tossing his phone aside. "Congratulations, Kon. You’ve got a dad now. "

Kon blinks.

"Wait— seriously? Just like that?"

Tim snorts.

"Just like that." He stretches, rolling his shoulders. "Oswald will send a car. We get you cleaned up, get your new ID set up, and—boom. No more K013. Just Kon Langstrom, totally normal guy, definitely not a wanted fugitive. "

Kon stares at him.

Then, slowly, he starts grinning.

"Dude." he says, shaking his head. " That’s dope. "

--

The second the word "dope" escapes Kon's mouth, Tim feels his world shift. Kon, who'd been lounging back in the chair, suddenly springs up and before Tim can even think about how to react, the guy is on him. The force of Kon's bear hug sends Tim flying, the wind knocked out of him in an instant as Kon locks him in a crushing, but shockingly soft embrace.

It's not painful, per se, but it’s definitely invasive , and for a second, Tim's entire focus is just on the feeling of his body being completely trapped inside Kon's powerful arms. It's like being wrapped in a giant, fluffy pillow—a fluffy, heavy pillow that’s trying to suffocate him with affection. Kon’s strength —his sheer size—makes it difficult to breathe for a moment, but thank God for the training under Batman . Tim grits his teeth, forcing his lungs to expand even as his chest is restricted by the sheer force of the hug. He knows this is Kon’s way of showing affection , but that doesn’t mean Tim doesn’t feel a bit overwhelmed.

"Holy shit, you are tiny, Timmy." Kon's voice rings out, and there's an undeniable mocking tone laced in there, like he's teasing Tim about his size . Tim can’t help but feel mildly exasperated as his feet dangle uselessly, not even able to touch the ground. It’s like a reverse wrestling move , but with no fight, no resistance. Kon has him locked up tight.

Tim, ever the professional, manages to muster a disgruntled sound , the kind that only someone pinned by a too-strong, too-excited brute could make. But it doesn’t stop him from being small —a fact that Tim is very used to . He’s small. He’s always been small, probably the result of malnutrition when he was younger . He’s not ashamed of it anymore, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. What he does hate, though?

“Correct, I am small, I own that, now never, ever call me Timmy again." Tim manages to say, his voice muffled against Kon's chest, which feels like a soft, plush fortress. “That is terrible.”

Kon laughs, the sound more mocking than anything else, and Tim can feel the rumble in his chest. "Hmmm, I'll think about it, Timmy. " The way he says it just grates on Tim’s nerves, but he can’t do much about it— he’s still stuck.

Tim, not one to back down, snaps back , even though his words are slightly muffled. " Okay, Konny. "

The reaction is instant . Kon pulls back a little, his face going slack with horror . "Well played, Tim." His voice is a mixture of admiration and disgust , as though Tim just pulled off some great, unseen victory.

Tim doesn’t even flinch —he just nods, his arms still uselessly trapped. "Thank you, Kon." The unspoken agreement hangs in the air— names matter . Stick to the preferred ones, or else.

But then the smell hits Tim.

Kon’s face scrunches up in discomfort when Tim groans from where he’s still clutched against him. Tim’s nose wrinkles in return as he lifts one arm awkwardly to wave the air around him, attempting to clear out the funk that's now all over him.

"You stink like garbage , I wish you hadn't hugged me while you're this gross." Tim says, still groaning. He had found Kon in a dumpster , after all, and the smell is not one Tim can easily ignore.

Kon’s expression shifts from the awkward moment of realization to something defensive . "Hey!" he exclaims, pulling back slightly, though still holding onto Tim in that bear hug form. "I just got out of there. What do you expect, huh? My whole life's been like a one-way ticket to dumpster hell." He pauses, then adds, almost like an afterthought: "I had to eat outta that thing, dude."

Tim makes a muffled laugh “No you didn’y unless you did in like the point two seconds I wasn’t in there with you” The he pushes, but it's not enough to make Kon loosen his hold. Instead, Kon gives a half-hearted squeeze , like he’s trying to squeeze the last bit of life out of Tim's ability to complain. "You think I can clean up just like that? My situation isn't exactly luxurious ."

Tim rolls his eyes, and while his lungs are finally starting to get a bit more air, he doesn’t let up on his commentary . "It’s not about luxury, Kon, it’s about basic hygiene. " He lifts his hands to push lightly at Kon’s chest. "Next time, maybe give yourself a bath before you start grabbing people."

Kon looks down at him, genuinely bewildered . “ What? What’s wrong with a little human touch?” He pauses. “Alright, alright, I get it. But still. Timmy …” He grins wide, clearly trying to provoke Tim just for the fun of it.

Tim gives him a flat look . "I'm gonna break your ribs if you keep calling me that." he threatens, still trapped.

Kon laughs, the sound rumbling like thunder. "You’ll have to get outta my bear trap first." His arms tighten ever so slightly, and Tim finds himself squeezed just a little bit more. "You’re lucky I’m soft , Timmy." He chuckles again, more to himself than anything else.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Kon lets go . But he doesn’t move far. Instead, he stands there with a huge grin on his face, clearly proud of himself for making Tim’s life difficult for a few seconds.

Tim takes a deep breath, brushing himself off as if to shake the fluffiness of Kon’s hug off his body. "I’m small, not fragile, Kon." he mutters. "But thanks for the free air. Now, let’s get you cleaned up."

Kon snorts, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Yeah, yeah. I can’t wait to see what your version of clean is. I’m guessing no dumpsters involved, huh?"

Tim can’t help but smirk. "You'd better believe it."

Kon’s day had already been going way too smoothly for his liking, and as if the universe was bent on tipping the balance into utter chaos, the next moment was all it took to ruin his newfound sense of comfort.

One second, he’s standing there in the doorway, a confident smirk plastered on his face, and the next, he’s being shoved hard out of the shack with a loud shriek as he’s hit with a blast of cold water from a hose that Tim grabbed with surprising speed. The force is unexpected, and it knocks the wind right out of him, sending him stumbling back as the freezing spray drenches him from head to toe.

Kon wasn’t ready for this. He hadn’t expected the full force of Tim’s payback for continuing to call him Timmy, to be like this.

"Oh, come on!" Kon yells, his voice rising in indignation, already sputtering as the water splashes against his face. "This is so rude, man! So rude!" The water hits his hair, plastering it flat to his head.

Kon’s mouth was open as he tried to shout again—probably to give Tim a piece of his mind , but instead of words, all that came out was a gasping, choking sound . His lungs were filled with water, and all he could do was sputter like a drowned rat , gasping for air. His face twisted as he tried to make sense of the cold shock of water against his skin, The nerd did that on purpose!

Tim was already a step ahead. Before he could even think about pushing himself upright, Tim had leaped over him in some ninja-like move, and before Kon knew it, soap was dumped directly on his head.

“Oh, come on!” Kon coughed, his voice thick with water as the soap suds made everything worse. It was everywhere—his hair, his face, his clothes. Soap on soap was not cool, man. Not cool. Kon instinctively tried to swipe the soap off his face, but it was like the more he tried to get rid of it, the more it stuck.

And of course, Tim didn’t stop. He sprayed him again with the hose, the water pressure intensifying in the most torturous way possible. Every blast felt like a slap, but with a cold, wet sting . Kon’s hair clung to his face, and his eyes stung from both the water and the soap. He squinted at Tim, feeling like he had been utterly betrayed by someone he’d barely known for more than a few minutes. Rude didn’t even begin to cover it.

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Kon finally sputtered, but the water kept coming, mercilessly spraying him like some overzealous lawn sprinkler. “You gotta be kiddin’ me, little nerd." he muttered, more to himself than anything, just trying to keep from drowning in soap and water. Tim —the little ninja —was way too quick, weaving around him as if he were some sort of water-bending acrobat , avoiding every swipe and attempt to retaliate with his own water-shaken motions.

Kon blinked his bright blue eyes against the water, squinting in frustration, watching Tim with a newfound sense of respect. Damn, that guy was fast. He had to give it to him— quick reflexes , agility, and, from the looks of that suit, some kind of superhero training to back it all up. The whole thing made more sense now, the way Tim had handled himself. Heroic . Resilient . He definitely wasn’t just a random guy in a costume —he was someone who had made it his mission to help, even if he was the one dunking Kon in water and making him look like a wet dog .

“Seriously?” Kon gasped, finally shaking himself out of the water a little, droplets flying everywhere as he attempted to shake his body dry like a dog. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, but the water just had to go somewhere and he wants hit the nerd . The droplets scatter everywhere, spraying in all directions, including right at Tim. The satisfaction of hitting the little nerd with a couple of decent splashes will almost be enough to ease the sting of betrayal. Tim was already dodging out of the way like an expert. Not only was this dude fast, but it seemed like he was actually enjoying the fact that Kon was thoroughly humiliated.

"You know." Kon called after him, "You’re lucky I don’t just toss you across the yard into the next state for doing this. You’re gonna regret this, little nerd.”

But Tim wasn’t done with him just yet. He casually tossed a towel at Kon, not in the helpful way of someone trying to dry him off, but more like a dare —a challenge. Like, here you go, take it , now you’re not allowed to complain about the situation anymore. It was a small but somehow definitive victory on Tim's part. He wasn’t just throwing Kon out there for a good laugh—he was sending a message. He was in control here, and Kon… well, Kon was still the drowned hyena .

Kon caught the towel with one hand, shaking the water from his hair and face like a wet animal trying to regain some semblance of dignity. He rubbed his face with the towel, trying to rub off the lingering soap, which, if he was being honest, didn’t feel nearly as bad as being pelted with the force of water. It was like the universe was trying to teach him a lesson about humility, and right now, he wasn’t liking it one bit.

As he wiped the soap out of his eyes, he caught sight of a car pulling up, the tires crunching against the gravel driveway. Finally . Kon straightened up, taking a moment to look less bedraggled.

The car pulled up slowly, and Kon raised an eyebrow as he realized it was some sort of luxury vehicle.

So Kon needs to get dry fast.

----

The second they slide into the back seat of the car, Tim can feel the weight of Oswald’s attention settle on them like a thick fog. Not threatening, not hostile, but definitely there. It’s the kind of look that comes from a man who notices everything—a man who doesn’t ask unnecessary questions because he’s already put most of the pieces together before the conversation even starts. That’s Oswald. The Penguin. A criminal mastermind, a businessman, and, somehow, the closest thing Tim has to family that isn’t built on masked identities and rooftop chases.

Oswald studies Kon for a moment, his sharp gaze flicking over him like he’s cataloging details —the damp, wild mess of hair, the hyena-mutant build , the barely-towel-dried clothes that are still clinging to him from Tim’s earlier assault with the hose. The older man’s lips curl up just slightly, an expression that’s half amusement, half intrigue , but ultimately— approval . He knows exactly what Tim has done, and, judging by the lack of an immediate reprimand, he thinks it was a good call .

“Ah." Oswald finally says, voice smooth, practiced, like he’s filing the information away for later use. “So, Tim, this is your friend.”

It’s not a question so much as a statement , an acknowledgment that he’s already decided that Kon is under Tim’s protection now . That’s fine. That’s what Tim was going for. He nods, keeping his expression neutral, but nudges Kon with his elbow—a silent "say something, idiot."

Kon, to his credit, picks up on that much. But Tim can tell that he has absolutely no clue who Oswald is. Which, honestly? That’s kind of hilarious . Kon grew up in a lab, escaped, and has been on the run since. He probably doesn’t know jack about Gotham . That means he’s walking into this with no preconceived ideas—no fear , no expectation of violence, just pure, gut instinct .

And that instinct is correct . Because even Kon, with all his himbo confidence , can sense that Oswald Cobblepot is not a man to disrespect . Not because he’s dangerous in the way Lex Luthor is , not because he sees Kon as a weapon to be controlled , but because there’s something calculating about him. The way he looks at people, studies them. He’s not planning how to use Kon, but he’s assessing him. Weighing his value. Deciding whether he’s a problem or an asset .

Kon, for once in his loud and smartass-filled life , actually plays it smart. He nods, sitting up a little straighter, trying to seem like he has his shit together . “Uh, yeah. Hey." he says, forcing a grin that doesn’t quite mask the fact that he’s wary . Not scared , but careful . “Nice car.”

Tim almost laughs . Because that? That was so awkwardly polite . Like Kon knew he should say something but had no clue what the hell it should be, so he just defaulted to complimenting the car . Which, honestly, not a bad move . Oswald likes his luxury. And Kon’s smart enough to recognize that someone who rolls around in a sleek black car with bulletproof windows and custom interior is probably someone important .

Oswald hums, clearly entertained, and waves a hand dismissively . “It does the job." he says, like the car isn’t worth more than most people’s entire lives . Then, turning his attention back to Tim, he leans against the door and asks, “So. Where are we taking him?”

Tim expected that question. He already had his answer ready . "Home." he says simply. And Oswald doesn't argue. Because at this point, Tim saying someone is his means they're his , and Oswald isn't going to question it.

--

Oswald doesn’t have many hard rules when it comes to how he runs his affairs—he adapts, bends where needed, and reshapes the board to suit him. But when it comes to Tim, there’s one absolute truth:

Tim doesn’t ask for things.

Not because he’s afraid—no, that boy is far past fear at this point—but because he’s cautious . He knows how favo u rs work, how debts work. He’s smart enough to know that in Gotham, nothing is truly free, and Oswald respects that. The kid’s too careful to be a problem , too sharp to be manipulated, and if he ever did owe Oswald something? Well. He’d pay it back in a way that was probably twice as beneficial to Oswald in the long run. But Oswald hasn’t got it through to the kid that, that’s not how it works in a family, Oswald would give him almost anything he wants no strings attached.

Which is exactly why, when Tim actually does ask for something, Oswald gives it to him.

No questions, no hesitation. It’s a simple investment . And watching Tim and the new kid— Kon, apparently —argue like long-time friends in the back seat? It’s already paying off.

Oswald had already suspected that the escaped mutant from LexCorp’s little illegal science project had ended up with Tim. It wasn’t hard to piece together. The footage on the news —grainy, low-quality, but unmistakably a dog looking (but apparently hyena ) -mutant hybrid —had been all over Gotham’s underground channels . The tabloids were running wild, but nothing concrete had surfaced yet. People were still guessing. Which gave Oswald time to prepare .

And now, sitting across from the very boy that had caused all that commotion? Oswald could already tell this was going to be easy.

Blue eyes.

The kid on the news had glowing red eyes . But this one? Bright, clear blue —almost too perfect. It had to be some kind of ability. Laser vision, maybe? Superman had that, didn’t he? That would explain why the camera had caught the red glow in the first place.

Oswald smiles to himself. Good. That makes things easier.

Now, when people inevitably start asking questions , when reporters start sniffing around , he has ammunition . Blue-eyed Kon can’t possibly be the "monster" from the news . If anyone dares claim otherwise? Slander lawsuit. Easy. It helps that Gotham has some of the best mutant protection laws in the country, second only to New York. But there are rules— residency requirements , legal registration , and above all, proper documentation .

Oswald glances at Tim again, watching the way he’s already handling things —probably already hacked Kon’s name into the system, made sure the kid had a legal trail of existence. Erased any discrepancies that might cause trouble.

Tim covers his bases .

That’s Oswald’s job, too but Tim’s probably already done it.

A passport, then. That’s what Kon will need next. Gotham laws are friendly , but the rest of the country? Not so much. If Kon ever steps outside Gotham or New York, he’ll need to carry proof of residency at all times , or risk being detained. Oswald will take care of it. He has the connections to make it official, clean , undeniable. If anyone checks, it’ll look like Kon’s always been a legal Gotham citizen.

A laugh pulls Oswald out of his thoughts. He glances in the rearview mirror just in time to see Tim shoving Kon aside , rolling his eyes as Kon grins— cocky, full of bravado, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes . Overcompensating, then. Probably a defense mechanism. He knows the type well enough. Loud, brash, but desperate to be liked.

Good. Tim has an actual friend.

It’s been a long time since Oswald’s seen Tim talk to someone his own age without some layer of calculation involved. The boy is always thinking, always maneuvering , always making sure he’s in control of the conversation. But with Kon? It’s natural. Effortless.

Oswald has seen too many kids like Tim—too many that burn out, that isolate, that never let themselves need anyone . So if this hyena kid keeps Tim from doing that, if he gives him one more person to rely on ? Then Oswald will do what he always does .

He’ll make sure Kon stays safe.

And if anyone has a problem with that?

Well.

They can take it up with him.

Chapter Text

Oswald steps out of the car, smoothing down the lapels of his coat as the footmen move into position . They know what to do. There’s no need for orders—Oswald surrounds himself with people who understand the unspoken . The new boy— Kon —is led inside, guided through the hallways with a kind of casual efficiency that makes it clear he’s already accounted for .

Kon doesn’t question it. He’s grinning , still bouncing on the balls of his feet, taking in the interior of the Iceberg Lounge’s private residence like a tourist in a theme park . He doesn’t seem the type to think too deeply about these things—not yet, anyway. That’s fine.

Tim, by contrast, is quiet, but Oswald doesn’t miss the way he glances at Kon’s retreating form, the way his shoulders stay just a little too tense even when nothing is wrong. Still waiting for the catch.

“Your room is right next to Tim’s." Oswald tells Kon smoothly. Because of course it is.

He doesn’t ask Tim if that’s what he wants, doesn’t leave room for the boy to feel guilty about accepting something. He simply states it as fact. Kon seems delighted, clapping Tim on the back as he laughs. Tim just nods, expression carefully neutral, but Oswald knows that look.

Tim is still adjusting.

Oswald bids them goodnight, watching them disappear down the hallway before turning toward his personal elevator. He rides it back up to his office, hands clasped behind his back, mind already shifting gears. Work still needs to be done tonight. Deals to secure, ledgers to review, and a dozen little moving parts in Gotham’s underbelly that require his constant attention.

But—

He’d still pushed it all aside to pick Tim up personally.

And he always would.

The lounge is his domain, his empire, the heart of his legitimate and not-so-legitimate dealings—but Tim? Tim is his son. And family comes first.

By the time he reaches his desk, he’s already pulling up the necessary records. The mutant registry, specifically. He inputs the name—Kon Langstrom—and leans back in his chair, letting the database load.

There it is.

Seamless. Perfect.

Oswald smiles. Tim’s work.

His boy is so damn smart. Oswald had arranged for Tim to hone his hacking skills with some of the best in Gotham’s underground, but even without training, the kid had instincts for this. He worked clean, left no gaps, no loose ends, just airtight documentation that could pass any official scrutiny.

Kon Langstrom, legal resident of Gotham City, mutated via exposure to the New York strain of mutagen. Simple. Effective.

The narrative Tim crafted in the registry? Solid.

The New York strain of mutagen was known for creating mutants with Yokai DNA markers. Ms. Long, one of Oswald’s most trusted butlers, was a Yokai herself—her flight ability was well documented. So if anyone questioned Kon’s strength, flight, or endurance? Simple explanation. The boy had drawn heavily from Yokai genetics.

Most importantly? No mention of whatever the boy had used to create the Earthquake.

It separated Kon from the “monster” on the news.

The reports had been vague—LexCorp had done their best to scrub any concrete evidence, but the rumors were clear. A genetically engineered superweapon had escaped. A Canine or Bear hybrid with inhuman strength. The footage had been grainy, the details lacking, but the damage had been undeniable.

Oswald suspects Kon has more abilities than what’s listed. Tim probably already knows what they are. But Tim only put down what needed to be there—nothing suspicious, nothing that would tie Kon back to the news reports.

Oswald preens a little.

His boy is so damn clever.

There will be questions. That’s inevitable. Kon will draw attention. But Oswald? Oswald is prepared.

Because when it comes to his family, to Tim?

Oswald Cobblepot makes sure they always win.

--

Tim watches as Kon disappears into the bathroom, probably fascinated by the concept of having actual hot running water after who-knows-how-long. The door shuts, and Tim lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances around the room. He knows Kon’s excited—and why wouldn’t he be? This place is incredible, especially compared to whatever sterile hellhole LexCorp had been keeping him in.

And yet, Tim can’t help but feel a little guilty.

Not for bringing Kon here—that was the right thing to do—but for the whole hose incident earlier. He should’ve handled that better. Oswald wouldn’t have yelled at him or anything if Kon had been stinky, but Tim still had that instinct to do things the right way. To avoid causing problems. To not inconvenience people. And making someone go through a makeshift backyard car wash definitely counted as an inconvenience.

The shower turns off, and a few moments later, Kon steps out, still drying his hair with a towel, looking completely at ease despite his earlier complaints about being drenched. He’s wearing the fresh clothes that Oswald’s staff had provided, though he’s left the shirt half unbuttoned, because of course he has. His tail flicks behind him, fluffy and expressive, still a little damp at the tip.

“Alright." Kon announces, flopping onto the luxurious bed like he’s been here his whole life. “This place? Dope.”

Tim exhales a small laugh. Of course.

As Kon rolls over and grins at him, Tim decides to just say it outright. “Hey—sorry about the whole hose thing earlier.”

Kon blinks, tilting his head slightly in confusion. “Why are you saying sorry?”

“For spraying you. I, uh—” Tim shrugs, shifting awkwardly. “I didn’t have a working shower in the shack anymore , and I didn’t want to bring you into the car all gross, so I just—”

Kon barks a laugh, sitting up and tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Dude. That wasn’t, like, a personal attack or anything. It was a water fight! Honestly? Kinda fun.” He smirks, stretching his arms behind his head. “Aren’t kids supposed to do dumb stuff like that? I think that’s what happens in Wendy the Werewolf Stalker.”

Tim blinks at that. The way Kon phrases it, like he’s referencing a concept rather than an experience—yeah. Kon really hasn’t had a normal life before this.

Which means—

“Oh." Tim says, crossing his arms. “Well, I can make it up to you then.”

Kon raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” Thinking of something much flirtier.

Tim grabs the remote and turns on the massive wall-mounted TV, and Kon practically jumps when the screen lights up.

“HOLY CRAP." Kon exclaims, tail fluffing out in surprise. “That’s a TV?! It’s so flat—and giant! That’s like—a movie theater!”

Tim blinks again. Oh. Oh.

Right.

So whatever implanted knowledge Kon has about the world is... from the 90s. That tracks, given the slang he keeps using. He must’ve been given cultural references from decades ago, probably because whoever designed him didn’t care about keeping him up to date.

Tim files that away in his mental list of things to look into later.

For now—

Tim opens up netflicks and searches for Wendy the werewolf stalker, and Kon immediately lights up when he sees the intro.

“Wendy the Werewolf Stalker!” he practically purrs, tail wagging enthusiastically.

Which would be great, except his giant fluffy tail smacks Tim right in the face.

It’s absurdly soft.

Tim laughs, pushing it away. “Dude—watch the tail.”

“Whoops." Kon says, not looking the least bit sorry. “Anyway—yo, put it on Season 2, Episode 6, please! That’s where I was up to—HOLY SHIT, there are TEN SEASONS?!”

Tim smirks. “Yeah. And if you like the series that much, I can download the comics for you too. After the show stopped, it ended so well—really slice-of-life, so that left it open ended for more adventures. The comics are still going.”

Kon stares at him like Tim just offered him the greatest gift in the universe.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Then—

He purrs.

Loudly.

Tim didn’t even know Kon could purr.

The way he’s looking at him, wide-eyed and genuinely touched, makes something in Tim’s chest twinge. Kon doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t need to. It’s written all over his face.

And Tim realizes—maybe he doesn’t have to apologize for everything. Maybe just doing something nice can be enough.

Tim doesn’t even have time to react before Kon yanks him into a full-body hug, pulling him right on top of his broad chest as the episode starts playing.

"Bring it in, buddy!" Kon purrs, his tail flicking against the bed in lazy satisfaction, completely at ease with the way Tim is now sprawled over him like a human-sized teddy bear.

Oh.

Okay.

That makes sense. Kon has zero concept of personal space. Tim really should’ve seen this coming. The guy was literally made in a lab. Probably never had any real socialisation outside of scientists poking him with needles and jotting down notes. He’s probably modelling his behaviour off of whatever pop culture knowledge LexCorp shoved into his brain. Tim bets anything that his idea of friendship comes from some cheesy sitcom or cartoon where people just flop on each other all the time.

Which—fine, whatever. Tim can deal with this.

What he can’t deal with is the fact that Kon is so goddamn warm, and the guy smells nice—probably from the fancy soaps he just used for the first time in his life—and he’s built like a damn furnace too. Tim is blushing way too hard, and Kon doesn’t even seem to notice. He just holds Tim there, completely content, while Wendy the Werewolf Stalker plays in the background like this is the most normal thing in the world.

And then—

Kon kisses him.

Right on the mouth.

And he doesn’t stop.

Tim makes a muffled noise, eyes going wide, brain short-circuiting because—what the hell? He shoves against Kon’s chest, trying to pull away, but Kon just leans in more, like he doesn’t get that this is not how this works.

Tim pushes harder, finally managing to break away, and Kon looks at him like he’s the one being weird here.

"What the hell, Kon?" Tim growls, feeling way too flustered to process this properly. He doesn’t yell, because it’s not like he wants to scare the guy or anything, but holy shit. His face is burning.

Kon just tilts his head, completely unbothered, then comes to a conclusion in his head.

"Oh, shit." he says, nodding like he’s figured out the problem. "I forgot to ask. Sorry."

Tim groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kon, you don’t just kiss people out of nowhere. You have to be, like, dating them first. Or married."

Kon frowns, still looking confused. "But it felt right to kiss you." he says, tail flicking behind him. "I like you. I think you like me. So should we just date then?"

Tim chokes on air. "Kon—no!"

Kon blinks, considering that. "Then—get married?"

Tim chokes even harder. "Jesus Christ, no, Kon! We are kids!" He rubs his temples, trying to calm his racing heart. "I—if you want to date me… I guess that would be acceptable." He coughs, looking away. "But dating means we have to have a date first."

Kon hums, like he’s really thinking about that, then gestures at the TV. "Isn’t this a date? It could be, right?"

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it.

…Okay, well. Yeah.

Kon’s kinda got him there.

Tim sighs, shoulders slumping. "Fine, I guess but at least give me a while to adjust, I've only like kissed one other guy before and one girl and only like pecks on the lips not whatever the hell you were trying to do devouring my face."

Kon grins, pleased with himself, then purrs again, stretching like a lazy cat. "Nerd." he teases, voice smug. "I bet if I wasn’t stuck in a lab, I would’ve kissed way more people."

Tim glares at him, already regretting everything.

Kon just smirks, looking obnoxiously confident. "But now I only wanna kiss you."

Tim turns bright red.

He scowls, shoving at Kon’s big, stupid head, but Kon just laughs, unbothered.

"Jerk." Tim grumbles.

Kon just grins wider. "Takes one to know one."

Chapter Text

Another night, they are up to like season 5 of Wendy the Werewolf stalker.

Kon purrs loudly, almost vibrating the bed beneath them, as Tim sighs and rewinds the episode. Kon had begged—not that he’d ever admit to begging, but c’mon Kon had accidently yapped through the start and now he missed it , Tim totally gave in—and it’s dope because now he gets to rewatch the first five minutes he was too distracted to focus on. He didn’t want to annoy Tim or anything, didn’t want to push too much, but man, he just likes Tim a lot.

Like, a lot a lot.

More than just friends , definitely, but also as a friend, too . He likes hanging out with him, likes how smart he is, how he explains things without making Kon feel dumb. Likes how he doesn’t look at him like a freak , how he just rolls with things when Kon doesn’t quite get how stuff works.

So, yeah , he wants to date him . Wants Tim to cuddle with him whenever he can get Tim to do that . Wants Tim to carry him again —which, yeah, okay, was hilarious, but Kon actually kinda liked it . Wants to carry Tim in turn , though, because it’d be so much easier for him to do it. Like, c’mon, Tim’s tiny . Okay, maybe not tiny tiny , but short for his age. And skinny, too , but not scrawny —Kon can tell now that Tim’s got mad lean muscle under those clothes.

And okay, that’s unfair. Because now Kon is staring like a weirdo, and he knows it, but he can’t help it .

Tim notices .

And instead of calling him out , instead of getting weird about it , Tim just reaches over and ruffles his hair .

Kon melts.

Like, actually melts.

A full-body collapse into purring, contented goo.

Tim’s fingers thread through his messy undercut , the almost-fohawk getting raked through in the best way possible , and Kon swears he just ascended to another plane of existence . His purring deepens , turning into something borderline ridiculous , but he can’t even care. It feels so good .

And then—

Oh.

Ohhh, Tim’s scratching behind his ears.

Holy shit.

Kon whines. Actually, full-on whines like some kind of overgrown puppy , which should be humiliating , but it feels too good to care. His ears twitch under Tim’s fingers, his stupidly big, round, fluffy hyena ears , and Tim just keeps scratching , looking amused but also kinda fascinated .

Kon flusters hard .

Tim pauses , fingers hovering, like he’s checking if he should stop.

Kon doesn’t even think before he butts his head right back into Tim’s hand , insistent , like some giant, needy cat.

Tim laughs , and Kon would die happy right here and now.

--
Someones in the penthouse.

Kon almost eats it off the bed, limbs flailing as he scrambles to keep himself from hitting the floor. His heart’s pounding in his chest, and his tail bristles like a bottlebrush because—holy shit—Batman is just standing there.

No sound, no warning, just suddenly in the room , like some kind of cryptid in a cape .

Tim, lying completely at ease next to Kon , doesn’t even flinch .

"Hey." Tim says, totally unbothered , propping himself up on one elbow. "I see you’ve come to visit my friend. You know Dr. Langstrom? Well, this is his son. He doesn’t make public appearances."

Kon stares at Tim. Is he serious right now? He just lied to Batman’s face , and he didn’t even blink .

Batman makes a low, considering noise, dark and unimpressed .

"Adopted, I’m sure." Batman says, voice as gruff as ever .

Tim just laughs , a small, pleased sound , like he’s enjoying this . "Mmhmm, it’s the best way to get a child, wouldn’t you agree?"

Kon doesn’t know what the hell Tim is playing at, but Batman goes completely still , and there’s a heavy pause in the air. Kon feels so out of his depth he might as well be drowning.

Kon’s tail lowers , ears twitching as he watches Batman carefully. Man, this is awkward.

Batman exhales through his nose, stepping further into the dimly lit room. His eyes, sharp and piercing , land on Kon, taking in the way he’s still half-tangled in the blankets , pajama pants slightly askew from nearly falling. Kon doesn’t look threatening , and Batman must decide he’s not worth an immediate fight , because his next words are surprisingly mild.

"I suppose a mutant is not a meta." Batman says, tone just slightly begrudging , like he doesn’t entirely believe his own words. "So he doesn’t apply to my ‘no metas in Gotham’ rule."

Tim nods, pleased . "Exactly. You read my mind."

Batman hums again, which is apparently a thing he does , because he’s been doing it a lot since stepping into the room.

"His name?"

"Kon."

Another hum, and Kon swears if this guy does it one more time, he’s gonna start thinking it means something ominous .

Batman takes another long, assessing look , then finally makes his decision .

"Well." he says, slow and deliberate, "I see no links that aren’t just superficial to the escaped subject. Clearly, this young man is not him. Do you agree, Timothy?"

Tim hums now, and Kon has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, because is this just a thing they both do?

"It would be very dangerous," Tim says smoothly, "to level those accusations at a mutant who has done nothing wrong. That would be seen as a bunch of superheroes picking on a kid for being a mutant, something beyond his control. Wouldn’t look good for the Justice League’s public image."

Kon’s impressed despite himself.

Tim just played Batman like a damn fiddle.

Another pause, then Batman lets out a low, reluctant noise , like he’s accepting a loss. "It’s not like I think anyone else in the League would be likely to connect the dots. This is Gotham business now, I suppose."

And just like that, he turns on his heel and vanishes into the shadows.

Kon blinks, still braced for something , but—nope. Batman’s gone.

What the hell just happened?

Kon turns slowly to Tim, staring in open confusion and lingering fear , because that was Batman .

"Who was that?" Kon blurts, tail still twitching as he tries to process.

Tim shrugs, completely casual , like this is just a normal Tuesday for him .

"My old boss."

Kon stares at the window, still tense, ears twitching, trying to process the absolute fever dream of what just happened. Batman—freakin' Batman—had just appeared out of nowhere like some kind of gothic cryptid, scared the absolute shit out of him, and then just… left. No fight, no dragging him out of the building by his scruff, no accusing finger pointed in his face. Just some vague "This is Gotham business" dismissal, and then poof, gone.

Kon blinks . Then blinks again .

"Dude. That was Batman. Batman is your boss "

Tim doesn’t even look up from where he’s lying comfortably , arms folded behind his head like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Totally unbothered.

" Was, Yep."

Kon whips around , mouth open, gesturing wildly at the window. "Tim. That was Batman. In your room. Staring at us while we were chillin’ in bed watching Wendy the Werewolf Stalker. Batman. Freakin’. Batman. Even I know who he is and I’ve been in gotham for like a week. "

Tim just shrugs , still looking way too relaxed for what just happened . "I mean, yeah, he does that sometimes."

Kon flails . "Dude, that’s so messed up! You should have warned me! I almost had a freakin’ heart attack!"

Tim finally looks at him , smirking. "You? The guy who can lift a car over his head? Afraid of some guy in a cape?"

"Okay, first of all." Kon says, pointing an accusing finger , "That wasn’t ‘some guy in a cape,’ that was the Dark Knight himself, Tim. He’s, like, the most terrifying dude on the planet. Second of all, he snuck in like a damn ninja, man! I didn’t even hear him! And my ears are, like, crazy good!"

Tim laughs softly , sitting up finally, stretching like he hadn’t just bullshitted his way through an interrogation with Batman himself. "Yeah, B’s good at that."

Kon frowns , still trying to shake the tension out of his shoulders. "So, what—he just… checks in on you? Like some creepy bat-themed dad?"

Tim tilts his head slightly, considering something. Then he grins , like he’s enjoying this way too much . "I do some work for him. Y'know. Little things."

Kon narrows his eyes.

"Tim. Do you—holy shit, are you Robin?! Wait aren’t there like 3 Robins. "

Tim blinks, expression innocent . "Nope. I'm Tim."

Kon throws his hands in the air. "Dude, that’s exactly what a Robin would say!"

Tim laughs , shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Look, you’re fine. You heard him. He’s not kicking you out. Which means you get to keep watching your show and stay here, safe, with food and a giant TV, and none of the Justice League breathing down your neck."

Kon eyes him warily , but… he’s got a point . Batman had looked at him, looked at Tim, and just… decided not to push it. Which means Kon gets to stay here , with Tim, and the huge bed, and the cool TV, and actual food that isn’t gross lab slop or stolen sandwiches .

Slowly, he lets out a breath . "Okay. Okay, yeah. That’s dope."

Tim smirks , falling back against the pillows. "Told you."

Kon flops back down beside him , still a little wired, but less freaked out than before .

Tim’s right. He gets to stay. Batman didn’t haul him off to some superhero prison , didn’t turn him into a government lab rat , didn’t say a damn thing about the fact that Kon was 100% definitely the lab escapee everyone’s been looking for .

Which means… he trusts Tim.

And if Batman trusts Tim, well… maybe Kon should, too.

--

Gotham business is Gotham business , and the rest of the League doesn’t look into it. They trust Batman to report anything if he sees something major, and honestly? Most of them don’t even check the Gotham news cycle.

Which means they have no clue what’s currently making the tabloids explode.

Because apparently, someone managed to snap a photo of Dr. Robert Langstrom actually leaving his lab for once , which is already shocking enough . But the real headline? His "adopted" son, who no one notices looks suspiciously like an escaped clone , standing confidently at his side in a perfectly tailored suit , smirking at cameras like he was born for it .

Kon, in true Kon fashion, is eating it up .

Tim sighs as he flips through the latest articles, watching the internet practically drool over the new Gotham "It Boy." if they are more into the furry look and even some who aren’t, Kon is just that good looking. Turns out, Kon is not camera-shy in the slightest , and yes , he's naturally photogenic—annoyingly so. He looks ridiculously good in the expensive suit Langstrom got for him, all broad shoulders and cocky grins, striking blue eyes shining under the flashes .

The picture of Kon leaning against Timothy Drake like a love sick puppy though, that’s what’s got the tabloids going. The article barely even talks about Langstrom’s work on curing some rare disease—it’s all about Kon now. Who is he? What’s his connection to Timothy Drake? Is there a scandal? What will Penguin’s reaction be to finding out his adopted son is dating his employees son.

Tim rolls his eyes. Gotham loves a scandal.

For the record, Langstrom did not intend to adopt a teenage lab escapee . That just kind of happened . But to Langstrom’s credit, he’s actually been trying. Sure, the guy looks like a giant bat, and sure, he probably doesn’t have a single clue how to raise a teenager, but he’s been making the effort. He’s teaching Kon things — Despite Kon being Multi lingual and being quite smart, normal things elude him , like how to manage finances, read a room, and not threaten people in public just because they looked at him funny.

(“ That’s called an intrusive thought, Kon. You don’t say that out loud. ”
“ What if it’s true, though? That guy was totally a criminal. I could smell it. ”
“That’s profiling.”
“ But I’m right. ”
“That’s not the point.”)

Langstrom has even been giving him praise whenever he picks up something new. Kon eats that up like a starving man , which just makes Tim’s stomach twist, because yeah, Kon never really had anyone teach him anything before . He learned how to be a person from TV , and while that might explain a lot , it also makes Tim feel uncomfortable .

("Langstrom's a weird science guy." Kon had admitted, grinning as he tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth, "but he's a good weird science guy. Not like the ones who made me.")

That had stuck with Tim.

So yeah, maybe Langstrom actually is kinda Kon’s dad now.

And Tim doesn’t hate that.

But of course, because Gotham can’t let them have a single moment of peace , a new problem arises.

Lex Luthor.

Tim spots him the second he enters the gala , and immediately, alarm bells start ringing in his head . Because Kon has barely been in public for a week , and yet somehow, Lex already knows . it’s just Luthor being Luthor of course he knows, he’s the only one still hunting for the clone now, most people lost interest when the clone… didn’t do anything, just disa p peared — he recognises Kon on sight and storms over , expression tight with something between fury and greed.

Tim moves to intercept, but he’s not the only one.

Because Langstrom gets there first.

Lex grabs Kon’s arm like he has any right to touch him , and before Kon can even open his mouth to say something cocky , Langstrom is on him.

“Excuse me, sir." Langstrom says, voice perfectly level, but the weight behind it sharp enough to cut glass, “why are you putting your hands on my son?”

Lex stiffens .

Langstrom doesn’t stop. “Unless you’re a pedophile , of course, in which case, by all means, explain to everyone here why you think touching a teenage boy is appropriate.”

Lex’s expression immediately shifts from shock to pure calculation , and Tim watches it happen with morbid satisfaction . Because Lex is ruthless, but he’s also pragmatic. He knows when he’s already lost.

They’re in a room full of Gotham’s richest and most powerful.
There are cameras.
There are reporters.
And Langstrom just made sure the first headline tomorrow would be ‘Lex Luthor, Possible Pedophile, Caught Harassing Gotham Youth.’

Lex releases Kon instantly , expression dark with fury , but he can’t do a damn thing about it.

And then realization dawns on him.

Because legally? Kon is a Gotham citizen now.

And the last thing Lex Luthor wants is to give Batman an actual reason to breathe down his neck.

Lex smooths his suit , gives Langstrom a tight, forced smile , and steps back . “My apologies." he says smoothly, “I was mistaken.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving behind a stunned Kon, a smirking Tim, and a smug Langstrom.

Kon blinks , processing everything that just happened. Then, slow and bewildered, he turns to Langstrom.

"…Dude. Did you just completely own Lex Luthor? "

Langstrom sniffs. "That man is nothing but a glorified narcissist in an overpriced suit. He’s not nearly as impressive as he likes to believe."

Kon stares .

Then, with a wide grin , he slings an arm over Langstrom’s shoulder. “Okay, yeah. You’re my dad now. "

--

Tim really should have seen this coming.

Kon is persistent as hell when he wants something, and when it comes to getting involved in Tim’s nightly patrols , the guy is like a dog with a bone. He whines, pouts, and dramatically flops onto whatever furniture is nearby , groaning about how unfair it is that Tim gets to run around Gotham all night doing cool vigilante stuff while Kon is stuck at home like some loser side character. He even threatens to just follow Tim anyway , which—yeah, he totally would.

Tim sighs, already resigned to his fate. "Fine. But we're talking to Oswald first."

And Kon, being the absolute menace that he is, immediately fist-pumps in victory.

-

Oswald is delighted when Tim brings Kon to him.

“Finally." he says, beaming as he leans back in his chair, swirling a glass of expensive liquor. "It’s about time you had some real backup, my dear. And a bulletproof half-Kryptonian at that? Oh, this is simply wonderful."

Tim crosses his arms, unimpressed. “He’s not bulletproof.”

Kon smirks. “I mean, technically I kinda am.”

Tim glares at him. "You're not if you get shot with a kryptonite bullet, your not invincible. Don't get cocky."

Kon winks . "Babe, I was born cocky."

Tim groans as Oswald laughs , shaking his head in amusement. "Oh, I like this one." Oswald says, steepling his fingers as he looks Kon over. "You’ll need a disguise, of course. A full suit wouldn’t suit you—"

Kon makes a disgusted face at that. "Hell no, man, I’m not wearin’ some dorky armored suit, Sorry Tim . I need somethin’ that looks dope. "

Oswald hums in thought before gesturing to the display of masks and disguises he keeps on hand. Kon eyes them, then grins wide as he picks up a wolf headdress like a viking would wear —a sleek, black piece with an angular snout that completely obscures his face. It’s vaguely intimidating , but mostly?

It looks cool as hell.

“Oh, that’s perfect." Kon says, already fastening it over his head.

Oswald nods in approval , stroking his chin. “It does suit you… Now, what to call you? Hound? Cerberus? Fenrir? ”

Tim stiffens the moment Oswald smirks and says, "How about Guard Dog ?"

Kon pauses , tilting his head in thought.

Then, very slowly, he turns to look at Tim, whose face has gone completely red as he shoots Oswald a glare sharp enough to kill a man. Oswald knows him and Kon are dating, the only reason he hasn’t given Kon the shovel talk is because he trusts Tim to handle himself, also Tim is a good judge of character.

And that? That is all Kon needs to absolutely lose it.

“HA! Oh, that’s good! I love it!" Kon cackles, clutching his stomach. “Dude, that’s perfect.”

Oswald, looking pleased with himself , simply shrugs. “Well, you are rather loyal to my dear Timothy.”

Tim wants to die.

Kon, still laughing , throws an arm around Tim’s shoulders and leans into him. “C’mon, man, don’t be mad! It’s fitting! ”

Tim mutters something under his breath about hating everything as Oswald just sips his drink in smug satisfaction.

-

The outfit comes together quickly.

Kon refuses anything too armored or restricting—he doesn’t need it, and more importantly, it wouldn’t look cool. So instead, he grabs a black leather jacket that fits just right, giving off major ‘rebellious badass’ vibes .

And then, much to Tim and Oswald’s mounting horror , Kon selects a spiked collar to match.

“Absolutely not." Tim deadpans.

Oswald grimaces , clearly on the verge of saying the same thing.

But then they both stop.

Because… actually? It does look intimidating rather than, well… lewd. The thick band of leather is studded with short, sharp spikes, and something about it just works with the rest of Kon’s look. It makes him look feral , dangerous, untamed. It gives him a presence that says ‘yeah, I bite’—and you better believe it’ll hurt.

Oswald exhales, rubbing his temple. “Fine. But at least allow me to modify it with some tech.”

Kon purrs in satisfaction , then tilts his head down at Tim, looking far too smug for his own good.

He’s won this fight, and they both know it.

--

The night is silent except for the distant sounds of water lapping against the docks and the occasional hum of a cargo ship passing by. Red Vulture and Guard Dog stand on a roof overlooking the docks, their eyes scanning the shadows below. Kon is trying his best to stay still, but his legs are practically itching for action.

Kon hates waiting. He doesn’t have the patience for it. He’s built for action , not for standing around like some sort of statue . The second there’s an opening, he’s on it. A slight movement? He’s already in the middle of it. But tonight? Tonight’s different. Tonight’s all about the plan, and Tim is the one running it. They’re waiting for the traffickers to make a move, to bring the kids into the docks, so they can swoop in and stop it all —and rescue the kids. It’s important work, Kon knows that. But it’s not his kind of work . He’s more the type to get in, throw hands, and get out. He’s not an espionage guy . He doesn’t like sitting in the dark, waiting for things to happen. He wants the action. But Tim? Tim’s good at this . He’s calculated. He doesn’t rush into things like Kon would.

Kon trusts Tim, though. As much as he’d love to jump in and start throwing criminals in jail, he knows better than to mess with Tim’s plan. It’s hard for him—he’s used to being the guy who just does the thing , who figures it out and fixes it . Tim’s always the one making sure the whole thing goes off smoothly. So Kon stands there, restless, trying to find a way to pass the time . His mind is racing, thoughts bouncing around as he shifts from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at the mission ahead .

And then, with a sigh that feels like the only way to break the tension, Kon finally speaks up.

“Hey, Red." he says, his voice cutting through the silence. “Why do you always cover your mouth when you laugh? Like, you do it really quick, like you’re afraid of something.”

The question hangs in the air, Kon’s voice louder than the wind in the night. He’s not expecting much of an answer. It’s just small talk—something to keep him from thinking about how much he wants to jump off the roof and start smashing faces. But when he looks at Tim, he immediately notices the subtle change in his posture. Tim’s shoulders hunch high, and for a second, his whole body tenses up. There’s a slight hesitation in his eyes as he glances at Kon , like he’s weighing his options. Like he’s trying to decide whether he should tell Kon or not.

Kon, realizing he might’ve pushed a little too far, quickly backpedals . “Uh, it’s chill, Red. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Tim doesn’t seem entirely relieved, though. He sighs , a deep, almost resigned sound, and shakes his head a little. "I’ll—" Tim starts, his voice soft but serious. “We’ll talk about it later, GD. I’ll give you answers. I don’t hide shit from you.”

The way Tim says it is calm, but there’s something in his voice that’s almost reluctant . Like he wants to open up, but isn’t sure if it’s the right time. Kon understands that , more than he cares to admit. He’s not the best at talking about his own issues either. But it’s fine. Tim’s got his reasons, and Kon knows not to push when it comes to stuff like this. They’ve got a relationship built on trust , and Kon’s never been the type to break that.

“Fair enough." Kon responds, his voice softening a little, acknowledging Tim’s space. He nods, just a little, and then grins. “Guess I’ll just have to wait for the full Red Vulture expose then, huh?”

Tim glances at him , and despite the serious tension of the night, he can’t help but let out a small chuckle—one that Kon knows isn’t for show, but for real . It’s one of those moments where the weight of the job seems to slip away for a second, and you can just breathe . That’s how it feels when Tim laughs, the corners of his mouth turning up despite the grim circumstances.

As the moments pass and they fall back into their waiting stance, the tension doesn’t fully leave, but it’s lighter . Kon may not be the best at being still, but when it comes to being around Tim, he’s learning the patience he never thought he’d need. It’s not easy —nothing about this whole thing is—but the trust they’ve built gives Kon a weird kind of peace. He may not fully get why Tim keeps certain things locked up, but he knows Tim will come to him when he’s ready. He knows he won’t have to force it .

And right now? Right now, Guard Dog and Red Vulture have a job to do. The waiting may be agonizing , but they’ve got each other’s backs. And when it’s time to move? Kon will be there.

--

The adrenaline hit as soon as they touched down. The docks were dark and wet, the air thick with tension. But Kon loved this part of the operation. It was his time to shine. He was the muscle, the one who moved fast, hit hard, and left criminals in the dirt. There was no beating around the bush for him. He wasn’t here for the sneakiness, the tricks, or the computers. He was here to grab, to smash, to make sure these scumbags knew they were in way over their heads. He cracked his knuckles as they approached the shady warehouse, already feeling the rush building. This wasn’t some light job. This was a trafficker bust—a big one. And it was time to show these guys just what happened when they messed with Gotham.

Tim, as always, was the calm in the storm. Red Vulture was his name tonight, and he was already working his magic, slipping into the shadows with a practiced grace. He wasn’t the type to dive in guns blazing, and Kon respected that. Kon’s part was simple: fight the bad guys , make sure they didn’t try anything funny, and keep things moving until the cops could do their part. But Red Vulture, man—Red had this down to a science. He was already disarming traps, hacking into systems, and preparing for what was to come. Tim was everything Kon wasn’t: patient, calculated, and the kind of guy who could think ten steps ahead. It was impressive, even if Kon didn’t always get the whole “hack the system” thing. He was more about punching through problems than cracking codes.

Kon, meanwhile, was busy cracking skulls. He grabbed a couple of traffickers by the collars and slammed them into walls, his hands moving like a blur as he tossed them around like ragdolls. He could hear the sickening thud of each impact, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting these guys off the streets. They’d been hurting kids, and that wasn’t something Kon could just ignore. It was personal for him. He hated seeing kids in danger, hated seeing them used by people like this. He didn’t care if it was messy; he didn’t care if the night got loud . He wasn’t here to play nice .

But that’s when the real heart of the mission kicked in. He watched as Tim moved through the building, disarming the last of the security systems, carefully checking every inch of the warehouse. Red Vulture wasn’t just a fighter—he was the brains of the operation, pulling up information, feeding Kon data on the fly. Kon could feel his pulse quicken as Red Vulture sent him signals. Tim was digging through the traffickers’ systems, pulling up information on the bigger fish behind the operation, the ones pulling the strings. The adrenaline coursed through Kon’s veins, but it wasn’t the same feeling he got when he fought. This was different—this was the build-up , the quiet before the storm. And he was ready .

Then they found them.

The kids.

It was like a slap in the face, the kind of realization that hit you deep in your chest. These weren’t just criminals they were stopping. These were lives . The traffickers had dozens of kids locked up in a makeshift jail , hungry, scared, their eyes wide with fear. Kon’s heart stopped for a second. There was something about seeing them, about realizing just how many kids had been trapped by these monsters, that made everything feel so much more real . This wasn’t about just stopping the bad guys anymore. This was about saving the kids—getting them out of there safe. And damn if he wasn’t going to do everything in his power to make sure they walked out of this.

Kon’s hands shook with adrenaline as he quickly moved to release the kids, lifting cages, pulling doors off hinges, anything to get them out of there. Tim was doing the same, checking over the kids, making sure they weren’t injured too badly. He handed out the food—those disgusting crackers that tasted like cardboard—but at least it was something, and apparently wouldn’t make the kids sick. He helped them out of the cages, giving them a quick once-over to see if any of them needed immediate medical attention. Tim worked efficiently, calmly, even though Kon could tell that the sight of these kids hit him hard, too.

Kon’s heart clenched as he watched one of the younger ones cling to Tim’s side. The look in their eyes—it was a look Kon knew all too well. It was the look of someone who’d seen too much too soon. And Kon couldn’t help but feel this rush of protectiveness come over him. He hated the thought of any kid being caught up in something like this, hated the fact that these kids had been used for someone else’s sick gain .

Then the sirens hit. And that’s when Red Vulture went into full tactical mode . Tim’s eyes darted to the distant lights. They had to move. Fast. He gently extracts himself from the kids. He gave Kon a quick nod, and in the next instant, Guard Dog was swooping in. Kon wrapped his arms around Tim, flying them both up to the roof, a little sad to have to leave the kids alone for the very short time it took that police to get there. From there, they could keep an eye on things without being in the middle of the mess. Tim was good at keeping his cool, even when the police were closing in. Kon had to admit, he trusted him more than he’d ever thought possible.

As they reached the roof, Kon settled down, setting Tim gently on the edge. They watched from the rooftop as Commissioner Gordon and the police flooded into the warehouse, the kids were safe and Commissioner Gordon spot them on the roof. Kon didn’t need to be told twice—it was time to get out before the authorities could ask too many questions. But as they watched, Kon couldn’t help but feel like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. They’d done it . The kids were safe. They were out of harm’s way, and that was all that mattered.

“Good job, Guard Dog." Tim muttered, his eyes scanning the scene below.

Kon grinned, elbowing Tim lightly. “It was dope, Red. But hey, you did all the tough stuff. I was just the muscle.”

Tim shot him a look, one that held both affection and amusement . “We both did our part.”

And that’s the way it was. Teamwork . Kon was there to bring the power, but Tim? Tim brought the brains—and they made a hell of a team. Nothing felt better than knowing they’d done the right thing, together.

--

The safe house was silent except for the soft hum of the computers and the muted sound of distant engines as the city of Gotham rumbled above. Tim—Red Vulture—sat at his desk, sending the last of the data through the encrypted channels. Gotham PD would get the information they needed, but more importantly, Commissioner Gordon would be pleased. He always was when Red Vulture's team did the job right. Even if Gordon was a little skeptical about Tim’s unorthodox methods, the truth was, Batman trusted him, and that was all Gordon needed to know. Gotham's finest might not always get why Tim did things the way he did, but they'd learned to respect the results. That was enough for Tim.

Kon, on the other hand, had already moved past the details of the mission. Guard Dog had done his part, and he was ready to fly high, literally. His attention span was more like a goldfish on speed, and as far as he was concerned, he’d already punched enough bad guys to call it a night. So, once the mission was officially wrapped up and all the intel was sent off, he was done with the boring stuff.

"Yo, Red, can we move already? This place is seriously bringing my mood down." Kon called from where he was hovering in the shadows, stretching his arms as if the whole world was his personal gym. His bright blue eyes were alight with that cocky energy that made him such a damn nuisance to everyone around him. Kon didn’t need to explain himself—he wasn’t a quiet person by nature, and he certainly wasn’t the type to wait around when he could be flying over Gotham, undetected , the king of the skies.

Tim just gave him a dry look but didn’t argue. They both knew how the night went. They came back to a safe house to log the mission—no matter how high Kon flew, no matter how many criminals he knocked out. Tim sighs and nods.

In the blink of an eye, Kon was swooping down, grabbing Tim in his arms like he was a sack of potatoes and soaring out of the cave. The ride was quick, and soon enough, they landed on Penguin's roof.

Once inside, They went there own rooms and showered. Kon and Tim switched into their civilian clothes. They were in Kon’s room, Next to Tim’s. Tim had shown him some of the more obscure shows he liked, and though Kon acted all tough about it, he secretly loved those late nights spent watching TV together, the familiarity making it feel like a weird kind of home.

That night, as usual, they crashed into Kon's bed, sitting on opposite sides. Tim immediately reached for the remote and flicked through the channels until a familiar show popped up on the screen. Kon leaned back, sprawled out with a satisfied grunt. He was the kind of guy who never needed to think too hard about anything—at least, that’s what he told himself. But as Tim showed him these shows, these little moments of normalcy, Kon realized he didn’t mind the stillness as much as he thought he would.

Still, the silence was broken when Tim suddenly dropped his guard, dropping onto the bed with an exasperated sigh.

"Hey." Tim started, his voice quieter than usual, "I guess I should explain something. The thing about my mouth. Why I cover it when I laugh."

Kon tilted his head, unsure of where this was going. He didn't know if Tim was messing with him again or if this was something serious. Either way, it was typical Tim—serious but not too serious.

Tim smiled at him, but the smile was different this time. The way he showed his teeth—it wasn’t like a normal grin. It was something darker, something twisted that Kon had never seen . It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes , and that made Kon feel a sudden pang of discomfort. He leaned forward, his hands instinctively curling to touch the scars on Tim’s face, sensing something was off.

Tim's smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared, and he shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “These scars? Well, they’re from something I don’t usually talk about. But, since you’re asking… Joker caught me at a party, kidnapped me, tortured me for a month. They made me laugh with laughing gas , shocked me with electricity, and, yeah, stitched my eyes and mouth open."

Kon froze.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, the weight of Tim’s words hanging heavily in the air between them. His breath caught in his chest as anger , a raging fury , began to rise within him.

“What?” he growled, his voice low, threatening, like a storm waiting to break. His body went stiff, his eyes narrowed in pure rage. He could feel his blood boiling, his teeth gritted, and his hands shaking from the intensity of it. How could anyone do that? How could someone do that to Tim, to someone he cared about?

Tim didn’t even flinch, shrugging off the anger like it was nothing. “Yeah. And after that, I shot him to escape, but he’s still out there. I don’t want him dead, Kon. If he dies, he comes back worse.”

Tim barely has time to react before Kon is pulling him in, gripping him tight, and suddenly Tim is engulfed in warmth and fur. Kon’s hands are strong, unrelenting, as he crushes Tim against his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of Tim’s hoodie like he’s afraid Tim might disappear if he lets go. The sheer force of it knocks Tim’s breath out for a second, and then his face is buried in Kon’s ridiculous fluffy chest.

Tim makes a noise—something between a sigh and a grunt of protest , shifting slightly as he tries to push himself free. Not that it does much. Kon is half-Kryptonian . When he decides to hold onto something, it’s held onto .

" Dude. Let me go. " Tim’s voice is muffled, coming out flat as he tries to squirm away. He gets nowhere . Kon doesn’t move. He doesn’t even acknowledge Tim’s efforts.

Instead, Kon’s entire body vibrates with a growl, low and feral , the kind that makes the air buzz in Tim’s lungs. It’s not human. It’s pure instinct , something primal and protective , a half-Kryptonian or maybe mutant reaction to someone hurting his boyfriend . Tim recognizes it , understands it, but dealing with it? Yeah, that’s a whole other thing.

Kon growls again, lower this time, his breath warm against Tim’s hair. " I will kill him. " His voice is rough , deeper than normal, like he’s barely holding something back. " How has Penguin not killed him? Batman? Isn’t Joker the guy who killed the other Robin? " His fingers tighten , clutching at Tim’s back as his rage builds , like the idea of anyone hurting Tim like that is physically painful for him to comprehend.

Tim exhales sharply, still trying to push back—still failing . " If he dies, he comes back worse. " He repeats again, His words are blunt , and more than a little resigned , but he knows Kon needs to hear them.

That gives Kon pause . His grip doesn’t loosen, but Tim can feel the shift— the confusion . His growl tapers off into something closer to a deep, frustrated exhale , his breath ruffling Tim’s hair. Kon isn’t calm , but he’s at least listening now .

Tim finally manages to get one of his arms free and shoves at Kon’s side. " Dude. You are literally suffocating me. "

Kon blinks down at him like he only just realized how tightly he’s holding on. He doesn’t let go, but he loosens his grip , just enough for Tim to breathe properly again.

" I hate this, man. " Kon mutters, his voice rough, tinged with something heavier than just anger. His hands twitch , like he wants to do something but doesn’t know what . " I hate that you— " He breaks off, shaking his head. His eyes are red , still feral, but not as bright as before.

Tim tilts his head back slightly, meeting Kon’s gaze. He gets it. He does . But he also knows that Kon —for all his bravado, all his cocky remarks and overcompensating confidence—has a big heart . Too big. And Tim telling him this? It’s hitting him hard.

" I’m here, though, right? " Tim says, keeping his tone even, careful. " I got out. I survived. Joker didn’t win. "

Kon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens , and he looks like he wants to argue, to say that surviving isn’t enough . That Tim shouldn’t have had to go through that in the first place . But instead of talking, Kon does what Kon does best . He just acts .

He pulls Tim in again , this time less crushing , more protective . His arms wrap around Tim’s back, his head resting against Tim’s , and Tim can feel every bit of tension still coiled in his muscles.

And for once?

Tim doesn’t fight it.

He sighs, lets his shoulders relax just a little , and allows Kon to cling to him while he calms down .

--

Tim could handle a lot of things. He could handle Penguin's scheming, Bruce's judgment, and even Joker's torture without breaking. But what he couldn't handle? Being trapped under a sleeping half-Kryptonian himbo who had the muscle density of a steel-reinforced brick wall.

At first, it was fine . Kon had been clinging to him since their talk, all wound up and vibrating with the kind of barely restrained rage that Tim knew from experience wouldn’t just go away without some kind of outlet. If letting Kon hold onto him for a while helped , Tim could deal with it. It wasn’t the worst thing. Kind of nice , even, in an annoying, overbearing, personal-space-invading kind of way. But then— then —the dumbass had fallen asleep .

Tim barely noticed at first. Kon had just gotten quieter, his grip loosening slightly, his breathing evening out until the subtle, telltale pattern of deep, unconscious slumber settled in. Tim almost relaxed , assuming he’d be able to just slip free once Kon was fully out.

That had been twenty minutes ago .

Tim sighed. Annoying.

The problem wasn’t just that Kon was asleep . The problem was that Kon, in his sleep, hadn’t let go. If anything, his grip had tightened , like some kind of stupidly muscular security blanket that had no business being this strong while unconscious.

Tim let out another breath, already calculating his escape plan . If it were a normal human, this would be easy . Simple physics, a little maneuvering, and he’d be free in seconds. But a half-Kryptonian ? That was an entirely different problem . Kon was heavy , sure, but the real issue was that Tim couldn't just push him off. Trying to force his way free without proper leverage would be like arguing with Batman —a waste of time and energy.

No, Tim needed to be smart about this.

His eyes flicked to the edge of the bed , where one of his hidden bowstaffs was tucked behind a bookcase right next to it . Because, of course, he had hidden weapons everywhere . Even in Kon’s room. Tim was prepared like that. If he could just reach it , he could use it as a lever , shift Kon’s weight just enough to slip out from under him.

Slowly, carefully , he started to wiggle his arm free , inching towards the staff without disturbing Kon’s iron grip . His fingertips barely brushed the smooth metal , just a little more and—

Kon rolled over.

Tim barely had time to process it before he was dragged with him , pulled away from the staff and further into Kon’s grip like a damn teddy bear . His face collided with Kon’s chest , a deep huff of air escaping him as he landed flush against the broad wall of muscle and fur .

" Goddammit. "

Kon didn’t even stir , his breathing still slow, steady, heavy .

Tim groaned , his face still pressed against Kon’s stupid fluffy chest , his stupid leather jacket , and his stupid warmth that was kind of comfortable despite how absolutely not okay this situation was.

He went still for a moment, debating his options. He could try again , but at this point? Was it worth it? Kon was asleep, not crushing him—just holding him hostage in the most ridiculous, clingy way possible . Tim could try to fight his way free again. Or—

Tim let out a long, resigned sigh .

Screw it. He was tired . Too tired to fight . Too tired to deal with Kon’s Kryptonian nonsense right now. His muscles ached from the night’s mission , and honestly? This was… fine. Stupid. Annoying. But fine.

With a grumble , Tim gave up , going limp in Kon’s grasp. He’d just have to deal with this in the morning .

--

Tim was going to kill him.

Not right now, because right now, he was still half-asleep , and his brain was fighting for consciousness like it was dragging itself out of a swamp made of exhaustion and bad decisions. But as soon as he fully woke up , Kon was dead.

Tim had woken up to shifting weight, the kind of subtle movement that barely registered at first but slowly pulled him out of his comfortable haze. He groggily remembered that he was trapped in Kon’s grasp, held hostage in a half-Kryptonian cuddle that he had, regrettably, been too tired to escape from last night. That was fine. Annoying, but fine.

Then Kon made a sleepy noise —one of those deep, satisfied, lazy grumbles that meant he was just waking up but not entirely functional yet. Tim barely processed it, shifting a little, trying to convince himself that he could probably fall back asleep and ignore whatever Kon was mumbling about.

Then came the nuzzling.

Kon’s face buried against the side of his neck , warm breath ghosting over his skin , and Tim barely had time to register what was happening before Kon mumbled something.

Tim was not awake enough for this.

He barely processed what was said—some half-conscious question that was more noise than words , and Tim , being the absolute genius he was at four in the morning, just mumbled a noncommittal ‘uh-huh’ because that was the easiest way to get people to shut up when he was trying to sleep.

Big mistake.

Because next thing he knew , Kon was purring —actually purring , the low, stupidly pleased rumble vibrating in his chest like a goddamn oversized cat —and then suddenly, suddenly, there were lips on his neck.

Tim’s brain short-circuited.

One second, he was on the edge of sleep , the next, he was wide awake , jolting as Kon lazily kissed his way down his neck, over his pulse, across his jaw like this was a completely normal way to wake someone up. And Tim— Tim Drake, Red Vulture, tactical genius and master strategist—had fallen directly into the trap. Well not a trap, Kon did ask, Tim just didn’t listen.

" No! Kon, I was half asleep! I did not agree to this! "

Tim kicked , wriggling , pushing , doing everything short of outright stabbing him with his kyptonite lined baton to get free , but Kon was strong and half-conscious , which meant his sleepy, stubborn brain had already decided that this was happening and was not processing rejection immediately .

But Kon is good at asking permission and listening to his partners needs, so he realises he has to stop. Still Kon whined , actually whined , pulling back just enough to pout at him like some kind of giant, oversized puppy .

" But you said yessss." he drawled, voice slow and slurred with sleep , not even remotely ashamed that he had just ambushed Tim with surprise kisses at four in the goddamn morning.

Tim sighed , pinching the bridge of his nose. " And you got to." he said, voice flat, unimpressed , because Kon had already stolen a solid handful of kisses before Tim had been awake enough to fight back. " Now stop. "

Kon whined again, shuffling forward , head drooping dramatically .

" One more. "

Tim sighed, already regretting his life choices , but Kon was pouting , and it was too early to fight about this , and if he just let him have one more , maybe— maybe —he’d go back to sleep and leave Tim alone.

" Fine. "

And that. That was his second mistake.

Because instead of some quick , innocent , barely-there kiss, Kon leaned in fully , pressing his lips to Tim’s soft and slow , lingering like he had all the time in the world , like he was savouring it , and when Tim tried to pull back , tried to push him away , Kon just followed , chasing the movement , purring into the kiss like some smug bastard who knew exactly what he was doing.

Tim had been tricked.

He was going to kill him.

Right after this.

Kon still hasn't pulled back from the kiss yet, clearly pissing tim off a bit, but he gasps and pulls back quickly when a kryptonite lined baton is shove at an angle under his ribs.

Kon hisses through clenched teeth, curling in on himself as the sharp, sickly feeling of Kryptonite pulses under his ribs. It’s not even like he got hit under the skin with it , not enough to actually cripple him, but it still burns, still makes his muscles lock up , still makes his stomach twist . It sucks. Okay Yes, this is Kon's own fault but still, doesn't mean that it didn't hurt both pysically and his pride.

And Tim? Timothy "I will stab you in your sleep" Drake? Just pats his hair like Kon’s some damn dog , all while grinning at him, smug as hell.

Kon growls, trying to glare , but it’s hard when he’s still recovering from the Kryptonite jab and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

“Ow, dude.” He groans, still hunched. “That was uncalled for.”

Tim just arches a brow , then slips the Kryptonite baton back into its protective casing , like he hadn’t just shoved it into Kon’s ribs with zero hesitation. He doesn’t even look apologetic . Hell, he looks like he’s enjoying this. “ I couldn’t breath dude, so your not allowed to either. ”

And worse? Worse?

He tucks the baton somewhere on his person , and Kon— despite all his training, his enhanced vision, his combat skills —has no idea where it went.

Which is, frankly, unfair.

Kon squints at him, eyes tracing every inch of Tim’s stupid civilian clothes, but nope. Nothing. The thing is just gone.

It makes no sense.

At least when Tim is in his Red Vulture gear , it’s believable that he could hide a whole damn arsenal on himself. But in regular-ass civilian clothes? In a plain hoodie and sweats? How the hell was he pulling off this magician-level bullshit?

Kon crosses his arms, pouting.

“That’s cheating.”

Tim snorts , not impressed. “ Be happy. Next time I’m going to click and have Scrap vomit on your head. ”

There’s a beat .

Kon tilts his head , trying to process that.

“…What?”

Tim just smirks , looking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “ It may not hurt, but my god, will it stink. ”

From the doorway from Tim’s room, Scrap— Tim’s unreasonably smart, unreasonably sassy vulture—fluffs her feathers and peers in , looking at them like she’s debating whether or not she actually wants to get involved in this nonsense.

Then she grunts , flicks her wings, and with a clear display of attitude , she throws her toy directly at Kon’s face because he woke her up with his yelp of pain .

It bounces off his forehead.

Kon groans, dramatically flopping backward onto the bed.

“I am being ganged up on.”

Scrap clicks her beak, smug.

Tim shrugs , utterly unsympathetic . “ Actions have consequences. ”

Kon whines . “ Dude, all I did was kiss you. ”

“Without permission.”

“I asked! You said yes!”

“I was half-asleep.”

“I didn’t know that!”
“I told you you could give me one more and what do you do, drag it out on purpose, and not let me breath.”
“Well, what if I told you you are irresitably cute when your flustered and grumpy.”

Tim gives him a look , the kind that very clearly means ‘I don’t care, this is your problem now.’

Kon groans again, throwing an arm over his eyes , still curled up from the Kryptonite’s lingering effect.

Scrap ruffles her feathers again , flaps once, and hops into the room, like she’s already decided that since she’s awake, she might as well make this Kon’s problem.

She lands right on his chest , claws digging in—not enough to hurt, but enough to be annoying.

Kon grunts , peeking at her. “ Really? ”

Scrap stares at him.

Then she leans down and bites his nose.

Kon yelps.

Tim? Tim just laughs.

Chapter Text

The justice league is not needed often, honestly thank goodness, most crimes are limited to there own cities with there own heros.

The Tower still needed updates. That was just a fact. Security protocols didn’t age like fine wine—they rotted. And while Batman could handle the updates himself, the unspoken truth hung in the air like Gotham’s ever-present smog: Tim could do it better . … Well okay Barbara could do it best but she doesn’t really care for the busy work of updating severs and patch notes that aren’t her own.

Which is why, whenever the Tower needed a security overhaul, Batman didn’t go alone.

He brough t Tim .

Every time.

So here they were again—on another “quiet” trip to the Young Justice HQ. A quick patch, a few hours' work. Should’ve been simple.

Except this time, despite their best efforts, they had a tagalong.

“ I’m just saying." Kon drawled from the back of the Batmobile, upside down with his boots kicked up onto the roof, “ ‘Guard Dog’ is a title I take with pride. ”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not even supposed to know where we’re going.”

“I followed your scent." Kon said smugly. “You smell like burnt coffee and frustration. It’s adorable.”

Tim gave a long, exasperated sigh from the passenger seat. Batman sighed at the exact same time from the driver’s side, like a synchronized breath of mutual, unspoken suffering. It was honestly a little eerie.

Kon grinned, fangs barely showing. He was thoroughly unbothered, reclining in the back like the Batmobile was a personal Uber. “Hey, technically, there shouldn’t be any heroes at the Tower right now. So technically… I can’t be caught. Problem solved.”

“That’s not how stealth works." Red Vulture muttered.

The Batmobile slid quietly through the night, winding off the main road toward the hidden route to the Tower. Outside, the trees closed in like sentries.

“Are you going to behave?” Tim asked him, finally before they go in.

“I’ll be good." Kon promised. “I’ll stay in the shadows. Won’t touch anything.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Anything?”

“Anything except you.”

“Kon.”

--

Kon’s tail wags excitedly as he takes in the Hall of Justice, his eyes wide and sparkling like a kid at an amusement park. It’s huge—way bigger than he expected—and way shinier than Gotham’s gritty Batcave. Not that he’d say that out loud, since he values his lungs remaining unpunched. The place is sleek, impressive, and even though it’s supposed to be empty right now, it still feels like it’s humming with power. Big League energy.

He barely hears when the voice calls out, but the way both Batman and Tim jolt makes it obvious that someone important is behind them. He barely has time to register the voice—strong, commanding, very much not someone you ignore—before he turns and—oh.

Oh damn.

It’s Wonder Woman.

Kon, for once in his life, forgets how to speak.

She’s tall, regal, built like an Amazonian goddess, which—duh. But still. Seeing her up close is another thing entirely. And man, she looks impressive. She’s got that intimidating but kinda motherly vibe that only Wonder Woman can pull off, and it’s doing something weird to Kon’s brain, because he both wants to impress her and wants to hide behind Tim immediately.

But then she’s not even looking at him—not really. Her eyes are on Batman first, and she’s unimpressed.

"We are here to do updates on the security." Batman states, as flatly as possible, his usual ‘I refuse to explain myself to anyone’ voice in full effect.

Diana doesn’t even blink, She knows Tim but not the other. Instead, she gestures right at Kon.

"And him?"

Kon feels a flutter of panic for half a second, because oh shit, he wasn’t actually supposed to be here, was he? Like Tim had said. But then he remembers he’s in costume, under an alias, and technically, no one knows who he is. So he just stands there, playing it cool, crossing his arms in what he hopes is a casual, unbothered pose.

Batman doesn’t speak immediately, which is honestly never a good sign.

Instead, he huffs, like he already hates this conversation, before nodding toward Tim.

Tim, to his credit, doesn’t flinch under Diana’s gaze, which is impressive because most people would. Instead, he just sighs, like he’s resigned to his fate.

"My partner." Tim says plainly. "Unlike Batman, I don’t work alone. He wouldn’t stop bugging me to come with us."

Kon grins proudly at that, puffing up a little. Damn right he wouldn’t stop bugging Tim. If Tim was getting to do cool tech stuff at the Hall of Justice, then obviously Kon was going to come along.

Diana pauses, then…

She laughs.

Like, a full, genuine, amused laugh.

Kon blinks, because holy shit, Tim just made Wonder Woman laugh?

"Well, someone is breaking family traditions." Diana says, still clearly amused. "Good for you."

Tim snorts, which means he actually finds that funny, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Diana, meanwhile, studies him, something thoughtful in her expression. She’s one of the few people who probably actually understands what the whole Robin situation is really like. She knows they aren’t just some random sidekicks, and that every single one of them was taken in by Batman for one reason or another.

And she knows that Tim isn’t technically one of them—not in the same way as the others. But she also knows that doesn’t really matter.

Still, when she turns to Kon, her lips twitch, just a little.

"Red Vulture, what’s his name?" she asks, teasingly.

Kon immediately pouts, crossing his arms tighter, because rude.

"Hey!"

Diana smiles, unbothered. "Sorry, little one, but I did not want to address you without a name."

Kon huffs, but before he can argue, Tim laughs—actually laughs—and gives her the name before Kon can make it worse for himself.

"Guard Dog."

Diana tilts her head, considering. Then she grins.

"A fitting name."

Kon brightens.

Hell yeah it is.

--

The server room in the Hall of Justice is, without question, one of the least exciting places Kon has ever been “forced” to sit in. It’s cold—like, really cold, the kind of sterile chill that makes his fur stand on end—and everything around him is gray, metallic, and buzzing softly with the quiet hum of data processing. Dull as hell. And he only has himself to blame because Tim told him this would happen.

Tim, on the other hand? Tim looks like he’s having the time of his life.

He’s focused, typing away at one of the terminals, eyes flicking between different screens like he’s reading a language no one else can understand. Every now and then, he’ll pull out some tiny piece of tech, plug it in, and mutter something to himself that Kon doesn’t even try to decipher. It’s all boring computer stuff, and Kon’s not about that life.

He shifts, letting out a dramatic sigh, because come on, Tim. He knows this was important Batman business, but did it have to be so lame?

Tim doesn’t even look up. Instead, he just pulls out a tablet from his belt—where was he even keeping that?—and tosses it at Kon, who catches it on reflex.

"Here." Tim says. "I loaded it with Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comics. Should keep you entertained."

Kon blinks. Looks down at the screen, where the first issue is queued up, ready to go.

Then he snorts, rolling his eyes. "Dude, I’m not a kid that needs a rattle."

Tim finally glances up, eyebrow raised. "Okay, give it back then."

Kon pauses.

His grip on the tablet tightens.

"…No." He says, like he’s totally in the right.

Tim laughs at him.

Kon grumbles but doesn’t actually stop himself from flipping the tablet open and getting comfortable against the server wall. Wendy the Werewolf Stalker was dope as hell, anyway. He wasn’t about to pass up some quality comic time.

They fall into silence, the only sound being Tim’s typing and the occasional panel swipe from Kon. He’s actually getting into it, the boredom fading, when suddenly—

There’s a blur of red that zips right past them.

Both their heads snap up.

Kon, with his half-Kryptonian reflexes, barely manages to track the movement, catching just a faint shape of a person before the blur disappears down the hall.

Tim just blinks.

Then, just as quickly, the blur zips back, stopping right in front of them.

The Flash.

Kon grins, because—holy shit, it’s The Flash.

The Flash looks like he was in the middle of something, probably just using the server room as a shortcut, when he actually registered that there were two people he didn’t recognise standing right there. His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing behind his mask, and Kon can already see the ‘who the hell are these guys?’ question forming on his lips but much more politely.

But before he can even open his mouth, Tim—being the absolute freak that he is—takes charge like this is just another Tuesday.

He steps forward, perfectly composed, and sticks out a hand.

"Red Vulture, here under Batman’s orders. I specialize in tech and investigations."

Kon’s jaw drops.

Huh?

The Flash blinks, clearly thrown off by the confidence. He slowly shakes Tim’s hand, still looking confused.

"Wait, but… Batman works alone."

Tim actually laughs. Like, genuine laughter, like that was the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

"You know he’s had, like, four sidekicks, right? Three Robins and a Batgirl?"

Kon watches as The Flash freezes completely.

The man looks stunned. Like he just learned the secrets of the universe. His eyes flicker toward the ceiling—probably debating if he’s actually in some alternate timeline—before, in a blur of movement, he vanishes again.

Kon blinks.

Then grins.

"Dude, he totally just ran off to go bother Bats about that."

Tim just shrugs, going back to his work like nothing even happened. "Probably."

Kon leans back, still grinning.

Okay. Maybe this wasn’t such a boring trip after all.

Tim barely glances up, too busy typing something into the server. "It’s not a big deal."

"To you." Kon huffs, flopping down dramatically onto a nearby bench, his tablet still clutched tightly in one hand. "To the rest of the world, Batman is some super-secretive, brooding lone wolf who doesn’t believe in teamwork."

Tim raises an eyebrow, pausing just long enough to shoot Kon a flat look.

Kon grins. "Okay, yeah, maybe he acts like that sometimes, but c’mon, he’s adopted, like, half of Gotham."

Tim doesn’t even look up as he says it, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I mean people don’t actually know that, your just lucky I found you."

Kon just laughs, shaking his head as he leans back against the cool metal of the bench. He glances down at the tablet again, flipping through the next page of the Wendy the Werewolf Stalker comic, pretending like he’s only kinda interested in it, even though he’s definitely hooked now. Damn Tim and his preparation.

After a few seconds of silence, he taps the edge of the screen idly and glances up again.

"So, Flash."

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat, something that could be agreement or just annoyance that Kon’s talking while he’s working.

"Dude literally didn’t know Batman has kids."

"A lot of people don’t know Batman has kids." Tim doesn’t sound remotely surprised.

"I don’t get it." Kon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "He doesn’t even try to hide it that much. Like, he brings you guys everywhere."

Tim actually pauses, like he’s considering that, before scoffing. "No, he doesn’t."

Kon grins. "Hell yeah he does dude. He drags you around like you’re his emotional support tech guy."

Tim doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Which means Kon is absolutely right.

Kon just keeps grinning, swiping another page of his comic, feeling smug as hell about it.

Then, suddenly, there’s a whoosh of air again, and before either of them can react, Barry Allen is back, standing in the doorway, looking even more stunned than before. Like he just had a full existential crisis in the two minutes he was gone.

He’s staring directly at Tim.

"Okay, so I asked Batman, and he just—grunted at me."

Tim doesn’t even blink. "Sounds about right."

"And then he went back to work like I wasn’t even there."

Tim nods, typing something into the console again. "Also sounds about right."

Barry points at him. "You. You exist."

Tim tilts his head. "I do."

Barry looks at Kon, as if for confirmation.

Kon just shrugs, biting back a laugh. "Yup. He exists. I checked."

Barry runs a hand through where his hair would be if hewasn’t in his suit, looking so baffled it’s actually kind of amazing. "Man, Batman has sidekicks."

Tim rolls his eyes, still typing. "Glad you caught up."

Barry just shakes his head, still looking like his whole world view has been shattered.

Then he points at Kon. "And you? Who even are you?"

Kon grins, wide and cocky as hell, sitting up straighter. "Name’s Guard Dog. I bite."

Barry blinks. Then he glances at Tim. "You’re okay with him?"

Tim actually smiles, just a little, eyes still focused on the screen. "I wouldn’t be here with him if I wasn’t."

Barry tilts his head, like he’s processing that, before slowly nodding because that is such a batman response.

Then, with a quick wave, he zips away again, still probably grappling with the knowledge that Batman has a full squad of traumatized kids.

----------------------
Flash snitched on them, and in just half an hour there was a non-mandatory meeting called for the justice league (for the nosy members who like gossip).

The atmosphere in the Justice League’s conference room is thick with confusion and mild amusement. Batman’s usually impenetrable mood seems to hang in the air, and the murmurs of the Justice League members bounce off the walls. Even Clark looks a little out of place, though he’s trying to be calm about it. He thought Batman only had one Robin and that was it, but here he is, having to process the fact that there are not just one, but multiple Robins, along with a Batgirl, and all these sidekicks running around doing their thing.

To be fair, Batman does keep things under wraps, but hell, it’s a lot to unpack. Even Superman, who’s seen it all, is having a hard time wrapping his head around this. So, after some grumbling and a few harsh whispers, they decide it’s time for a meeting.

A meeting to get the facts straight.

Batman, of course, doesn’t see it as an urgent matter. “Waste of funding." he mutters, but everyone else seems determined to understand just who these new faces in the Bat-family are. And why the hell a child who is not a robin, Red Vulture, handling all the security systems of the Hall of Justice?

Diana’s the one who takes charge of this little operation. It’s obvious she’s got her own methods of getting things done. After a quick, non-verbal exchange, she decides it’s time to drag Tim out of the depths of the server room. She doesn't even give him the chance to protest. The next thing he knows, she’s grabbing him under the arms, pulling him out of the server room, and yanking him upstairs into the middle of the Justice League's ongoing conference. Kon follows slowly after.

The moment Tim steps into the room, he’s hit with a wave of confused but curious eyes. Members of the Justice League are scattered across the room, talking to one another, but all turn their attention to him once Diana enters. It’s like being under the spotlight without asking for it. His mind races. He hasn’t been briefed on what’s going on, and now here he is, being exposed in front of these towering figures. Diana’s grip on his arm is like a warm safety net, but the uncertainty eats at him.

Tim feels small all of a sudden, and he’s uncomfortable being the center of attention like this. He’s used to working from the shadows, keeping things under control from behind the scenes, not directly in the middle of a low-stakes discussion with the big names of the Justice League. He can already feel his nerves bubbling up.

Diana doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil as she marches him forward, though she gives him an encouraging smile. She already knows what’s up with the Bat because she actually askes questions. But she doesn’t prepare him for what comes next.

Tim blinks, feeling deeply uncomfortable as the entirety of the Justice League stares at him like he’s some rare, exotic animal they just discovered in the wild.

Okay. This is a lot.

Diana is standing next to him, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Clark is there, too, standing just behind the long table, looking mildly concerned but also kind of fascinated, like he just found out that Bruce Wayne owns a secret second house on Mars and never told anyone. The Flash—who was already struggling with this knowledge earlier—is still sitting there, looking like he's only barely holding back from asking a million more questions. And then there’s Zatanna, who, after slamming her hands down on the table like she’s making an urgent demand, is now just beaming at him.

"You are so cute!" she says again, as if she can’t get over it.

Tim goes bright red and stiffens, completely thrown by the attention.

"I—" Tim starts, but his entire brain short-circuits.

Diana smirks, clearly enjoying this.

Zatanna, realising that maybe she's just embarrassed the hell out of him, quickly tries to pivot. She gestures towards the large holographic display, which is currently showing all the recent security updates that Tim has been implementing.

"And you’ve done all the security on this place!" she says, genuinely impressed. "I see why Batman trained you!"

Tim, still not sure how to process anything, just mutters, "Uh. Yeah. Thanks."

That’s apparently the cue for everyone else to jump in.

Murmuring their approval as they watch him make sure not to shift awkwardly on his feet. For a moment, he’s caught in this weird swirl of compliments and attention that he’s never quite been prepared for. And while his inner self is screaming for escape, the part of him trained by years of Jack Drake’s cold, demanding expectations kicks in: Be polite. Don’t make a fuss.

The other members of the League quickly chime in. Flash cracks a grin, adding, “Man, you must be a tech genius if Batman’s got you doing all the heavy lifting.” His words are playful, but there’s a genuine hint of respect in his tone. Even if Flash doesn’t fully get Batman’s emotional distance, he understands that Batman doesn’t just trust anyone with the kinds of tasks Tim has handled.

"Wait, wait, wait." Green Lantern—Hal, specifically—leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "So you’re telling me that Batman has had multiple sidekicks, and none of us knew?"

Diana raises a single perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You really thought he only had one?"

"I dunno, man." Hal gestures vaguely. "I figured maybe one at a time, but you’re telling me there’s, like, a whole…Bat-clan?"

Tim does not like the way everyone is staring at him like he’s some wild new discovery.

"We prefer ‘Bat-family,’" he corrects, mostly just because he knows Bruce would hate that being the takeaway from this conversation.

He already hears a grumble from the bat himself.

Kon, who was previously lounging in his chair and doing an amazing job of looking like he was not paying attention at all, suddenly perks up at that.

"Yeah, dude." Kon says, grinning, because he lives for this chaos. "We do family dinners and everything."

Tim snaps his head towards him, glaring.

Kon just winks.

Tim is going to kill him.

There’s a collective noise of shock and intrigue from the League members at that, because the idea of Batman willingly sitting down for a family meal is apparently breaking their minds.

"That is not true." Tim huffs.

"Bro, you’re literally lying right now. We had dinner, like, two nights ago."

"That was a strategy meeting."

"There was food."

Tim grits his teeth. "That doesn’t make it a family dinner."

"You know who, made pie."

Diana is outright laughing now.

Clark looks like he’s processing his entire life.

The Flash is visibly trying not to lose it.

And Zatanna? Zatanna looks like she might explode from how much she’s enjoying this.

Hal leans back, looking at Tim with a new level of respect.

"Damn, kid. You really got Batman to let you sit at a dinner table with him?"

Tim is never going to live this down.

Tim doesn't wait for Kon to whine any further, simply turning on his heel and walking back towards the server room, knowing full well that if he lingers too long, someone is going to start asking questions he doesn't want to answer. He can feel the weight of Superman’s stare pressing into his back, the quiet but unmistakable stillness of a man who just put something together that he doesn't like.

Not that Tim blames him.

Kon is, unfortunately, pretty recognizable once you know what you’re looking for. It was inevitable that someone in the League would realize who he was eventually, and Tim had been hoping they could stall it just a little longer. Long enough for Kon to make a better impression—long enough for him to be something other than the clone of Superman made by Lex Luthor.

But no. Of course not. Because this is just how their luck goes.

Martian Manhunter had been eerily calm, but there was something about the way he’d looked at Kon that had made it clear he knew everything. Tim wasn’t sure if J’onn had just put the pieces together himself or skimmed through Kon’s surface thoughts, but it didn’t matter either way.

The moment that knowledge fully settled in their heads, things would start getting complicated.

And Tim hates complicated.

So, instead, he plays the game the way he was trained to.

Jack Drake had been a lot of things, and most of them weren’t particularly good, but he had taught Tim one valuable skill—how to navigate a room full of people who could tear you apart with a single wrong move. The League wasn’t quite as cruel as Gotham’s upper crust, but they were just as dangerous, in their own way.

"Well this has certainly been lovely and it's been truly wonderful to meet you all but I think I need to keep working on the sever. Guard Dog will you join me." Tim says. Not a question clearly a demand.

Tim’s polite dismissal had done exactly what he needed it to do.

Kon pouts and says exactly what tim hopes "But Red, please." He gestures to the league members clearly wanting to talk to them more.

Tim tries not to smile, because this is the reaction Tim needed. He’d redirected attention, made it explicitly clear that Kon had exactly zero interest in security or classified information. Just a dumb, overeager kid hero like Tim trying to meet real superheroes.

And Kon, bless him, had played his part perfectly.

Tim sighs and looks to batman, batman's lips quirk just the slightest, no one would be able to tell but Tim but he is proud of Tim's planning skills. He nods a silent gesture of "I will stay and handle it, you go back to work."

The League might have questions, but Tim had just bought them a little more time. Tim turns away and Kon huffs following.

Still, just because Kon followed the script doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

Tim doesn’t have to turn around to know that Kon is pouting like an absolute brat. He can practically hear it. The guy is so predictable, and that’s the only reason Tim doesn’t even blink when Kon catches up with him a second later, walking just a little too close, arms crossed dramatically.

"Dude, you totally ditched me."

Tim hums, completely ignoring him as he starts keying in commands at the terminal.

Kon waits a beat.

Then, "I mean, I get it, you wanna play the whole ‘I’m too cool to talk to people’ thing, but c’mon, man. We were chillin’ with Wonder Woman." He pauses, then adds, "Also, uh, Superman was, like, looking at me really weird."

Tim doesn’t look up. "Yeah, I noticed, that's why we left."

Kon frowns, ears twitching. "Okay, well, are we just ignoring that or—?"

Tim’s fingers keep flying over the keyboard. "Batman’s handling it."

Kon looks skeptical. "Batman’s handling it?"

"Yes."

"Right. ‘Cause Batman is, like, famous for his great social skills."

Tim finally sighs and shoots him a look. "Do you actually want to talk to Superman about it right now?"

Kon visibly hesitates.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"…No, not really."

"Then Batman’s handling it."

Kon groans and dramatically drops his head back. "Ugh, fine." Then, after a second, "But can I at least go back upstairs later? ‘Cause this room sucks, and I feel like I should get to say I met the Justice League."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Sure, Guard Dog. You can go schmooze after I finish making sure no one can hack the Hall of Justice and you won’t be killed."

Kon grins and throws an arm around Tim’s shoulders, completely ignoring how Tim immediately tries to wiggle free.

"Siiick. Thanks, dude. You’re dope."

Tim sighs very loudly.

It’s gonna be a long day.

--

The Justice League was in absolute chaos.

Because Superman just up and accused Kon of being the clone that escaped and Batman didn’t deny it.

Kon could hear everything from down in the server room, the multiple voices overlapping as they demanded answers from Batman. Clark was the loudest. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was sharp, and Kon knew that tone well enough by now to recognize it as borderline furious.

"He’s a clone, Bruce!" Clark snapped. "And you’ve just been—what, letting him run around Gotham unsupervised? Letting him in the Hall of Justice?! Without telling any of us?! Do you have any idea—"

Kon tuned it out. It wasn’t new.

He’d been hearing some version of this same argument for months now, ever since Tim dragged him out of that dumpster and decided—for some goddamn reason—that he was worth saving. It wasn’t like Kon himself had ever thought that before, and sure, maybe he’d started to believe it, just a little bit, after spending all this time around Tim and Oswald and Langstrom, hell even Nightwing and Batman, but now? Now, listening to Superman talk about him like he was a disaster waiting to happen?

Yeah, maybe that was a mistake.

"Shit that bad, huh?" Tim’s voice snapped Kon out of his thoughts.

He turned to look at him, surprised to find that Tim had paused his work on the security updates. He was printing something, his expression calm and unreadable. Kon hated when he did that. He had the kind of poker face that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Kon nodded, his ears flattening down a little. "Maybe you were right, and I shouldn’t have come."

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just kept pulling the printed sheets off the tray, stacking them neatly. Kon noticed that it was an exact number of copies for everyone in the League that’s here right now.

"It would be best if you stay down here while I do this." Tim said finally, his voice still impossible to read. Then, after a beat, "You can, of course, listen in… like I could stop you."

Kon blinked. Okay, so Tim wasn’t mad at him. That was all he needed to know.

He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Damn right."

Tim didn’t bother responding to that. He just turned and headed upstairs, his light footsteps disappearing as he made his way back up to the conference room. Also the lightest sound of Tim climbing into the rafters above.

Kon could hear the exact moment he arrived. He heard him wait, listening for a pause in the argument before—

A sharp intake of breath. The slamming of Red vultures boots slamming down on the table from the rafters where he had been almost completely unnoticed except by the most perceptive of the League.

Someone—maybe Flash—muttering, "What the hell—?"

And then Tim’s voice, loud and commanding in his Red Vulture tone, as thick printed booklets scattered across the conference table.

"Alright, here is my extensive research." His voice was calm but firm, and Kon could hear the quiet authority in it. "If you turn to page 98, you will find a summary. The other pages after that are all my sources so you can verify that I have made the best choice in rescuing a scared kid from a dumpster."

Kon’s entire body locked up.

Ouch.

Okay, first of all? Thanks for making him sound like a helpless little kid, Tim. Seriously. Just fantastic for his image.

But at the same time…

Kon listened, and he could hear heartbeats changing. Some slowing, some skipping a beat entirely. The League had recoiled at that phrasing.

A lot of the League hadn’t really thought about what Kon’s life was like before Tim found him. They saw him now—a cocky, sarcastic kid with too much bravado—and they assumed that’s all he’d ever been.

They hadn’t considered that, before he started running with Tim, he was a lab rat and then homeless. That before Tim, the best he could hope for was surviving on his own.

And, of course, because Tim was a sneaky little bastard, he hadn’t just said it.

He had proof.

Kon could hear rustling, the sound of someone flipping through pages, the way someone—Clark, probably—sharply inhaled.

And oh god, Tim had pictures, didn’t he?

Kon felt a cold dread sink in.

Because if Tim had managed to get photos of what he’d looked like that day, when he’d been half-starved, covered in filth, curled up in a pile of trash in an alleyway…

Well.

That was definitely going to change some minds.

--

Kon just listens.

He listens to Tim’s long, long TED Talk about why "Guard Dog" is a good boy and should be valued as a person.

And okay, in reality? It’s actually really good. Like, annoyingly good. Tim’s not just talking out of his ass—he’s prepared for this. He’s pulling up documents, referencing every piece of research he’s done, and even using blood tests they did together as proof.

(And yeah, Kon agreed to those tests, but only because Tim promised to pierce his ears with the Kryptonite needle afterwards. Which he did. Kon had to puke immediately after, because apparently, getting jabbed with your own weakness wasn’t great for your system, but honestly? Worth it. Now he had dope earrings and the League had proof he wasn’t some weird Lex Luthor sleeper agent. Win-win. Also something about Tim fixing some Dna sequences with Dr Langstroms help: something something can age now, whatever Kon wasn’t fully listening, he was puking at the time.)

Tim presents everything flawlessly. There’s no hesitation, no awkwardness—just confidence.

But, of course, this is the Justice League. So there are questions.

Diana, who had been silent until now, finally speaks up. Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

"Does he have any association with Lex Luthor?"

Tim doesn’t even blink. "He hates Lex Luthor. If you read any Gotham tabloids or watched the news, you’d know that Kon’s father, Dr. Robert Kirk Langstrom, accused Lex Luthor of being a pedophile the second he even came near him."

There’s a heavy pause after that.

Kon smirks. Oh, that’s good.

Because yeah, Dr. Langstrom—aka Kon’s extremely dramatic dad—had absolutely done that. Loudly. Publicly. To anyone who would listen. He had no proof and the media had brushed it off as the ramblings of a "mad scientist” or over protective father. but the point is, Langstrom made it very clear that if Lex so much as breathed in Kon’s direction, he was going to set him on fire.

So, yeah. Lex and Kon? Not on great terms.

Barry—because of course it’s Barry—tilts his head. "Wait, dad? But isn’t he a clone?"

Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

"So what? You think adoption isn’t real? Tell that to Batman and all his kids."

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Tim adds, with just a little too much sass, "Oh, wait. Most of you didn’t even know that until now."

Kon bites his lip to keep from laughing. Because holy shit.

Did Tim just call out half the League for not realizing Batman had multiple adopted kids?

That’s hilarious.

And then it happens.

Superman speaks.

Kon isn’t really listening—he’s too busy watching the way Tim’s heartbeat suddenly spikes—but he catches the important part.

Clark is saying something about taking Kon away.

Kon’s stomach twists.

Because of course. Of course Superman wants to take him away. What else is new? Adults always thought they knew what was best for him. They always thought they could just—decide his life for him.

But then Tim—who had been playing this whole thing cool as hell up until now—snaps.

"Mutants in Gotham and New York are legal citizens." Tim’s voice is sharp, furious. "If you want him, you’ll have to go through the court system and argue that a mutant child, who did nothing wrong other than escape from a trafficking ring, is somehow a villain. Then go to court again to fight Langstrom to become his legal father."

The air in the room shifts.

Kon can hear Superman physically recoil.

Tim huffs out a breath, his composure cracking just a little. "How will that look, Clark?"

Superman doesn’t answer.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, the room goes completely, eerily silent.

Tim, now back to his usual level of calculated calm, smoothly continues, as if he hadn’t just verbally body-slammed Superman in front of the entire League.

"Now, if you all are interested in his actual character, I have managed to hack into every business and public area that had cameras in places where we—or he—visited and pull over 400 hours of footage of Kon being a normal, everyday person. A good person. A teenager."

Tim’s voice is even and steady, but there’s a slight sharpness to it, the underlying bite of someone who knows they’re right and doesn’t appreciate being questioned.

"We can all sit down and play that now." he continues, "or I can send each and every one of you this footage for you to review at your own leisure. I’m sure there are moments when he’s a bit rude, a bit too cocky, or just a brat. But he’s a teenager. He’s human. The vast majority of what you’ll find is just him being a person."

There’s a noticeable reaction from someone in the room—a sharp choked sound, like one of the League members really doesn’t want to sift through 400 hours of footage just to confirm that, yeah, Kon is a person.

Tim ignores it.

Instead, he turns to Barry Allen.

"Flash." he says, tone clipped but polite, "I’ve made sure there’s a speed setting that’s much faster than normal but still clear—not distorted. If you want, you can look through all of it in under ten minutes right now. Not because you aren’t fast enough, obviously, but because the technology itself wouldn’t normally be able to keep up with you."

Barry huffs out a quiet laugh, eyes glinting with amusement.

"The kid’s good." he says, shaking his head slightly. "Alright. I binge-watch bad reality TV sometimes, so this won’t be any different. I figure everyone here will take my word for what I see, right?"

The League doesn’t need to answer. Of course, they will.

Barry Allen is many things—a jokester, a chatterbox, a man with a questionable diet—but a liar? Never.

The room falls into a tense silence as Barry starts speed-watching the footage. There’s the quiet shuffling of paper as some League members continue to skim through Tim’s massive dossier, still absorbing the information. Martian Manhunter breaks the silence once, his voice steady and calm.

"I agree with Red Vulture."

That alone makes people listen.

J’onn doesn’t speak lightly.

"From what I have seen in the footage and the brief glimpse I received inside of him, I have no reason to believe the child Kon is dangerous." he says. "He is not a threat."

It’s said with certainty. With finality.

Tim doesn’t relax, but Kon—listening from downstairs—does.

Because J’onn is a telepath. He literally knows Kon isn’t lying about who he is. He knows Kon isn’t a threat. And if J’onn vouches for him, that means something. That means a lot.

More papers shuffle. More unspoken agreements settle into the room.

Then, finally, Barry stops.

He leans back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he gestures toward Tim.

"The Hyena Kid’s cute."

Tim visibly stiffens.

"And a damn flirt with this one." Barry adds, still grinning as he jerks a thumb at Tim.

Tim’s entire body language shifts—his back going rigid, ears reddening slightly despite the stone-faced expression he’s trying to maintain.

Kon, listening in, immediately cackles.

(Oh, this is good. This is so good. Tim’s going to be so mad.)

Barry, clearly enjoying himself, leans forward again, voice lighter now, easier.

"He also has a heart of gold, even if he’s a sassy little brat. I see no issue with him working in Gotham—hell, he might even bring some light to that city. Less moody than the other heroes over there."

That gets a few chuckles from the room. The tension finally starts to ease.

And yet—

Superman is still the only one who hasn’t spoken.

Still sitting there, silent.

Still not fully convinced.

But everyone else is in agreement.

Tim barely has the time to sigh before he’s hit with the exhaustion of it all, the kind that settles into his bones like he’s just gone toe-to-toe with half of Gotham’s rogue gallery in one night. He claps his hands together, forcefully, if only to ground himself for a second.

"Very good." he says, exhaling sharply as he straightens his spine. He’s still got work to do, after all, and if he lets himself feel even a second of relief, he’s going to collapse right here in the damn conference room. "Now, I’m going to go finish updating the security system. Batman—"

Tim turns, expression flat.

"—Can you please have a talk with Superman? He’s still pretty clearly not convinced, but you’ve worked with me and Kon before. You can tell him from experience."

There’s a definite edge to Tim’s tone. Not rude, not outright dismissive, but sharp enough to be pointed. He’s not asking so much as he’s assigning a task. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he doesn’t care if Batman has issues with being thrown under the bus. Batman can fight a bus and win.

Batman, at least, sees the necessity of it.

He nods once, the simple act enough to cement the decision.

Kon, still eavesdropping like a champ from below, grins.

Clark, meanwhile, shrinks a little as batman approaches.

Tim, for his part, doesn’t even bother to check if Clark changes his mind. Doesn’t care. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. The majority of the League is already on Kon’s side. Superman can sulk all he wants, but he’s outnumbered.

And that’s enough.

So Tim leaves.

Walks right back downstairs with the intention of getting back to work—because somebody has to keep The league’s security system from being an absolute disaster.

But the second he steps onto the lower floor, he doesn’t even get a chance to process what’s happening before he’s bodied.

Full tackle-hug.

He makes an undignified noise as Kon tackles him in a hug, arms wrapping around him like a damn vice. They don’t hit the ground—because, for all his dumbassery, Kon’s got insane reflexes Kon catches them mid-motion, keeping them hovering, bodies just inches from the ground.

Tim startles.

"Kon—?"

He doesn’t get a response.

Not in words.

Instead, he gets a mouthful of Kon’s enthusiasm, because in his absolute state of impressed disbelief, the dumbass completely forgets the ask-before-kissing rule.

Which means Tim is suddenly dealing with an overexcited clone making out with him like he just saved his life.

Technically, he did.

Not from actual death, maybe, but from being erased. From being treated like less than human.

And for Kon? That’s the same thing.

Tim barely has time to register what’s happening before Kon’s mouth is on his, hot and firm and very, very pleased with himself.

The kiss is brief in terms of what Kon thinks is brief at least, Tim and him have a very different definition—because Tim is so shocked that he freezes up for half a second and then fails when he can’t breath, and Kon, despite being a total idiot sometimes, actually pays attention to that kind of thing. He pulls back almost immediately, blue eyes wide with excitement, and he’s already talking before Tim can even get a word in.

"Dude, that was so dope!" Kon exclaims, still grinning like an absolute lunatic. "Like, straight-up, you just owned the entire League! And Bats? You threw Bats under the bus! And not even in a bad way, you just, like, flipped the situation on its head and let Bats do the work for you! That’s some genius-level shit, dude. I mean, I always knew you were a total mastermind, but, like—damn! I think I actually fell a little more in love with you back there."

Tim stares.

He hasn’t processed everything yet.

Kon kissed him.

Kon just kissed him in the middle of his absolute post-battle ranting session, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HALL OF JUSTICE. Sure only the sever room but still.

He’s pretty sure Kon is still talking—probably saying something ridiculous and dramatic about how Tim is the best thing to ever happen to him and how he’s the smartest and coolest boyfriend in the universe, but Tim’s brain is still catching up.

"—and the way you totally shut Clark down? Dude, that was so hot. I mean, not that you aren’t always hot—because, obviously, you are, I’m not blind—but like. Strategic hotness. Tactical hotness. That’s a thing."

Tim just sighs, at least he’s not trying to make out with him anymore, not like Tim doesn’t like that but not in public even if they are alone, privacy is a thing Kon.

Oh god wait no it’s not, not here where like a lot of people have super hearing and just hear Kon make out with him.

They are not alone.

Sure, no one is in the room, but Tim has been around superheroes long enough to know that privacy is a lie.

Super hearing. Super hearing.

There are at least five people upstairs who could have heard every single second of that.

Oh god.

Tim is going to jump off a building.

Maybe Bruce was right, maybe he really should carry more grappling hooks,

TO STRANGLE HIMSELF WITH!

Kon, still grinning like an absolute dumbass, finally seems to notice the look on Tim’s face.

"Yo." Kon says, concern slipping in for a split second. "You good? You look like you just found out your entire search history got leaked."

Tim stares at him, eyes slowly narrowing.

"Super hearing, Kon." he says, flat.

Kon blinks.

Tim watches it happen.

The slow, torturous realization seeps into his face.

"…Oh." Kon says.

Tim nods, grim.

"…Oh." Kon says again, a little more horrified.

Tim just gives him a look.

And then.

Because he’s an asshole.

Because Tim had to suffer through this realization, and now so does Kon—

"So." he says, calm, calculated, watching as the horror truly sets in.

"How do you think Batman feels about you calling me ‘tactically hot’, because someone is going to tell him."

--

Kon sits cross-legged in the air, hovering as Tim finishes up his security updates, his fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced ease. The server room is quiet, except for the occasional beep of a processed command and the low hum of machinery. For the first time in the last hour, Tim is actually relaxed.

Everything went way better than expected—Clark, for all his initial distrust, wasn’t a bad guy, just… too burned by Luthor to see past the word "clone" at first. But Batman? Batman knew better. And Clark trusted Batman. Kon is relaying the conversation to Tim.

It was fine.

Tim exhales, finally closing his laptop, feeling a rare sense of victory.

Until—

"Okay, so like… I don’t wanna kill the vibe or anything." Kon starts, scratching the back of his head, "but, uh. Captain Marvel just ratted us out."

Tim freezes.

His heart stops.

His eyes narrow, like if he glares hard enough, reality will somehow undo itself.

"…What."

Kon winces. "Yeah, uh. he kinda—y’know, told Bats what I did … in detail and some over exaggeration. And, uh. What I said."

Tim doesn’t move. "What you said."

"Yeah." Kon says, voice halfway between sheepish and terrified. "About you being tactically hot and, y’know, how I think I fell a little more in love with you back there."

Tim slowly turns to face him, expression blank.

"And Batman’s reaction?" I mean it can’t be that bad right, batman already knows they are dating.

Before Kon can answer, a furious roar echoes through the halls, loud enough that even Tim, with his normal human hearing, picks up every single syllable.

"HE DID WHAT?!"

Tim snaps into action instantly.

He doesn’t think— he leaps, launching himself into Kon’s arms like his life depends on it. Because it does.

"JUMP OUT THE WINDOW AND FLY IF YOU WANT TO LIVE!"

Kon panics.

He does not argue.

There is zero hesitation as he blasts through the window, glass shattering behind them, sending them soaring into the open air.

Tim clings on for dear life, and it’s not like he doesn’t like flying, because he does, but this is not his preferred method of escape.

Especially when a batarang whips past them, barely missing Kon’s head.

"Jesus—!" Kon yelps, dodging another. "Dude, he’s actually trying to kill me!"

"He won’t kill you." Tim mutters, glancing down at the furious shadow standing by the shattered window.

Another batarang flies.

"Okay, maybe maim." Tim amends.

Kon whimpers.

Tim tilts his head back up. "Fly to the Manor." he commands, voice firm, absolute.

"What?! We’re gonna run straight into his lair?!"

"Not his lair." Tim corrects. "We need Alfred."

Kon squints. "Oh. Yeah, okay, that actually makes sense."

The moment Kon touches down on Wayne Manor’s front lawn, they both sprint inside, not even bothering to be subtle about it.

Alfred barely even looks surprised when they come barreling in, Tim panting, Kon wide-eyed and on the verge of an anxiety attack.

"Master Drake." Alfred greets dryly. "Master Langstrom. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Tim, still catching his breath, throws up his hands.

"Kon kissed me." he announces, because speed is key. "IN PRIVATE. And someone with super hearing— decided to inform Batman. Now Bruce is mad. Probably very mad. We are here for protection."

Alfred’s expression remains neutral.

"Master Batson?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Tim whines. "YES, OF COURSE IT WAS BILLY. Who else would do this? He’s too young to understand that maybe snitching to people’s kinda-dads is a bad idea."

Kon, nodding vigorously, adds in his defence, "Also, Tim only had to save me from getting erased to get me all flustered! So, like, it’s totally not my fault."

Alfred hums, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms.

A long pause.

And then—

A chuckle.

"Yes, Master Drake." Alfred says, tone amused. "He is only eleven, I suppose. I will deal with Master Wayne. If it is as you say, that was clearly a private moment."

Tim and Kon both exhale, relieved.

Alfred will handle Bruce.

They will live another day.

But Kon needs to say something else.

Kon lets out another exaggerated whine and leans down, despite the fact that he’s practically eye-level with Alfred, and waves him closer with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. Tim watches, utterly baffled as Kon cups his hands around his mouth and whispers something hurriedly into Alfred’s ear. Whatever it is, Alfred merely hums, neither startled nor impressed, and Tim is left standing there, arms crossed, waiting for some kind of explanation.

Alfred, ever composed, straightens and adjusts his cuffs before giving Kon a pointed look. "I think, unfortunately, you will have to say that out loud for Master Drake to hear. Otherwise, should Master Wayne bring it up, a shocked reaction from Master Drake will only aggravate him further."

Kon lets out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’s just been sentenced to death.

"Ugh—okay, fine." he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tim, Billy lied."

Tim’s brows furrow.

Kon fidgets. "He, uh—okay, so what he actually said was—" Kon clears his throat, puts on his best annoyingly accurate impression of a wide-eyed, innocent kid, and mimics, "'Kon just tackled Tim and shoved his tongue down his throat!'"

Tim’s entire brain stops working.

Kon throws his arms up. "Like—what the hell?! Where does an eleven-year-old even learn to say stuff like that?! And I didn’t do that, right? Right?! I mean, I’m not crazy, I just kissed you, right? I swear I didn't—did I black out?!"

His voice is getting higher, panic leaking in, and Tim has to physically grab him by the shoulders to stop him from spiraling.

"Kon." Tim says, voice flat. "You would have known if you did that, because I would have taken you down myself."

Kon stiffens.

His mouth opens—then closes—then opens again, because holy crap, he knows for a fact Tim is not joking. The scariest part isn’t even what Tim said, but how calmly he said it. Like it was just a simple statement of fact.

Kon, who has fought gods and monsters, gulps.

"O-kay, so. I definitely didn’t do that." Kon says, because he values his own life. "I mean, if anything—" he pauses, then shrugs, "—if one of us had to do that, I’d want it to be you doing that to me."

Tim inhales sharply through his nose.

What the hell, Kon.

That is a freak thing to say. That is not normal boyfriend behavior. That is not helping.

Kon realizes this belatedly. "Wait—no, that sounds weird, what I meant was—"

"Good boy, I believe you." Tim cuts him off, patting him lightly on the head before he can make it any worse.

Kon brightens instantly. His shoulders relax. His whole body visibly unwinds. Tim watches the shift with something almost fond. He doesn’t say it, but he does actually appreciate the sentiment. It’s stupid, but it’s Kon’s kind of stupid.

And then—

The air changes.

There’s a seething, dark presence in the room.

It’s instant.

A drop in temperature.

A chill up their spines.

Tim barely has time to react—Kon’s instincts flare, ready to book it—

But Alfred is faster.

The second Bruce steps into the room, radiating an absolutely terrifying aura, Alfred is already intercepting, redirecting, controlling the situation like a seasoned general. He smoothly steps in front of them and starts guiding Bruce toward the den, voice calm and steady.

"Master Wayne." Alfred begins, tone firm but patient, the way one might speak to an overly aggressive Doberman. "As it turns out, you have been misinformed on some key details regarding what actually happened."

Bruce’s glare could probably burn holes through steel.

Alfred remains unfazed. "We will be sitting down in the den to discuss this like adults. I have already heard their side, and I believe Master Batson may not be the most reliable source for this particular situation."

Kon nods furiously. "Yeah, what he said—not reliable!"

Bruce’s eyes narrow.

"And." Alfred continues, undeterred, "I have also contacted Master Dick to come help mediate."

Silence.

Kon blinks.

Tim and Bruce both cringe.

Because oh god, not Dick.

Of all the possible outcomes, of all the disastrous consequences, they both know this is actually the best-case scenario in terms of damage control.

Which also means they now have to endure this entire ordeal in front of Dick Grayson.

And neither of them want that.

Tim physically restrains himself from groaning.

Kon actually whimpers.

Bruce just exhales sharply through his nose.

They are all going to suffer.

--

Dick is already sitting in the den when they enter, looking mildly confused but mostly just waiting for some kind of explanation. He’s slouched on one of the chairs, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, radiating the same kind of casual confidence he always does. But the second he sees Bruce—seething, barely contained fury practically rolling off him in waves—his whole posture shifts. His back straightens, his expression sharpens, and whatever easygoing demeanor he had before evaporates on the spot.

Kon and Tim freeze.

Bruce doesn’t even look at them. His focus is entirely on Dick now, and before Tim can even open his mouth to defend himself, Bruce is already laying out exactly what Billy told him.

Tim doesn’t even have time to process what’s being said before Dick’s entire body tenses, his jaw locks, and his expression goes cold.

Alfred, somehow predicting this reaction, immediately steps between Dick and Kon.

And it’s a good thing he does.

Because Dick looks ready to beat Kon within an inch of his life.

“You—” Dick’s voice is low, barely restrained, but sharp. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “You took advantage of my baby brother?”

Kon immediately pales. “WHAT?! No—dude, what the hell?! I would never!”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just stares, like he’s waiting for confirmation.

Alfred, ever composed, raises a hand. “Master Grayson, please. I suggest we wait until Master Drake and Master Langstrom have had the opportunity to explain their side. From what I have been told, Master Batson may not be the most reliable source of information regarding this particular matter.”

Dick glances at Alfred, still tense, but he trusts him enough to hesitate.

Tim, not wasting the opportunity, steps forward.

“Okay, first of all, let’s clear this up." he says, voice firm but calm. “Yes, Kon kissed me. Yes, there was a hug. But there was definitely no tongue. No force. Nothing remotely inappropriate. Just a normal, completely consensual kiss between two people who like each other.”

Kon nods furiously. “Yeah! Exactly! Like—hello?! I would never—I mean, c’mon!”

The second he speaks, both Waynes in the room turn to glare at him.

Kon immediately shuts up but mumbles something about how Tim could kill him.

Tim continues.

“And for the record, it wasn’t some gross, weird thing." he adds. “Kon was flustered because I saved him. He was rambling about how much he loves me and how he thinks I’m smart.”

Dick’s expression shifts.

It’s subtle at first, but the more Tim talks, the more Dick starts to relax. His shoulders lose some of their rigidity, the tension in his jaw eases, and the anger in his eyes begins to fade.

By the time Tim finishes, Dick is looking at him instead of Kon, arms uncrossed, body language looser.

“Okay…” Dick sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Alright. That actually sounds like normal teenage flirting.”

He pauses.

Frowns.

Thinks about it for a second.

“…Actually, that’s probably a lot tamer than anything I did at fifteen.”

Bruce’s head snaps toward him.

His face contorts into pure horror.

Tim physically bites his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Kon, completely missing the shift in atmosphere, whispers, “Wait, what did you do at fifteen?”

Dick just grins.

Bruce looks like he wants to die.

Dick, ever the showman, leans back into the couch with a smug little smirk, eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that has always spelled trouble for Bruce. "Alright, B, if you're so concerned about Tim being 'corrupted' by his boyfriend, maybe we should take a walk down memory lane." he says, his tone infuriatingly casual as he stretches out his legs. "I mean, Kon and Tim are practically saints compared to what I got up to at fifteen."

Bruce’s eyes narrow, a clear warning, but Dick just keeps going, launching into one of his most scandalous teenage escapades. He tells them about the time he got caught sneaking out of a gala with two girls on either arm—one the daughter of a senator and the other a crime boss’s niece—just because he thought it would be fun to cause a scene. Then there was the time he let a reporter sneak him into a club, thinking it was just a place to dance, only to realize it was an underground speakeasy for Gotham’s elite criminals. Or the infamous incident in Paris, where he’d sweet-talked his way into a masquerade ball, only to find out halfway through making out with a mysterious beauty that she was, in fact, a wanted jewel thief.

Kon is eating this up, eyes wide, grinning like a kid hearing the coolest bedtime story of his life. “Dude, that’s dope. You were, like, a legend.” He pauses. “Wait. Does this mean Tim has to step up his game? ‘Cause I dunno if I’m comfortable with him going full ‘international man of mystery.’ I like my boyfriend alive.” He elbows Tim playfully, who just groans and rubs his temples, because of course this is how Kon reacts.

Tim, for his part, is horrified, not because of what Dick did, but because Bruce is currently looking like he’s going to pass out from sheer stress. His skin has gone pale, like he’s watching his entire life’s work unravel before his eyes.

"You did what?" Bruce finally chokes out, staring at Dick like he no longer recognizes his own son.

Dick, completely unapologetic, just grins and shrugs. “What can I say? I was a menace. But hey, I turned out fine. No permanent damage.”

Bruce stares at him in sheer exhaustion, as if he’s recalculating his entire existence. "No permanent damage?" he repeats, rubbing his temples like he’s fighting off a migraine. "Dick. You got kidnapped seven times before you turned eighteen. I spent months cleaning up your messes, dealing with angry diplomats, corrupt cops, and the occasional vengeful ex." His eye twitches. "And you have the audacity to say no permanent damage?"

Dick’s grin only widens, because pissing Bruce off is a hobby at this point. "Hey, I was a charismatic kid. What can I say? People liked me."

Alfred, completely composed despite the absolute circus happening in his living room, clears his throat. His expression is neutral, but there's a distinct twinkle in his eye, like he's enjoying this way too much. "Well, it seems what Master Langstrom and Master Drake did is quite tame in comparison." he muses, ever the voice of reason.

Bruce, already halfway to a mental breakdown, groans and puts his head in his hands. "I cannot believe I’m saying this, but... Alfred’s right." He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and when he finally looks up, the anger has mostly been replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. "Fine. I overreacted. You two are—" He stops himself, like saying it physically pains him. "...not the worst thing I’ve had to deal with."

Tim lets out a relieved sigh, though he doesn’t fully relax until Bruce levels him with a look and says, "But we’re still going to have a conversation later. A serious one."

Kon, ever the master of good timing, raises a finger. "Question. Can I not be there? I feel like I might actually, uh, die if I have to sit through that talk."

Tim smacks him.

Dick, still enjoying this way too much, claps his hands together. "Well, now that we've settled that, who's up for ice cream? I think we all deserve some after that rollercoaster of emotions."

Bruce groans again.

--

Kon, being the ever-gracious and humble recipient of Bruce’s apology (and by humble, he means absolutely insufferable), takes full advantage of the situation. As soon as they step into the high-end Gotham ice cream parlor—one of those fancy places where the scoops cost way too much, and they probably use words like “artisanal” and “hand-churned” to justify it—he claps his hands together with obnoxious glee.

“Alright, boys." he announces, slinging an arm around Tim’s shoulders and grinning like he just won the lottery. “Tonight, we’re eating like kings. I want the biggest, baddest, dopest sundae on the menu. I want gold leaf, I want Belgian chocolate, I want the ice cream equivalent of a luxury sports car.”

Dick, who has long since embraced the chaos that is Kon laughs and throws an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, leaning in with a smirk. “Well, B, you did almost impale the poor guy with a batarang. I think it’s only fair that you foot the bill for his emotional damages.”

Bruce doesn’t even flinch. He just gives Dick a long, dead-eyed stare that radiates the purest hatred for everything in this moment before sighing and pulling out his black card, because of course he has one. “Fine." he grumbles. “Get whatever you want.”

Kon fist-pumps. “YES.” Then, in the ultimate power move, he grabs a menu, squints at the most ridiculous, overpriced thing on the list, and points. “That. The ‘Royal Gotham Decadence.’”

Tim, who has actually read the menu and seen the price tag, chokes. “Kon, that’s seventy-five dollars. For ice cream.”

Kon blinks at him. “Yeah. And?”

Tim glares at him. “Do you have any shame?”

Kon gives him his biggest, most innocent blue-eyed puppy look. “Nope.” Then he grins. “C’mon, babe, live a little.”

Bruce, despite himself, rubs at his temples and mutters, “This is my penance.”

Dick does not help. He high-fives Kon and immediately orders the second most expensive thing on the menu, just to be difficult.

Tim, grumbling under his breath about how all of his loved ones are ridiculous, gets something normal, and Alfred, ever the picture of grace, simply orders a cup of Earl Grey gelato.

Once they’re all seated at their booth, Kon leans over toward Bruce with that stupid cocky grin still plastered on his face. “Y’know, B." he says, “if you ever wanna apologize to me again, I could really go for a car.”

Bruce does not dignify that with a response.

Dick does, though. “Oh, dude, aim higher. Bruce bought me a motorcycle when I was, like, sixteen. At the rate you’re going, you could probably get the Batmobile in a year.”

Bruce glares.

Tim looks exhausted.

The ice cream arrives, and Kon, being the menace he is, digs into his ridiculous sundae with zero regrets, taking the most exaggerated bite possible before leaning back with a dramatic groan. “Ohhh, man. This is the good stuff. Y’know, I get it now. Rich people really do have better food.”

Tim elbows him. “You act like you haven’t eaten at the manor before.”

“Yeah, but this." Kon waves his spoon around like he’s making a grand speech, “is different. This is guilt ice cream. It’s so much sweeter.”

Bruce, regretting everything, just shakes his head and takes a slow, long-suffering bite of his own ice cream.

Dick snickers. “So, does this mean you officially forgive Bruce for the whole ‘attempted batarang homicide’ thing?”

Kon dramatically sighs, as if this is some great burden upon his soul. “I mean, I guess. This is a pretty solid apology. But if he ever wants to make sure I don’t hold a grudge, he could always—”

“No." Bruce says flatly.

Kon grins.

Tim, for the first time all night, actually relaxes, because despite all the chaos, this is... nice. He’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not waiting to be told he shouldn’t have nice things, that he shouldn’t have a boyfriend who adores him, friends who make him laugh, or even something as simple as a night out eating stupidly overpriced ice cream.

Oswald has been helping him believe he deserves things. But maybe... maybe he already does.

And right now, as Kon sneaks a bite from his cup, as Dick keeps egging Bruce on, as Alfred hums in amusement—Tim finally lets himself believe it.

Chapter Text

The ballroom is obnoxiously extravagant, even by Gotham’s usual overindulgent standards. The chandeliers overhead are dripping with crystal, the floral arrangements are towering , and the champagne is being poured into gold-rimmed glasses by servers who look like they’d rather be literally anywhere else. The entire event is for Mrs. Selanto’s charity , which, based on the way she’s parading around in a designer gown that probably cost more than most people’s yearly salary, is just another excuse for the ultra-wealthy to pat themselves on the back while flashing their wealth .

Tim, standing perfectly still with a glass of sparkling water in his hand, feels a familiar tightness in his chest. The kind that comes from knowing how these nights are supposed to go. Smile. Nod. Be helpful. Don’t cause problems. Jack Drake may be gone, but the expectations he drilled into Tim’s very bones still linger like an old wound that hasn’t quite healed.

Oswald had told him plainly that he didn’t have to be here. He’d even gone as far as to say, “You’re under no obligation to suffer through a dull night just because I have to, my dear boy.” But Tim had come anyway, because something in him still insisted that he should . That he needed to be useful .

Kon, on the other hand, has zero reason to be here. No business ties, no societal obligations—nothing. And yet, here he is, standing next to Tim in a suit that is technically acceptable for the event, but only because Langstrom who is no fashion icon or elite either, had physically restrained him from showing up in his usual leather jacket and sunglasses combo.

“I just don’t want you to suffer alone, dude." Kon had said when Tim questioned why he was willingly walking into a Gotham gala, of all things. Which, in Kon language , really meant, “I’m going to be the worst little menace possible to make you laugh, and also eat my weight in tiny fancy foods.”

Tim is counting down the minutes before either of those happen.

Sure enough, within ten minutes , Kon has already cleared an entire tray of hors d'oeuvres . Tim watches, in mild horror, as Kon catches the eye of a passing server , flashes his big blue eyes , and grabs another handful of whatever expensive canapés they’re serving. The poor server looks completely bewildered , like he doesn’t know if he should stop him or not.

Kon, mouth full , leans in toward Tim and stage whispers , “Dude. These little fancy sandwich things? Fire. ”

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kon, that’s foie gras.”

Kon shrugs, still chewing . “Don’t know what that is, but it slaps.”

Tim sighs and does not explain that it’s duck liver, because Kon is very much a Kon , and if he finds out he’s eating liver, he might get weird about it .

Meanwhile, Oswald is deep in conversation with Mrs. Selanto and a few other high-profile business people, keeping that perfect balance of charm and calculation . He doesn’t command a room in the same way Bruce Wayne does—where the sheer presence of him shifts the atmosphere—but he knows how to maneuver it . Knows how to tilt a conversation just the right way to benefit him.

Tim watches him out of the corner of his eye, feeling... weirdly grounded . Oswald doesn’t expect him to schmooze or play the game. He lets Tim exist in his space without demanding anything in return. It’s— nice .

Which is why it is exactly when Tim is starting to feel comfortable that Kon, because he is the worst , decides to strike. Well not the worst, Kon has the good grace to wait until Oswald is done with all the business talk with Mrs Selanto and talking to someone else.

Kon grabs a flute of champagne off a passing tray, downs it in one go , and then, in the most insufferable voice possible , loudly says, “Ahh, exquisite! Simply delightful! A toast to the bourgeoise!”

Tim chokes.

A few important people turn to stare at them , including Mrs. Selanto herself, who looks thoroughly baffled .

Oswald, for his part, does not react immediately . He simply turns his head, looks directly at Tim , and raises an eyebrow in a way that very clearly says , “Are you going to deal with this, or shall I?”

Tim grabs Kon’s wrist immediately. “We are leaving.”

Kon, grinning, lets himself be dragged away. “Dude, chill, I’m just—”

“No. No. You are the worst.”

Kon laughs and nudges Tim’s shoulder with his own. “Okay, but you’re smiling, though. ”

Tim huffs, but— yeah. He is.

Tim isn’t entirely sure what makes him look up as they’re leaving the gala, but something in his peripheral catches his attention, and years of instinct tell him it’s worth investigating. His gaze flicks upward, scanning the sleek, glass exterior of Mrs. Selanto’s third inner-city penthouse—because, of course, the woman needs more than one luxury residence in the same city .

And there, stealthy but not quite enough , is Selina Kyle scaling the building like it’s just another Tuesday night .

Tim notices.

Bruce notices.

And—because she’s very good at what she does —Catwoman notices that they noticed.

There’s a moment of pause, a beat where all three of them just stare at each other.

Selina lifts her free hand, gives them a playful little wave , then continues climbing, as if daring them to do something about it.

Tim considers it. Considers the fact that she’s going up , which means she’s not going after the charity money. If anything, she’s probably targeting Mrs. Selanto’s vast and ridiculous collection of overpriced jewelry , which—honestly? Who cares?

Would Mrs. Selanto even notice if some of her gaudy, diamond-encrusted nonsense went missing? Maybe. Maybe rich people were weird about their stuff, like Scrooge McDuck knowing when a single penny was missing from his gold hoard or whatever it was he swam in. But was it worth the effort to stop her? Was it worth Batman’s time?

Probably not .

Tim has way bigger things to worry about when he’s Red Vulture . And if anything , Mrs. Selanto getting robbed might actually be good for Gotham. She’d hire private security, which would create more jobs , and if she hired a private investigator , that’d be one less P.I. struggling to make rent. Win-win.

Unfortunately, Bruce does not share Tim’s philosophy.

Bruce is already tensing, already mentally planning the best route to intercept. Because of course he is . Because Batman does not pick and choose battles; Batman fights every battle. Even when it’s a pointless one .

Tim resists the urge to sigh. You waste time stopping a petty jewel thief , and you miss the real problems .

So, before Bruce can disappear and Batman can start bat-grappling up the building , Tim goes back to his task of stopping Kon from drawing anymore attention.

“We’re going downstairs." Tim says abruptly, grabbing Kon’s sleeve before Bruce can argue. “See you later.”

Kon blinks, mouth half-open , clearly about to ask what’s going on, but Tim is already dragging him away before he can get an answer.

They make it to the casino lobby , which is way louder than the gala above, flashing lights and slot machines ringing out in every direction . Tim barely registers any of it, because across the room , he spots a dessert bar .

Not just any dessert bar—a buffet-style dessert bar for fifteen dollars .

Tim immediately beelines toward it.

Kon follows, mildly intrigued . “Wait. You dragged me down here for desserts? ”

“No I dragged you down here before we got kicked out but also casino food in Gotham is cheap so people stay longer and gamble more." Tim says absently, already reaching for a bowl. “They don’t care that we’re underage as long as we’re paying customers.”

Kon grins , already grabbing a tray . “Okay, dope. You actually had a good idea for once.”

Tim ignores the insult and gets to work. His first bowl is modest— Soft served vanilla ice cream with some sprinkles, a brownie, and some jelly on the side. Simple. Classic. Reliable.

Kon, on the other hand—

Tim looks over, and his entire soul leaves his body .

Kon’s bowl is a monstrosity . A terrifying combination of vanilla and chocolate ice cream , absolutely drowned in toppings. Every single topping available. Hot fudge, caramel, crushed cookies, sprinkles , gummy bears, sour gummies, peanuts , actual candy bars chopped up on top— everything . It’s like a five-year-old was given unlimited access to a sundae bar and no parental supervision .

Tim just stares at him, horrified.

Kon grins, completely unbothered . “What?”

Tim gestures vaguely at the abomination in his hands. “That’s… you’re actually gonna eat that? ”

“Hell yeah, dude.” Kon scoops up a giant, sickeningly colorful bite and shoves it into his mouth, looking obnoxiously satisfied.

Tim watches, equal parts disgusted and fascinated .

“…You’re a menace." he mutters.

Kon grins wider . “And you’re boring. That’s like, the most bland ice cream bowl I’ve ever seen.”

Tim glares , shoving a spoonful of his own dessert into his mouth out of spite . It’s good. Classic. Simple. Nothing like the chaotic garbage pile Kon is currently shovelling into his face .

Still.

They both go back for seconds .

Chapter Text

Oswald Cobblepot had been exceptionally busy these past few months. Busier than usual. Ever since Kon showed up, things had been moving at an even quicker pace, not that it was a bad thing. It had just meant that his already full schedule had been stretched to its limit —sealing a business deal with Mrs. Selanto, ensuring that Drake Industries was finally stable , and restructuring it in such a way that he and Tim would never have to worry about it again .

That, at least, was done . The company was fixed , its profits were secure , and with the changes Tim had implemented, it would practically run itself for the foreseeable future.

And really, that was impressive. Oswald had always wondered how a man as hopelessly dense as Jack Drake had managed to produce a son as brilliant as Tim. The answer, of course, was obvious: Janet Drake.

It had always been her business, her sharp mind keeping things afloat, not Jack’s. He had just happened to be the one who kept the family name—and then he’d managed to squander everything anyway.

Oswald, for all his pragmatism, could acknowledge that Janet had not been a good mother. But at least, in the end, she had recognized that. She had tried to be better. That was more than a lot of parents could say. But maybe that was just Oswald making excuses, painting over the past with the sentimental lens of someone who had come to see Janet as more than just a business associate. She had, in the final years of her life, become something of a friend, and Oswald didn’t have many of those.

But all of that was in the past now.

The present was what mattered. And in the present, Oswald finally had time to step away from the city for a bit.

Tim had been so focused lately, completely absorbed in his role as Red Vulture, and while Oswald could respect his dedication to crime-fighting, the boy was still a child. A very responsible, serious child, but a child nonetheless. And children deserved breaks.

Tim, of course, would not take one voluntarily. He needed to be tricked into it.

And that’s where Kon came in.

Kon and Tim had been inseparable since the moment the Kryptonian had blasted into their lives. And while Oswald found Kon’s loud and reckless tendencies to be a little grating, he had to admit—the boy had been good for Tim. Kon was helping Tim loosen up, helping him realize that he didn’t have to bear the weight of the world alone.

Oswald wasn’t a fool. He knew that one day, Kon would want to leave Gotham. He was a boy with powers beyond comprehension—a kid who could fly, for god’s sake. Eventually, he’d want to see the world. But for now, he was here, and Oswald could work with that.

So he would nudge things along.

"Kon hasn’t actually been out of the city much, has he?" Oswald would mention it casually, offhandedly, as if it were just an observation. Because of course Tim, who cared so deeply for his friends, would immediately take notice of that fact. And, of course, Tim would immediately insist on fixing it.

That’s how Oswald would get them out of Gotham inner city for a bit.

A trip to the estate outside the city, away from the smog and the rooftops—a chance for Kon to stretch his wings, metaphorically, in a wide-open space where no one would care if he went flying at Mach speed. And a chance for Tim to relax under the guise of showing Kon around.

There was so much to show, after all.

The aviary, filled with Both his own and Tim’s rescued birds, which Oswald knew the boy cared about deeply, even if he rarely spoke about it.

The farm, sprawling and peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos of Gotham.

Oswald could already picture it. Tim would pretend he was only doing this for Kon, but by the end of it, he’d have let himself enjoy it too.

And Oswald, for all his reputation as a cold, calculating businessman, would take a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

--

Oswald let out a gravelly, amused laugh, shaking his head as he listened to the absolute nonsense unfolding in the car. As annoying as the super brat could be—loud, cocky, constantly shoving himself into situations like he belonged there—Oswald had developed something of a soft spot for him. God knows why. Maybe it was because the kid was just as much of a lost cause as Tim had been, albeit in a different way. Or maybe it was because, despite the constant barrage of ridiculous 90s slang, there was something endearing about the way he refused to let Tim suffer alone.

Even now, the brat was moaning like he’d just been personally betrayed because Tim had chosen to sit in the front seat instead of next to him in the back.

"This is so lame." he grumbled, flopping back dramatically against the seat as if the very act of being separated from Tim was a personal offense.

Oswald rolled his eyes. Teenagers.

In fairness, the backseat had a new occupant today, which had probably thrown the kid off. Kirk Langstrom, the bat scientist extraordinaire, was slumped in the seat beside him, still scrolling on his tablet but looking half-asleep. Oswald had found him passed out in the underground lab earlier that day, slumped over his work in the middle of a chemical spill, and for a brief moment, Oswald had seriously considered kicking the man to make sure he was alive.

Honestly, the fact that Kirk hadn’t accidentally poisoned himself by now was miraculous. Tim had explained something about him working on cancer treatments—or was it something about neurological disorders? Oswald didn’t know. Didn’t care. The important thing was that he was funding it, and while, yes, he had every intention of making a profit, it was also about sticking it to big pharma. If he could sell life-saving treatments under the table without some corporate parasite taking a massive cut, then why the hell not?

But right now, Kirk Langstrom was not working on a cure for anything. Right now, he was drowsily patting his son’s head, barely glancing up from his tablet as he mumbled, “I don’t mind switching if you want to sit back here, Tim.”

Unfortunately, that meant Super Brat took the opportunity to start whining again.

“Dude, c’mon, switch seats." he groaned, leaning forward and shamelessly draping himself over Tim’s shoulders, partially hanging over the front seat as he exaggerated a pout. “This sucks. I need my emotional support bro.”

Tim scoffed, shoving at him half-heartedly but not actually making him move. “And you say you aren’t a cuddle bug.”

Super Brat made a noise that was entirely undignified, somewhere between a splutter and a squawk, like he was offended on a deep, personal level.

“I’m not—!”

“You totally are.”

Oswald smirked, watching the exchange from the rearview mirror, and shook his head. This was every car ride with these two—Tim would be deadpan and unimpressed, and the other kid would be loud and clingy, and yet somehow they never actually separated from each other.

Not for the first time, Oswald wondered if Tim actually recognized what he had here. Tim was still getting used to the idea that he deserved things—things like comfort, like friendship, like someone choosing to stick around even when they weren’t obligated to.

But it was sinking in, slowly.

And if it took a dramatic, loud-mouthed, cuddle-obsessed super brat to help Tim realize that?

Oswald supposed he could tolerate it.

The moment Super Brat actually tried to climb into the front seat, Tim knew things were getting ridiculous. It wasn’t enough that he was whining, draping himself over the seat like some needy oversized dog—no, now he was physically trying to wedge himself into the non-existent space between Tim and the dashboard.

Tim, utterly unimpressed, planted both hands on his stupid giant hyena head and pushed him back with all the useless force of a human against a Kryptonian, scowling as he leaned away. "Quit it! You're distracting the driver! You want us to crash?"

He was mostly joking, but considering Oswald's questionable patience behind the wheel and the fact that they were already going well over the speed limit, it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Super Brat just huffed dramatically, flopping backward into the backseat like the biggest, most exaggerated teenager alive. "Dude, you have zero appreciation for the finer things in life."

Tim arched an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? And what’s that?"

"Me."

Tim laughed, shaking his head, because of course. "All because I chose to sit in the front and not cuddle you?"

"No, no, no, it’s the principle, Timmy." He sat up again, waving a hand in grand, exaggerated gestures like he was delivering some earth-shattering speech. "It’s the disrespect, the betrayal, the sheer lack of loyalty—"

"You’re not a war hero." Tim deadpanned, cutting him off.

"Yeah? Well, I’m not a cuddle bug either!"

Tim shot him a pointed look, and Langstrom, who had been half-listening up until now, let out an amused chuckle. "I am sorry to say, but all evidence points to you being one."

Super Brat groaned loudly, flopping back against Langstrom’s wings in absolute despair. "Daaaad!"

The second the word left his mouth, the car went completely silent.

Langstrom froze. Tim froze. Oswald, of all people, burst out laughing—a deep, gravelly, genuine laugh, the kind that was rarely heard.

Super Brat, blissfully unaware at first, just scowled at the sudden silence, confused as hell. "What? What’s so—?" He paused. His brain, which had the processing power of a Nokia from 1999, caught up.

Oh.

Oh.

He had just called Langstrom Dad.

The dawning horror on his face was priceless. Tim wished he had recorded it.

Langstrom, rather than letting him squirm in embarrassment, simply made a bat-like chirp, something high-pitched and happy, and then wrapped his wings around Super Brat in a bear hug before the poor guy could even think about escaping.

Super Brat groaned again, louder this time, but it was entirely fake. He absolutely leaned into it, letting himself get squished into a ridiculous amount of bat fluff. Somehow, despite having his own thick hyena-like fur, Langstrom’s wings were softer, and God, he hated that he liked it.

Tim, meanwhile, was laughing his ass off.

"Ohhhh, I see where you get it from now." he teased, smirking. "Didn’t know cuddle bug tendencies could be passed down by adoption."

Super Brat muffled a response into Langstrom’s wings, something that sounded suspiciously like a "shut up", but considering how content he looked, it wasn’t exactly convincing.

Oswald, still grinning, shook his head as he turned the wheel. “You lot are so damn weird.”

Tim hummed, still amused, and leaned back against the seat. “Yeah." he admitted, “but it’s kinda nice, huh?”

Oswald, surprisingly, didn’t argue.

--

The car pulls over at a familiar spot, a lookout nestled in the Gotham countryside, one of the rare places where the light pollution of the city doesn’t swallow the sky whole. It’s the same spot where Oswald had taken Tim the first time he brought him out to the estate—a memory that feels both recent and distant, like something lodged between a dream and a turning point.

Gotham State’s countryside is surprisingly beautiful, even in its eerie way. Dark green forests stretch out endlessly, touched by the faint glow of the Aurora Borealis that dances in the sky. The colors flicker across the heavens, green and violet and hints of gold, like someone spilled magical neon paint across the stars. It had been here last time too, the night Oswald had insisted Tim needed to breathe somewhere other than Gotham’s smog-choked skyline.

Kon, of course, is trying really hard to act unimpressed.

Tim doesn’t buy it for a second.

The guy’s traitorous tail gives him away, slamming excitedly against the seat, his entire body thrumming with barely contained energy. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Tim just watches for a second, amused, before shaking his head and snorting a laugh.

"You are so obvious." Tim mutters, opening the door and stepping out into the cold night air. The heater had kept the car nice and warm, but outside, winter bites at his skin. His breath fogs instantly, curling into the air like phantom whispers.

Instead of letting Kon pretend to be too cool for this, Tim opens the back door, leans in, and flicks him right on the nose.

The scandalized expression on Kon’s face is immediate and deeply exaggerated, as if Tim had just slapped his mother in broad daylight. "Bro!" he squawks, holding his nose like he’s been grievously wounded. "That was unprovoked!"

Tim smirks. "Was it?"

Kon glares, his blue eyes narrowing into something comically dramatic, and then, like an unholy force of nature, he scrambles out of the car with murderous intent.

Tim doesn’t even have time to regret his actions before Kon is gathering an ungodly mountain of snow, hands moving dangerously fast, his grin wide and villainous.

"Wait, wait, wait, hang on!" Tim yelps, dodging just as a boulder of snow is hurled at him. It explodes against the ground where he stood a second earlier. Kon is already forming another one, grinning like a maniac.

"You have brought this upon yourself, Timothy!"

Tim’s brain shifts into full survival mode. He dodges left, then right, narrowly avoiding another incoming snow missile. His boots skid over the icy ground, but his instincts are sharper than Kon’s brute force. He ducks behind the car, peeking over the roof just in time to see Kon grinning like a maniac, already preparing his next attack.

The snowball wars are, by all logic, a massacre—except Tim is too good at not getting hit. Every time Kon launches another round of frozen doom, Tim twists, ducks, and sidesteps, barely breaking a sweat while Kon hurls enough snow to bury a small village.

"Bro, stop dodging!" Kon complains, visibly agitated by Tim’s complete refusal to be hit even once.

"I don’t think I will." Tim calls back, voice smug, before nimbly flipping over the car hood to dodge another airborne chunk of ice.

Kon groans dramatically. "You’re ruining the fun!"

Tim grins, panting slightly from exertion, but he knows Kon has no real intention of stopping. He needs to end this in a way that guarantees his safety while also getting what he wants.

So he makes a choice.

Thankfully, Tim is both quick and strategic, and more importantly, he knows how to get what he wants. Dodging another avalanche-sized clump of snow, he leaps straight at Kon, wrapping his legs and arms around him like a koala.

"Here!" Tim yells, clinging for dear life. "You got your damn cuddles, cuddle boy!"

Kon actually fully laughs, head tipping back, his entire body shaking with genuine amusement. "Nooooo!" he groans, but he doesn’t even try to push Tim off. If anything, he tightens his grip, hands bracing Tim’s back instinctively.
Tim grins against Kon’s shoulder. "You gonna throw snow at me now?"

Kon huffs, still laughing but clearly defeated. "You win this round, you little menace. But next time—"

Tim doesn’t let him finish. He just smirks. "Yeah, yeah. Next time."

Tim, victorious, smirks against his shoulder.

"Can you fly us up?" Tim asks, snuggling closer for warmth. "I wanna get some really good shots."

Kon, still laughing and blushing, cannot and would not say no to Tim. Especially when it means he gets to show off.

"Alright, alright." Kon grins, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his grip on Tim. "Kon-Express, taking off!"

With effortless strength, he launches them both into the sky, cutting through the winter air with inhuman ease. Tim tightens his hold, but he’s not scared—not with Kon. He trusts him, even when they’re high above the trees, Gotham nothing but a distant glow behind them.

Tim pulls out his camera and starts snapping pictures of the sky, the auroras shimmering around them like living brushstrokes. Before Kon can even make some cocky remark, Tim spins the camera and starts taking photos of him instead.

"Bro, not fair!" Kon laughs, trying to squirm away without actually dropping Tim. "I wasn’t even ready!"

"Too bad." Tim just grins, snapping another perfectly timed shot of Kon’s wide grin and flushed cheeks, his stupidly perfect jawline against the winter sky.

Kon huffs. "You’re lucky I’m photogenic."

Tim snickers. "Oh, totally."

Not one to be outdone, Kon grabs his own phone—the one Tim had finally forced him to own after months of stealing Tim’s—and pulls Tim closer, making sure to get both of them in the frame.

"If we’re doing pictures, we’re doing them right, dude. Selfies included."

Tim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t fight it. They take several, Tim making his usual neutral expressions, Kon grinning like an idiot. One shot ends up with Tim looking vaguely exasperated, while Kon is laughing too hard to keep still.

Honestly, Tim kind of loves it.

Flying high above the world, the sky stretching around them in a brilliant swirl of color, Kon’s warmth pressed against him, the city so far behind them—it’s peaceful in a way Tim doesn’t get to feel often enough.

And maybe, just maybe, he deserves this.

--

Tim notices it immediately—oh shit, does he notice it. Even floating high above the ground, the chill of winter air crisp against his skin, he sees it happening below them clear as day. His brain snaps into detective mode so fast he nearly drops his camera.

Because Oswald and Langstrom? Sitting on the car hood, leaning against each other like some kind of cozy old couple watching the stars? With Langstrom’s big-ass bat wing wrapped around Oswald’s shoulders?

OH MY GOD.

Tim’s brain short-circuits.

Okay. Okay. He’s seen some weird things in his life. He grew up in Gotham, after all. But this?

Tim had already known Oswald was gay—the man doesn’t exactly hide it, even if he’s not throwing parades about it either. Hell, Oswald literally dated Edward Nygma. Oswald definitely has a thing for nerds, that much is obvious.

But Langstrom? The giant bat scientist?

This is new information.

Tim doesn’t want to jump to conclusions—if this is a thing, then neither of them probably even realize it yet. He knows that kind of relationship dynamic when he sees it. Two people hovering right on the edge of something without realizing they’ve already crossed the line.

And Tim? Tim is a detective. He does not jump to conclusions.

He finds evidence.

Still, his hands fumble a little as he digs through his camera bag, nearly dropping the mega-zoom lens in his rush to attach it. Kon, who has been watching him the entire time, notices immediately.

Tim is not clumsy. Not even a little.

Which means something big is happening.

Kon narrows his eyes. He follows Tim’s line of sight, looks down at where Tim is pointing the camera—and absolutely loses his mind.

"Wait, hold up—WHAT??"

His entire body jerks, almost knocking them off course mid-flight. His tail frizzes out in surprise. He stares at the scene below, jaw dropping, ears twitching in disbelief.

"Is your dad dating my dad now?!" Kon blanches.

Tim, still cool and collected, shrugs. "Honestly? I’d be happy for them if they are."

Kon whines, still floating mid-air, keeping them high enough that the two below can’t hear them. His face is a mess of emotions—shock, confusion, maybe a little horror, and some weirdly specific concern.

"But that’s weird!" Kon complains, voice dramatic and full of distress. "We’re dating, Tim! What if they get married before us?!"

Tim laughs. Loud. Probably louder than necessary, because Kon is genuinely freaking out right now.

"Kon." Tim grins, snapping a few more pictures, zooming in for evidence, "what kind of sitcom-ass problem are you trying to create right now?"

"It’s a legit concern!" Kon insists, crossing his arms even as he’s still floating them mid-air like it’s nothing. "Dude, imagine—we’re standing at their wedding, in tuxes, watching our dads get hitched before us. It’s, like, backwards, man!"

Tim shakes his head, still laughing. "That’s what you’re worried about? You didn’t even call Langstom Dad to his face before tonight."

Kon gestures wildly at the potential couple below. "You don’t get it! If they get married first, then technically—technically, Tim—we’d be stepbrothers!"

Tim snorts. "Oh my god, you absolute idiot."

"I am not an idiot!" Kon pouts, looking deeply betrayed. "This is a real issue! You don’t think that’s weird?"

Tim just shakes his head, lowering the camera. "Dude, I think you’re overthinking it."

Kon huffs. His tail twitches aggressively. "Yeah, well. If I gotta call you my stepbrother in the future, I’m blaming you for this."

Tim pats his shoulder. "Noted."

Meanwhile, below them, Oswald and Langstrom sit completely unaware, the bat scientist happily leaning into Oswald, the crime lord looking surprisingly comfortable with the whole thing.

--

Tim wants to test something, and sometimes he can be dramatic.

For a solid half-second, Kon’s heart leaps into his throat as Tim flips off him mid-air, his body twisting into a perfect controlled backflip—and then he just lets go.

Kon watches in horrified slow motion as Tim drops like a rock from their altitude, plummeting downward at breakneck speed. There’s a beat of complete and utter panic before Kon instinctively dives after him, mouth already open to scream, claws outstretched to grab Tim before he splats against the snow below.

But then—

FWIP.

Tim’s arms snap outward, and suddenly, wings unfurl from his suit. Not bat wings—though, knowing Tim, he’d probably find a way to make that work too—but a glider, sleek and angular, unfolding with an engineered precision that’s almost unfairly beautiful. The fabric catches the wind perfectly, adjusting with the slightest movements of Tim’s body. It’s completely silent, smooth, like a predator in flight.

And oh, of course.

Because of course Tim had designed himself a glider and of course he hadn’t told Kon about it, because why would he? Why would Tim warn him before yeeting himself off a floating superhyena and into the open sky with zero hesitation?

Tim doesn’t plummet. He glides.

And not just any kind of gliding, either—Tim moves with the kind of terrifying ease that says he’s been practicing this for a while. He doesn’t just go straight down—he twists, he banks, he angles himself just right to catch a thermal and shift his descent into something that looks deliberate.

Kon hates that it looks so graceful.

Like, yeah, sure, Tim was trained by Batman, and yeah, he’s got a ridiculous sense of balance, but this? This is too smooth. It’s the kind of precision flight control that takes time. How long had he been practicing this?

Kon, still in free-flight, circles around him in a wide arc, his tail twitching in barely-contained panic-anger-confusion.

“WHAT THE HELL, TIM.”

Tim looks up at him, that same smug little smirk on his face that always makes Kon want to kiss him or throttle him or both at the same time.

“Aw, that’s cute, you care.”

Kon bristles immediately. “DUDE.” He swipes at the air in frustration. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA DIE.”

Tim just grins, his body tilting slightly, making a minute correction in his glide path. “Yeah, but I didn’t.”

Kon groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh my god, that is NOT the point!”

Tim, still annoyingly unbothered, tucks one arm in to subtly adjust his descent. “I’ve been working on this for months, Kon. If I didn’t know it was gonna work, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“That is NOT reassuring.” Kon growls, keeping pace with him as they continue their slow descent. “You literally just did a backflip off me without warning! You could’ve at least given me a heads-up before giving me a damn heart attack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, because of course he does, because Tim thinks Kon’s the overdramatic one here.

Kon, frustrated beyond belief, looks down toward Oswald for backup—surely, the guy would be on his side about Tim nearly giving everyone a collective aneurysm, right?

But no.

Oswald, still perched on the car hood, doesn’t even look concerned. If anything, he looks somewhat entertained, watching Tim’s expertly controlled descent with a vaguely smug expression, like he’d expected this outcome from the start.

Kon’s eye twitches.

He is, apparently, the only sane person here.

But at least— at least— Langstrom is also freaking out. The giant bat scientist is gawking at Oswald, his large ears twitching, his wings ruffled in clear distress.

Oswald, in contrast, looks completely unbothered.

“You knew he was gonna do that." Langstrom finally accuses, still looking alarmed.

Oswald smirks, adjusting his gloves. “If the boy didn’t know what he was doing, he wouldn’t have done it.”

Langstrom looks deeply unamused by that answer. "That’s not how safety works, Oswald!"

Kon, still grumbling to himself, finally swoops in closer to Tim. “You are the most reckless nerd I’ve ever met.”

Tim, now close enough to be within arm’s reach, just leans over and presses a quick, smug little kiss to Kon’s cheek.

“But I’m your reckless nerd.”

Kon malfunctions.

Because of course.

Of course Tim would nearly give him a heart attack and then pull some sappy bullshit like that.

Kon groans dramatically, but his tail betrays him by wagging anyway.

Kon knows that Tim has experience gliding. He’s seen him do it a hundred times in the Red Vulture suit—the big, dramatic wings that made Tim look like some kind of Gotham cryptid. The kind of wings that had intimidation factor built into their silhouette. But this? This new hidden glider suit? This thing was smaller, more compact, way more subtle than what Tim usually worked with.

And yet, somehow, Tim was too good at using it.

Kon keeps circling him on the way down, watching closely. The angles, the speed, the way Tim adjusts without hesitation. Like he already knows exactly how it handles. Which means… this wasn’t the first time Tim had tried this.

Kon pouts.

Because when had Tim been practicing? And why the hell had he not invited Kon to watch? If his boyfriend was going to do cool airborne tricks, Kon deserved to be in the front row.

Still, for all his grumbling, Kon is very quickly getting bored of the slow, controlled descent. It’s cool and all, but Kon doesn’t do slow. Slow is for people without superpowers.

So, without any warning, he swoops in and snatches Tim right out of the air.

Tim yelps, loudly, arms flailing as Kon wraps his arms around him, dragging him against his chest and tucking him in tight. The weight difference doesn’t matter—Kon can carry a car if he wants to, Tim barely even registers as a anything.

And then? Then Kon drops.

No more controlled descent, no more slow gliding— he just lets gravity take over.

Tim squawks indignantly, glaring up at him even as he reflexively grabs onto Kon’s shirt for stability. “Hey! That is NOT how we do things!”

Kon just grins, all cocky and smug, his tail wagging lazily in the air. “Correction: that’s not how you do things. I, on the other hand, do things my way.”

Tim rolls his eyes like he’s used to this—because he is. But before he can start lecturing Kon about aerial safety or some nerdy bullshit like ‘wind resistance’, Kon strikes.

By licking his entire face.

It is absolutely a war crime.

Tim makes the most undignified noise as Kon’s absurdly large tongue drags from his chin all the way up to his forehead, leaving behind a gross, warm, slimy trail of spit.

“GROSS.” Tim shoves at his chest, squirming like a wet cat. “WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL.”

Kon just purrs loudly, grinning like the jerk he is. “There, maybe next time you’ll give me a warning. And then next time, I’ll give you a warning.”

Tim huffs angrily, flicking saliva off his face with his fingers. “That is not an equivalent exchange, you absolute menace.”

Kon just waggles his eyebrows, entirely unrepentant.

But then Tim… pauses.

His expression shifts— not to anger, not to annoyance, but to confusion. He touches his cheek, fingers running over the spot where Kon’s gross attack had landed.

Kon, still smug, raises a brow. “What? Feeling blessed by the super-drool?”

Tim doesn’t even acknowledge the joke. Instead, he mutters, “What the fuck?”

Kon… blinks. Because that was not the usual way Tim said “what the fuck.”

One, Tim doesn’t say it much—usually directed at serious issues. Two, This sounded genuinely surprised.

“What?” Kon finally asks, squinting.

Tim doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps touching his cheek, running his fingers over the spot where there was a cut.

A cut that… should still be there.

Except it isn’t.

Kon’s tail stills.

Tim pushes away from Kon’s grip, and Kon—still too confused to argue—lets him go.

Then, without any hesitation, Tim pulls a pocket knife from his belt.

Kon yelps. “DUDE.”

Before he can intervene, Tim draws the blade across his palm—a quick, shallow cut, nothing serious, but very visible. Kon is about to yell at him for it—what kind of maniac just cuts himself to test a theory??—when Tim shoves his hand toward him.

“Lick it.”

Kon recoils slightly. “What? No. That’s weird.”

Tim glares. “Lick it.”

Kon stares at him, debating. He wants to say no out of principle, because ew, but Tim is scary when he’s determined, and something about this feels weirdly serious.

So, against all of his better instincts, Kon grabs Tim’s wrist, pulls the cut to his mouth—

And licks it.

A second later, the cut is just… gone.

Both of them stare at Tim’s hand.

Then at each other.

Then back at the hand.

Then—

“HELL YEAH, I HAVE HEALING SPIT!” Kon yells triumphantly.

Tim just buries his face in his hands.

--

Oswald and Langstrom listen as Tim and Kon explain the discovery, though their reactions couldn’t be more different. Langstrom is fascinated, immediately launching into scientific curiosity mode, while Oswald just looks annoyed.

"Can you show me an example?" Langstrom asks, adjusting his glasses, already thinking about the implications.

And before Kon can even react, Tim—the absolute menace that he is—just grabs his pocket knife again and slices his palm open.

Kon lets out a full-body whine, tail bristling in alarm, while Oswald yells immediately from where he’s sitting. "Hey! Don't do that!"

But the damage is already done. Tim just holds his hand out, calm as ever, waiting.

Kon huffs dramatically, but still grabs Tim’s wrist and licks the wound shut, just like before. And, just like before, the cut vanishes instantly.

Langstrom leans forward, watching closely as the skin seals itself back together seamlessly. His eyes light up with interest. "Fascinating." he murmurs, clearly already thinking a mile a minute. "Do you know what your saliva could do for the medical industry?"

Oswald immediately scoffs, crossing his arms. "I bet they'd charge a fortune for it." The bitterness in his voice is undeniable, and Kon realizes this isn’t just some casual comment—Oswald’s got history with the medical system. Given what Kon knows about Oswald’s rough upbringing, it’s not hard to connect the dots. His mother’s poor health, the lack of affordable treatment, the constant struggle just to survive— yeah, Oswald isn’t wrong to be pissed.

Langstrom, however, waves it off and continues, "It must be a power unique to the yokai part of your mutant DNA. I mean, I know some mutants can teleport, some can spin silk, but this? This is deeply interesting." His gaze sharpens as he looks back at Kon. "When we get back to my lab, may I run some tests on samples?"

Kon tilts his head, considering it. "Uhh… you just want me to spit in a test tube or something, right?" he asks. "I don't really like people running tests on me, but that would be fine."

Langstrom visibly jolts.

Kon notices how his expression shifts—from curiosity to something more… guarded. More careful. Langstrom puts both hands on Kon’s shoulders, firm but gentle. "Yes, that is all I need. But even if you don't want to do that, you do not have to."

And oh, there it is. That moment of realization. Langstrom had put it together. Why Kon hesitated. Why he doesn’t like tests. Because Kon was a lab experiment. A clone. A science project before he was ever a person.

Kon hesitates, the feeling settling heavy in his chest, but he forces a carefree grin anyway. Laughs a little. Shrugs like it’s no big deal. "Easy, Doc. That’s all chill." he says. "Just don’t wanna get stabbed by kryptonite tools. Other than if Tim is piercing my ears again… or getting blood samples again."

Then, without meaning to, he adds, "I guess I trust Tim with that, huh?"

And it’s only as the words leave his mouth that Kon fully processes them.

He stops, blinking.

Tim raises a brow, waiting for him to catch up to himself.

Oswald, who was half-listening, actually smirks at that, like he’s watching something amusing unfold.

Langstrom is the only one who looks genuinely touched by the realization.

Kon frowns slightly, as if trying to figure out where that trust even came from. It’s weird. Not because he doesn’t trust Tim in general—he does, obviously—but because trust when it came to science, to being examined, to being poked and prodded and experimented on? That was a whole different thing.

Tim had never pushed with that kind of thing. He only ever asked for blood samples when they really needed them. When there was a problem to solve, and even then, he explained why first. No secrets, no hidden motivations. And if Kon had ever said no, Tim would’ve dropped it immediately.

…That was probably why he trusted him.

Huh.

Weird.

Kon hadn’t even realized it at first, but now that he’s thinking about it, the whole thing is hella weird.

Like, he should be grossed out. Licking blood off someone? That should be disgusting, right? But it wasn’t. Not even a little.

It wasn’t metallic or bitter like he’d always assumed—it just tasted like steak. Like a really good steak, too.

And that? That makes him feel bad.

Because, oh my God, what if this is some freaky mutant predator thing? What if this is some deep instinct from the weird yokai parts of his DNA that wants him to hunt and bite people?

Yeah, no thanks.

Kon barely even thinks before he grabs Tim and drags him into the back seat with him, yanking him in before he can slide into the front.

Tim, caught off guard, lets out a startled grunt, about to fire off some smartass comment—until he sees Kon’s face.

Kon doesn’t look like his usual overconfident self. He’s serious, not in the cool, heroic way, but in that quiet, uncertain way that he only ever gets when he’s actually worried about something.

Tim shifts, eyebrows drawing together slightly in concern.

Kon leans in, keeping his voice low, just for Tim’s ears. "Okay, so, I just realized something super freaky about myself, and I need you to tell me whether I should be freaking out or not."

Tim, already used to this kind of thing, just nods patiently for him to continue.

Kon swallows, licking his lips hesitantly, then leans in closer and whispers into Tim’s ear.

The second the words are out of his mouth, he watches Tim carefully, half-expecting a reaction of disgust or alarm.

But Tim? Tim doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he hums thoughtfully, tilting his head in that weird, analytical way he does when he’s solving a puzzle.

And thank God for that, because if there’s one thing that reassures Kon, it’s the fact that Tim deals with so much weird shit on a daily basis that the idea of his giant, genetically-engineered, part-yokai boyfriend craving raw meat isn’t even remotely disturbing to him.

Tim cups Kon’s face gently, thumb brushing over his cheek, and says simply:

"That’s not unusual, Kon. Even people who weren’t born yokai reported their tastes changing after transformation. People who turned into herbivores started craving things like grass or leaves, and people who turned into carnivores? They had no issue eating raw bacon or steak."

Kon exhales sharply, relief flooding through him so fast it’s almost dizzying.

Because thank God.

Tim leans back slightly, about to continue, when—

"Sorry to intrude, but I also experienced similar changes." a voice cuts in from the front seat.

Kon jumps slightly, turning to see Langstrom glancing at them in the rearview mirror, his ears twitching just slightly.

And, oh yeah. Bat ears. Super-hearing. Crap.

Langstrom shrugs apologetically before continuing, "Staring at rotten fruit in the trash was not my finest moment."

Kon blinks.

Tim, for once, actually looks thrown for a loop.

Langstrom nods solemnly, like this is just some normal fact to share in a conversation.

"Fruit bats, you see. I found myself eyeing old bananas and melons in dumpsters before I caught myself. A most embarrassing moment."

Kon just stares for a second before exhaling loudly and flopping back against the seat.

"Okay. Cool. That makes me feel way better." Kon’s not even sure if he’s being sarcastic or not.

---------

The drive to the country estate is long, but it’s not exactly quiet—not when Kon is there to rattle off whatever nonsense pops into his head while Tim gradually realizes just how little Kon knows about geography.

It starts off simple enough. They’re passing through the countryside, a stretch of land that doesn’t look like Gotham at all, and Kon—ever the guy to just say things out loud as he thinks them—goes, "Man, I didn’t even know we were in what used to be Alaska."

Tim, mid-way through checking some files on his tablet, snaps his head up so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. "What?"

Kon, completely unbothered, just shrugs. "Yeah, I mean, I thought we were, like, in some fancy hidden Gotham district or something. I didn't realize Alaska got folded into Gotham State."

Tim stares.

For a full five seconds, he’s completely still, blinking at Kon like he just declared the moon is made of cheese or something.

Then, he slowly sets his tablet down. "Kon. How—how did you not know this?"

Kon, still relaxed, waves a dismissive hand. "I dunno, dude. It just never came up."

Tim inhales. Deeply. "This is…basic knowledge. Gotham has controlled this area for decades. It’s literally been Gotham State for years. How—" He stops himself, because he already knows the answer.

Kon doesn’t read history books.

Kon doesn’t watch the news unless someone forces him to.

Kon’s entire system of navigation and learning about the world is ‘fly around until I see something interesting.’

So, just to confirm his growing suspicion, Tim narrows his eyes. "How many other places do you not know exist?"

Kon tilts his head, considering.

Then, shrugs. "Dunno. But I’d find ‘em eventually."

Tim groans.

Kon, grinning, leans back against the car seat, completely unbothered. "I mean, c’mon, what’s the big deal? Not like I need a map or whatever. I just fly around and, y’know, figure it out. If someone needs help, I hear it, and boom—I go. Doesn’t really matter what’s a state and what’s not."

Tim clutches his head, making a horrified noise like Kon just personally offended his entire sense of order.

"It absolutely matters!" Tim snaps, turning fully toward Kon now, eyes wide with the sheer incomprehensible nature of what he’s just learned. "You—you just fly around and hope you land somewhere important? That’s your entire system?!"

Kon laughs, grinning even wider now. "Dude, relax. It works. I’ve been doing this for a while, and I haven’t gotten lost yet."

Tim grits his teeth. "That’s not the point."

Kon, clearly enjoying this way too much, crosses his arms behind his head, looking entirely too smug. "Nah, I think it kinda is. You’re just mad ‘cause I figured out an easier way to do things."

Tim sputters, borderline offended on behalf of every geography teacher in existence. "Easier—?! Kon, I swear to God, I am making you sit down and learn world geography when we get back."

Kon, still laughing, leans closer. "Aw, babe, you really wanna teach me? That’s adorable."

Tim smacks his arm.

Kon just grins wider.

Kon leans against Tim, stretching out comfortably in the back seat, arms crossed behind his head like he doesn’t have a single worry in the world. His head rests against Tim’s shoulder, and he can feel the way Tim is tense, probably because he’s still thinking way too hard about Kon’s apparent lack of geographical knowledge. Which, honestly? Not Kon’s problem. He knows the important stuff.

"I mean, I know countries, Tim." Kon says with a lazy hum, shifting a bit so he can talk right into Tim’s ear. "I know every single country. Like, you could throw a random one at me, and I’d be like, ‘Oh yeah, I know that place.’ I bet if you asked normal people, they wouldn’t know all of ‘em. Absolutely not."

Tim exhales through his nose, which is exactly the kind of noise he makes when he’s about to start lecturing.

"Okay, yes, that’s good." Tim says, his voice tight like he’s trying really hard to be patient. "But you also just told me that until you looked at a map, you didn’t know there were two Washingtons because you only knew about the one near New York. And you just assumed that’s what people meant when they said ‘Washington State.’"

Kon tilts his head. "Well, yeah."

"And." Tim continues, now with that particular tone that means he’s about to fully rip into him, "you think there are only fifty states in America. Which has not been true for, like, decades now."

Kon pauses. His brow furrows slightly, because okay, maybe he messed that part up. But in his defense, America has too many states. Why would he need to keep track of all of them when he can just fly wherever he needs to go?

After a beat, he shrugs. "Well, if we wanna get technical, I wasn’t even sure if there was a Washington State."

Tim makes a noise. It’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and Kon grins, because he can tell he’s getting under Tim’s skin.

"Do you know any other states in any other countries?" Tim asks, crossing his arms, clearly expecting the answer to be no.

Kon looks away. Because, well. That is the answer.

"I’ll be honest." Kon says, tapping his fingers against his knee, "I probably know just as much about other countries’ states as I do America."

Tim looks like he’s in pain.

"Which, by the way." Kon continues, because he’s on a roll now, "You apparently don’t like my knowledge." He waves a hand. "Well, you know what? I don’t like how America is set up."

Tim gives him a look. "What?"

Kon huffs. "Why are Alaska and the rest of America not touching? It’s stupid."

Tim’s entire body tenses, like every fiber of his being wants to strangle Kon on the spot.

"That’s just the way it is, Kon." Tim says through gritted teeth. "Russia owned Alaska and sold it back."

Kon huffs again, louder this time. "Dumb."

Tim physically turns away from him, like if he looks at Kon for another second, he might actually commit murder.

Kon, of course, grins smugly, because he just won this round.

Tim still doesn’t know how they ended up having this argument in the first place. It started with geography, of all things, and somehow spiraled into Kon calling the way America was set up “dumb” like a full-blooded delinquent with no respect for history. Tim had already resigned himself to the fact that his boyfriend was a himbo in denial, but this was something else. He stares out the window, arms crossed, resolutely refusing to engage with whatever else Kon might say. Because if he does, he’s just going to give himself an aneurysm.

Kon, however, doesn’t believe in letting things go. Instead of just sitting there quietly like a normal person, he leans against Tim’s turned-away body, putting all of his considerable weight against him and dramatically sprawling out across the seat.

Tim barely has time to react before he yelps, feeling Kon’s solid mass pressing into him. "Quit it." he protests, shoving at his boyfriend’s chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.

Kon just lets out a deep, satisfied purr—because apparently, he’s a giant mutant cat now—and hums, "Hmmmm… nah."

Tim grits his teeth. He doesn’t have super strength, and even if he did, he knows Kon would just find a way to be annoying. So instead, he gets creative. He grabs the free seatbelts and, with quick precision, wraps it around Kon’s throat and the others around Kon’s arms and legs like a professional tie up for the police. Not hard enough to hurt him, obviously—he’s half-Kryptonian, after all. But just tight enough to be annoying.

Kon grunts in surprise, then tries to pull back—only to realize he’s been completely tangled.

"Uh… little help?" Kon asks, blinking down at the mess of seatbelts wrapped around him.

Tim just smirks. "No." He leans back against the window, utterly smug. "You’re smart. I’m sure you can get out of it yourself without ripping it apart. Of course, if you do rip it, you’re just proving that you’re dumb and had to destroy expensive seatbelts to escape."

Kon scowls. "That a challenge?"

Tim shrugs, looking wholly unbothered. "Take it however you want."

Kon grumbles under his breath, wiggling, twisting, and trying to maneuver his way out without snapping the belts in half. The thing is, he totally could just break them. It would be so easy. But then Tim would never let him live it down. He’d smugly remind him about it for weeks. Maybe months. And Kon does have some pride.

So, for the next twenty minutes, he’s fully distracted, tugging and twisting, trying to find some clever way out of the mess Tim put him in. Like Tim has fully tied him up as if Kon is a criminal, Tim is very good at ropes apparently. He can hear Oswald chuckling in the front seat, probably enjoying this far too much, and Langstrom muttering something about how "this is a fascinating display of problem-solving under pressure."

Then it hits him. A loophole, he doesn’t technically have to get out of this himself.

"Tim, I need help." He whines.

Tim pauses, peeking at him from where he’s been looking out the window. "Hmmm?"

Kon grins, using his best innocent expression. "Asking for help is always the smart thing to do, right? You always say I should ask for help more often instead of just rushing in."

Tim laughs. Scoffs. Then shakes his head like he should’ve seen this coming.

"You’re such an ass." he says, but he still leans over and, within a few seconds, untangles Kon like it’s nothing.

Kon just grins even wider, now completely free. But instead of immediately going back to being a menace, he just settles down, resting his giant head on Tim’s shoulder.

Tim sighs. Lets him.

For once, Kon behaves.

Chapter Text

Tim barely registers the weight on his shoulder until they’re pulling into the estate’s long driveway. He glances down and realizes—yep, Kon is completely out. Out like a light, dead to the world, probably drooling on his jacket.

It’s honestly impressive. Kon sleeps like a damn rock. Probably some half-Kryptonian thing, just shutting down like an old computer whenever he gets comfortable enough. Tim should wake him up. It’s not like he’s going to carry his entire supersized boyfriend across the estate like some kind of lovesick fool.

…Yeah, that’s a total lie.

Tim barely hesitates before he gets out of the car, Kon still not waking up, and adjusting his stance and sliding his arms under Kon’s back and legs, scooping him up in a bridal carry. And okay, Kon is heavy. Not in the dead weight kind of way, but in the solid, all-muscle, somehow-still-growing way. The guy is big, and Tim is pretty sure he’s only gonna get bigger.

Which is concerning because Tim has no doubt that in a couple of years, Kon is going to be tall enough to dunk on all of the Bat family. But for now? Tim can still manage.

It’s not even the hardest thing he’s carried. The first time he picked Kon up was way worse. That time, he had to yank him out of a dumpster, then haul ass to one of his “safe houses” while dodging Gotham’s finest and Kon’s own groggy, confused flailing. That had been a struggle. But now? Now, he just has to walk. Easy.

They had pull up to the old estate, a place far enough out of the city that Gotham’s usual stink and noise don’t reach it. The car stops, and Ms. Long, the butler, is already there to greet them.

She looks them over, then laughs, her eyes crinkling. "Oh my, Tim. I see you’ve picked up a stray."

Tim doesn’t even blink. "Yeah, well, if I leave him alone for five seconds, he gets into trouble."

Oswald makes a mock-offended noise from behind him. "Now, now, Timothy. That’s no way to speak about your boyfriend."

Tim just rolls his eyes and carries Kon inside like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Which, honestly? At this point, it kind of is.

Halfway up the stairs, Kon finally starts stirring, his nose scrunching up before he groggily blinks open his blue eyes.

He takes a second to register what’s happening. Then he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. "Noooo, don’t carry me like a damsel in distress."

Tim just snorts. "Then quit being a damsel." and keeps moving, stepping through the long, high-ceiling halls of the estate. The place is impeccably maintained, though Tim knows Oswald doesn’t spend as much time here as he probably should. The butler, Ms. Long, is one of the only people who regularly stays here, and she’s already laughing at them as she follows at a distance.

"Oh, Timothy." she says with clear amusement. "You're certainly dedicated to the theatrics."

Tim huffs. "He's lucky I even bother."

"He’s lucky indeed." she says, still smiling. "Will he be needing a room of his own?"

Kon perks up slightly at that, head lifting from Tim’s shoulder just enough to look over at Ms. Long. "Nah, I’m Tim’s problem, so I go where he goes."

Tim doesn’t even acknowledge that comment, just keeps walking as if the conversation isn’t happening.

Kon, as expected, does not let it go. "Right, babe? You’d be so lonely without me. You’d cry yourself to sleep."

Tim snorts again, louder this time. "You are literally worse than a stray cat I fed one time."

"A sexy cat."

Tim kicks open the door to his room, ignoring Kon's continued nonsense. He finally puts the other boy down, though not gently, He dumps him on the bed. Kon flops onto the bed with a loud oof, but clearly isn't actually upset.

Tim rolls his shoulders, stretching them out a little after carrying so much weight for so long. He’s definitely strong, but he’s not superhuman.

Kon, now fully awake, just grins at him. "Y'know, you carrying me like that? Super dope."

"I swear to God."

Kon just laughs and pulls Tim onto the bed with him. It’s easy for him, effortless even, and before Tim can protest, he finds himself wrapped up in strong arms, half pinned against Kon’s chest.

"Tactical cuddles, babe." Kon says, grinning down at him. "You wouldn't deny me my basic survival needs, right?"

Tim groans, but he doesn’t actually try to get away.

Ms. Long, still standing in the doorway, just shakes her head fondly. "I'll bring up some food, then. Wouldn't want you two wasting away."

Tim doesn't bother responding.

Kon just smirks, still holding Tim close. "Told ya. You’d cry yourself to sleep without me."

Tim just shoves his face into Kon’s chest and refuses to dignify that with a response.

Kon stares up at the rafters, eyes narrowing as he spots something weirdly familiar tucked away up there. The dim lighting of the estate bedroom catches on the slight sheen of nylon rope and fabric, and as he focuses, he realizes there’s a whole net system rigged up high above them.

“Dude.” He squints. “Is that a pillow nest?”

Tim doesn’t even bother looking up. He just lets out a muffled laugh into Kon’s chest, still half-trapped in the cuddle hold Kon had enforced with his Tactile Telekinesis. Not like Tim was actually trying to escape—Kon just liked to make sure there was zero chance of Tim wriggling away when things got too soft.

“Yup." Tim says simply, voice slightly muffled where his face is still pressed against Kon’s shoulder.

Kon blinks at him, then back up at the nest, noting the array of ridiculous pillows sitting in the net. Most of them are Batman and Robin themed, With as many of batgirl as possible too. But there’s also video game ones, random bootleg monstrosities, Kon stares up at the rafters, eyes narrowing slightly as he processes what he's seeing.

Tim, still half-buried in Kon’s grip, chuckles against his chest. He knows exactly what Kon’s about to ask before the words even leave his mouth.

"Okay." Kon says, grinning. "Serious question. Can that thing hold both of us?"

Tim snorts, twisting just enough in Kon’s grip to glance up at his makeshift nest. "It can support multiple civilians." he says, clearly amused. "It’s one of the Bat-net designs meant for emergency rescues. I just—" He waves a hand lazily, "—retooled it a little."

Kon processes this for all of half a second before bursting out laughing. "You turned Batman’s emergency net into a hammock. That’s—dude. That’s so dope."

"Obviously." Tim says, deadpan, as if this is the most normal and logical use for billion-dollar Bat-tech.

Kon wastes zero time in floating both of them up there, using his Tactile Telekinesis to keep them steady as he pushes into the net. As soon as they land, Tim proves just how well-structured the thing is—barely any sway, just soft, even support. It’s legitimately comfy, ridiculously cozy, and Kon immediately makes himself at home, pulling Tim close against his side as he settles in.

And that’s when he sees it.

A massive, fluffy, pink Bulbasaur plush—clearly bootleg, but somehow absurdly well-made. It’s big enough that Tim must’ve used it as an actual pillow at some point. Kon grabs it and turns it over in his hands, eyebrows raised as he glances at Tim.

"Okay, first off" he starts, "worst starter choice."

Tim snorts.

"And worst color."

Tim laughs outright, shifting so he’s looking directly at Kon, amusement written all over his face. "If you were any of the starters, you'd be Bulbasaur."

Kon gawks, offended. "Excuse me?"

Tim smirks, propping himself up on an elbow. "Think about it. Bulbasaur’s whole move set is basically Tactile Telekinesis."

Kon blinks. He wants to argue, but now that Tim’s said it, he’s actually processing it—Vine Whip obviously, freaking Razor Leaf is just bulbasaur picking up leaves and turning them into deadly weapons when he throws them— all stuff that involves lifting, throwing, pulling things around. And it’s not as flashy as Charizard or Blastoise, but it’s damn effective.

Still. Kon’s got one more thing to argue about.

"Okay, hold up." he says, holding up a finger. "Charizard can fly."

Tim immediately cackles. "Charizard cannot actually learn Fly in Gen 1."

Kon pauses, horrified. "What."

"Yeah." Tim says, looking so smug about it. "But even though he can in other games it makes no sense. Too small. Can’t even carry a kid."

Kon looks personally offended by this revelation. “That’s literally his whole thing. Wings. He’s a dragon. He should be flying and carrying people.”

“Yeah, except he’s technically not even a Dragon-type either, so the whole thing is just lies.” Tim looks far too smug about this.

Kon groans, dramatically throwing his head back. "Man, that sucks." He grumbles something under his breath before muttering, "At least I’m your favorite Gen 1 starter, though."

Tim just grins, smug. "Obviously."

Kon huffs. "Alright, so what Gen 1 Pokémon are you, then?"

Tim doesn’t even hesitate. "Meowth."

Kon stares, thrown off by how quick that response was. "The hell? Why Meowth?"

Tim grins wider. "I’m mostly physical attacks and I can throw money at people to hurt them."

Kon bursts out laughing so hard he actually loses balance, rolling straight out of the net. He hits the floor with a thud, immediately buried in a landslide of plushies and pillows. A Batman plush smacks him in the face, followed by a weirdly detailed Cubone pillow that somehow lands perfectly on his chest.

From above, Tim is dying laughing, clearly not helping.

Kon just groans from the floor, voice muffled under a pile of plush. "Dude, I cannot believe you just murdered me with stuffed animals."

Tim, still grinning, leans over the edge of the net. "Consider it karma for insulting Bulbasaur."

Kon, still buried, just groans louder. "Worst starter."

Kon flies everything back up to the net, methodically placing each plush back where it belongs—Batman and Robin pillows stacked neatly, video game plushies arranged back in their messy little pile—but as he’s putting them back, he notices something. And once he notices it, he can't un-notice it.

The Robin plushies.

Or more specifically, the fact that none of them are of Tim's Robin.

At first, Kon figures maybe he’s just not looking hard enough. Dick’s old-school Robin is obviously everywhere, being the first and all, and there's a ton of Nightwing stuff too. That makes sense. Jason
(RIP, Kon thinks and most definitely does not say out loud) has quite a few too, more than Kon expected actually.

But Tim?

Not a single one.

Not one plushie, not one pillow, not even a bootleg knockoff of his Robin design.

Which is weird.

Because Kon has definitely seen plushies of Tim’s Robin before, even if they aren’t as common. Hell, he’s seen Bad bootlegs of Red Vulture and Guard Dog, and if that wasn’t proof enough that the market was capitalizing on Gotham vigilantes, then what was? And now that he’s thinking about it—Tim does have plushies of Guard Dog. In fact, he has a lot of them. Kon’s seen them scattered around the penthouse in the city, seen them stacked on the couch, in Tim’s bed.

But not a single one of himself.

Kon stops midair, staring at the pile of plushies.

Then he glares at Tim.

Tim, oblivious to his impending doom, jolts at the intensity of the look, flinching slightly like he's been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. "Fine! If you don't want to be Bulbasaur, you don’t have to be."

Kon doesn't move. Doesn't blink. He gets back into the net.

Then, slow and deliberate, crawls on top of Tim, pinning him down against the net. Tim tenses slightly, watching him warily.

And then Kon growls.

Not his usual cocky, teasing growl—this one is low, and deep, and serious. His teeth are bared just slightly, blue eyes flashing in a way that makes Tim instinctively stiffen. Kon doesn’t do this much. He’s rarely actually intimidating with him.

But right now?

He kinda is.

"Timmy." Kon growls out, voice almost a purr but still edged, sharp. "Why do you have no plushies of yourself?"

Tim exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and lets out a forced, awkward laugh. "Uhh, duh? Because I’m not a narcissist?"

Kon does not look convinced. (But also obviously, Tim has admitted to hating himself.)

Because he knows that isn't the whole truth.

If he didn’t have a hunch already, well—Tim’s heartbeat just spiked in a way that screams he's holding something back.

Kon knows Tim. Knows that Tim doesn't exactly like himself the way he should. Knows that he downplays himself constantly, acts like he was just some placeholder Robin rather than one of the best ones to ever do it. And yeah, sometimes Kon doesn’t like himself either, but this? This is different.

Tim didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t even think he deserved to have something of himself.

Kon makes a split-second decision. If talking won’t work, he’s going to have to use Tim’s own methods against him.

Espionage.

He shifts his growl into something lower, softer, a purr deep in his chest, and grins. "Well, you have all those plushies of me. That means you need an equal amount of Red Vulture. Imagine how sad all those Guard Dog plushes are without a Red Vulture to go with them."

Tim huffs, rolling his eyes, but Kon can tell he's thinking about it.

"And imagine if you only buy one." Kon continues, smirking now. "The Guard Dog plushes you have would start fighting over him." He pauses, then grins wider. "Or they'd all agree to share him. Which would probably be worse."

Tim stiffens slightly.

Because Tim knows they’re talking about plushies. But now, thanks to Kon’s dumb logic, he can’t help but picture it—ten Kons, all trying to cuddle him, all fighting over him, or worse, agreeing to share him.

One Kon is already a handful. Ten would be actual chaos.

Tim groans, defeated. "Fine! You win. I'll buy some Red Vultures just to go with the Guard Dog plushies."

Kon preens.

Tim glares at him, but Kon just flops onto his chest, nuzzling his face against Tim’s neck in victory.

Mission accomplished.

--

The snowfall outside is soft, quiet. It drifts lazily past the wide estate windows, frosting the edges of the glass in delicate patterns. It’s beautiful, even if it’s also blocking out the aurora that had painted the sky the night before. Tim watches it idly, leaning into the solid warmth of the boy curled up next to him.

Kon is purring, a low, lazy vibration against Tim’s side. Kon is always the perfect temperature, a side effect of his Kryptonian genes, while Tim is… well, not. He generally has to deal with the inconvenient reality of a human metabolism. Kon, meanwhile, is like a sentient heated blanket with arms.

So when he shifts and drags Tim closer, wrapping his arms around him in a snug, unbreakable grip, Tim does not resist. He is not a fool.

Kon is a free, cuddly, space-heater boyfriend, and Tim knows better than to argue with that.

Chapter Text

Morning comes sluggishly, muted by the snowfall, the world outside blanketed in fresh white.

Tim wakes first, which is expected. Kon is a cuddler, and once he’s latched on, it’s basically impossible to escape by normal means. But Tim is not normal.

With practiced precision, Tim slowly inches his arm out and retrieves his collapsible bo staff from the nightstand. Carefully, he unfolds it, wedging it between Kon’s tangled limbs, and then—with expert timing—he leverages himself free. Kon grumbles in his sleep, shifting slightly, but doesn’t wake up.

Success.

Tim breathes out, stretching briefly before heading over to his laptop. It’s routine at this point—checking the latest crime reports in Gotham, staying updated on any potential threats, making sure things aren’t spiraling into chaos while he’s out of the city. He knows Bruce and the others can handle it, but… well. Old habits die hard.

He scrolls through the reports, sipping from a leftover water bottle on the desk. A few minor break-ins, a mugging in the East End, an unidentified metahuman sighting near the docks. Nothing urgent, nothing that requires immediate intervention.

Still, Tim doesn’t sleep much. Not really. Never has, not even before Joker. But after?

It got worse.

There are nights when he still smells rotten carnival food, still sees phantom carnival lights dancing in the corner of his vision, flickering like ghosts of something that should have stayed buried. The insomnia from all that time awake as Joker’s captive, waiting, planning, surviving, hasn’t left him.

Probably never will.

So rather than fight it, he just works with it.

By the time he heads downstairs, the estate is still quiet. Oswald isn’t awake yet, and Kon is still snoring upstairs, but Ms. Long is already up, as always. The woman is like a force of nature, waking before even the earliest risers.

Tim finds her in the dining room, already setting out some light breakfast—a simple plate of food and a fresh cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way he likes it.

He slides into the seat beside her, nodding his thanks as he picks up the mug.

Ms. Long doesn’t say anything, just acknowledges him with a glance, then turns her attention back to the window, watching as the snow continues to fall outside.

Tim follows her gaze, letting the quiet settle between them.

There’s something comforting about it—this early morning stillness, the simple routine of it all. For a moment, it feels… peaceful.

Tim lets himself breathe, just for a little while.

Ms. Long’s red scales shimmer faintly under the morning light as she moves toward the stove, the sleek motion of her steps unrushed but purposeful. There’s a confidence to her movements that makes it clear she owns this space, and Tim can’t help but feel a little bit of awe at how effortlessly she handles everything.

With precise efficiency, she pulls the sizzling bacon, sausages, and eggs off the stovetop, dumping them onto a large serving plate with the kind of controlled strength that reminds Tim she could probably snap him in half if she wanted to. Not that she ever would—she’s just terrifyingly competent.

She places the plate on the table, eyes narrowing as she looks directly at Tim, clearly asking him to take first dibs. He sighs.

Tim eats like a pigeon. He knows this. It’s not intentional—just an old habit, a mix of being too busy, too on edge, and, well, never really feeling like he deserved more. Eat just enough to keep going, don’t be greedy, don’t take more than you need. Jack had never said those words outright, but he hadn’t needed to. The conditioning had stuck.

Ms. Long sees through it instantly.

Tim grabs the bare minimum—one egg, a single slice of bacon, and half a sausage (yes, he cut one in half, shut up).

Ms. Long glares.

A slow, unimpressed, reptilian glare.

Tim sighs again, stabbing his fork into another sausage and plopping it onto his plate.

She nods approvingly before turning on her heel and heading upstairs, knocking briskly on doors as she goes. “Breakfast is ready. Anyone too slow gets what’s left.”

It’s an effective threat.

Kon appears in the kitchen immediately, looking like he may have actually flown down the stairs to avoid missing out. His hair is still sticking up in a ridiculous mess, and he barely stifles a yawn as he drops into the seat next to Tim. He grabs food in fistfuls, clearly having no concerns about looking civilized.

Tim watches him shove an entire sausage into his mouth, blinking as Kon chews loudly and then grins at him, cheeks puffed out like a smug chipmunk.

“…Attractive." Tim says flatly, stabbing his eggs with a fork.

“I know, right?” Kon winks, still chewing.

Tim rolls his eyes.

Oswald arrives next, far more dignified, of course. He’s already dressed in a sleek three-piece suit, as if he’s heading straight into a meeting rather than eating breakfast at his own estate. Because of course he is. He gives a polite nod as he takes his seat, eyeing the food with an appreciative hum before serving himself a reasonably portioned plate—because unlike Tim, Oswald actually values good food.

“Ah, Ms. Long, you’ve outdone yourself as always." Oswald says smoothly, lifting his coffee in a small toast before taking a sip. “Truly, this estate would fall apart without you.”

Ms. Long doesn’t respond, merely huffs lightly before sitting down herself, but Tim catches the slightest twitch of her lips.

Langstrom is last to arrive, looking a little disoriented, which makes sense—he’s a night owl. Literally. The man barely functions in the daytime, shuffling into the kitchen like he’s running on autopilot.

He sits down without a word, pours himself an absurd amount of coffee, and then stares blankly at his plate as if trying to remember how food works.

There’s a beat of silence before Kon leans over and very deliberately plops a sausage onto Langstrom’s plate.

Langstrom blinks at it. Then at Kon. Then at the sausage again.

After a moment, he slowly picks up his fork and begins eating. Then plates up.

The kitchen settles into an easy rhythm.

They all eat together, the occasional clink of silverware filling the comfortable silence. The snow continues to fall outside, steady and unhurried, blanketing the world in a soft, quiet hush.

It’s nice, Tim thinks.

For once, it’s just nice.

But.

Tim knows Ms. Long isn't the only one keeping an eye on his eating habits.

Because the second he tries to subtly push his plate away, Kon attacks from the side, dropping another sausage onto it like a determined gremlin.

Tim sighs and shuffles the plate further away from Kon, closer to Oswald—who is, of course, calmly reading the newspaper and pretending not to notice.

Which would be more convincing if Tim didn’t glance down thirty seconds later and suddenly find an extra piece of bacon on his plate.

Sneaky bastard.

Tim narrows his eyes slightly. How the hell does Oswald even do that? He hadn’t even seen him move. The man is holding the newspaper perfectly upright, sipping his coffee like an unbothered aristocrat, entirely composed—but the evidence is right there. A single extra strip of bacon, placed with the kind of careful precision that makes Tim certain this is a very deliberate strategy.

Kon, however, is not subtle.

At all.

The moment he realizes Tim is actively avoiding eating, he grabs his fork, stabs the sausage, and shoves it toward Tim’s mouth with all the grace of an insistent toddler trying to feed a stubborn cat.

Tim leans back with an unimpressed look.

Kon just grins wider, waggling the fork at him, tail twitching behind him with pure determination.

And, okay, Tim has two very conflicting thoughts about this.

One: Kon is a massive pain in the ass.

Two: Kon is also incredibly sweet about it. Because, yeah, he's a playful jerk, but he’s also a stubborn idiot when it comes to making sure Tim actually takes care of himself.

And that’s—nice.

Annoying. But nice.

Tim sighs, shooting one last glance at Oswald—who is still reading the paper, but now with the distinct air of someone deeply amused—before turning back to Kon.

He leans forward just slightly, bites into the sausage, and chews without breaking eye contact.

Kon immediately chokes on his own spit.

Tim watches in deep satisfaction as the smug bravado on Kon’s face instantly dissolves into pure, unfiltered flustered panic.

The guy hadn’t actually expected Tim to do it.

Which was a mistake.

Because if Kon is going to play dumb games, he is going to win dumb prizes.

Tim chews slowly, just to make him suffer.

Kon, meanwhile, looks halfway between short-circuiting and realizing some very complicated feelings he was not emotionally prepared for at eight in the morning.

His tail fluffs up slightly.

Tim is exceedingly smug.

Ms. Long, of course, chooses this exact moment to silently slide a bowl of fresh fruit toward Langstrom, entirely ignoring the chaos at the other end of the table.

Langstrom mutters a quiet thanks, still looking half-dead, and plucks a few grapes out of the bowl without much reaction. The man is clearly used to the background nonsense of their household by now.

Kon blinks rapidly and clears his throat, visibly trying to collect himself.

And then his ears perk up slightly, like he’s just remembered something important.

“The orchard!” he blurts out, tail wagging again. “I wanna see it.”

Tim immediately latches onto the distraction like a lifeline.

“Yeah, sure, let’s go now.”

Kon’s eyes narrow slightly.

Tim knows that look. It’s the look of someone putting two and two together and coming up with "oh, you’re trying to escape breakfast, aren’t you?"

Kon grins.

It is not a nice grin.

It is a deeply knowing, smug, and entirely infuriating grin.

“You can’t bribe me with distractions, Timmy." Kon says, voice practically dripping with victory. “Eat first.”

Tim groans.

“All of it." Kon adds, still grinning like an absolute menace.

Tim looks to Oswald for backup.

Oswald, the traitor, casually sips his coffee like he isn’t deliberately avoiding getting involved.

Tim scowls.

Ms. Long raises an unimpressed brow, giving Tim a look.

Tim sighs, picks up his fork, and resigns himself to his fate.

Kon, looking deeply pleased with himself, nudges the sausage toward him again.

Tim takes another bite, glaring the entire time.

Kon, still flustered but now aggressively victorious, wiggles his eyebrows.

--

The coat Tim wears is big and heavy, wrapped around him like an old memory.

Kon has seen it before—a mismatched patchwork monstrosity that, somehow, Tim actually likes. He knows the story behind it too, or at least, the version of the story that Tim was willing to tell him.

The Bride—the notorious, centuries-old undead powerhouse—had tossed it at him years ago, riddled with bullet holes, torn and battered by time.

And for some goddamn reason, Tim had kept it.

He had fixed it, actually. Meticulously patched the holes, sewn up the worst of the damage, made sure it was wearable again.

Kon has no idea why.

“The Bride isn’t even a hero." Kon points out as they step into the snow, breath misting in the morning air.

“She’s in jail." he adds.

Tim rolls his eyes. Not this again.

“First of all." Tim says, adjusting the coat around himself, “you’re one to talk, Mr. ‘I’m best friends with multiple criminals.’”

Kon squints at him. “That’s not even true, Oswald, your dad, is definitely a criminal and Langstom is only an ex criminal and that was mostly man bat’s fault.”

“He still did run illegal human testing… even if it was just on himself, total criminal.”

Tim Jokes. Kon huffs frosty breath coming out.

“Second of all." Tim continues, pointedly ignoring him, “half of that has to do with her ex being a giant nightmare of a man who won’t stop stalking her.”

Kon huffs. “Eric Frankenstein, right?” He rolls his eyes, he’s heard this before.

“Yep.”

Kon makes a deeply skeptical face.

“And you like her… why?”

Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

“She’s cool.”

Kon groans loudly.

“You’re the weirdest superhero nerd I’ve ever met.”

Tim just grins.

Kon grumbles under his breath as they reach the orchard, but his annoyance is short-lived.

Because holy hell, this place is beautiful.

The orchard is massive, blanketed in pristine, untouched snow, the trees standing like dark silhouettes against the white landscape. Icicles hang from the branches, catching the pale morning light, glittering like glass.

The air is crisp and quiet, filled only with the soft crunch of their boots in the snow.

Kon reaches out, running a hand over the bark of one of the trees. It’s cold, but alive, and something about that feels oddly comforting.

“So, what do you grow here?” Kon asks, breaking the silence.

Tim tilts his head. “All kinds of stuff. Apples, peaches, plums—oh, and those weird hybrid oranges that Oswald had genetically modified so they wouldn’t die in Gotham’s climate.”

Kon blinks. “That’s a thing?”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah. You want one?”

Kon gives him a look.

“Tim. It’s winter.”

Tim, without breaking eye contact, reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a perfectly fine hybrid orange, and tosses it at him.

Kon catches it instinctively, staring at it with open suspicion.

“…Did you just have this in your pocket?”

Tim shrugs. “I prepare for things.”

Kon shakes his head, peeling the orange as they keep walking, popping a slice into his mouth as they head toward the aviary.

And when they step inside it’s climate controlled embrace, Kon freezes.

Because holy shit.

Birds.

So many birds.

Brightly colored ones, small ones, ones he doesn’t even recognize.

But most of all?

Pigeons.

Like, at least fifty different species of pigeons.

Kon stares.

“…Tim.”

Tim hums.

Kon turns to look at him, still in complete disbelief.

“How many kinds of pigeons are there?”

Tim does not hesitate.

“There are 344 recognized species of pigeons and doves.”

Kon gawks.

“What the hell—why do you know that?!”

Tim shrugs.

And, okay, Kon is just now realizing that most of these pigeons look like they used to be pets because these aren't just random city pigeons you could probably just walk up to and grab… well some of them are but that’s not the point.

They aren’t just random birds—they’re rescued birds.

His eyes narrow.

“…Tim.”

Tim does not like that tone.

Kon squints harder.

“…Did you steal these pigeons?”

Tim crosses his arms. “So what if I did?”

Kon’s jaw drops.

“You can’t just steal birds, Tim!”

Tim looks him dead in the eyes.

“They were in terrible, inadequate enclosures, Kon.”

Kon is speechless.

Tim looks extremely smug.

Kon groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Tim.”

“Kon.”

Kon stares at him.

Tim stares back.

Kon exhales heavily.

“…I cannot believe I’m dating you.”

Tim smirks. “Yes, you can.”

Kon groans again.

Kon watches the pigeons, his expression shifting as he really sees them.

He had been half-joking before, acting scandalized that Tim had stolen them, but now that he’s actually looking, really looking, using his great vision to take in the details, using X-ray Vision to scan them—

Yeah.

Yeah, okay.

These birds had been treated like absolute garbage.

Missing toes, likely from overcrowding, where they had been pecked off in desperation because their living spaces had been too cramped, too aggressive.

Lungs that never quite recovered, scarred from inhumane, disgusting conditions, evidence of past respiratory infections caused by the filth they’d been forced to live in.

And then there were the actual signs of abuse—not just neglect, but intentional harm. Pigeons with broken beaks that had since healed, ones with crooked wings from old, untreated fractures.

Kon frowns, deep and heavy.

Because like.

Who the hell does that to a pigeon???

Fine.

Fine.

He gets it now.

He’s on board.

Tim was completely justified in stealing every single one of these birds. Hell, he should’ve stolen more.

Tim laughs, catching the way Kon’s entire attitude shifts in real time.

Then, casually, like it’s nothing, Tim says—

"You wanted to know why I liked The Bride so much."

Kon jolts, blinking in surprise.

He hadn’t expected Tim to bring that back up.

But he nods, watching him carefully.

Tim exhales, shifting his weight as he watches the birds.

"It's funny, and it sucks, but she had no reason to be nice to me that night I met her." Tim says, voice lighter than his expression.

"She could have easily been pissed at me for almost ruining her job by just being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Kon frowns. Tim almost ruined her job? That was new information.

"Instead." Tim continues, huffing a little at the memory, "she picked me up by the scruff of my hoodie, tossed me behind her, and when she was done with her job—"

Kon watches as Tim’s lips twitch into a small, nostalgic smile.

"—while she looked unimpressed, she actually laughed when I told her how excited I was to meet her. And when I asked if I could take her picture?"

Tim shrugs, shaking his head.

"She let me."

Kon listens quietly, taking in the way Tim’s voice shifts, how there’s a warmth there, something genuine.

"It... it's hard to tell who is just being nice to you for something." Tim says, more softly this time.

And yeah, Kon knows what this is about now.

"Even if it's just a favour from a dead mother." Tim mutters, voice turning flat clealy talking about Oswald, "or if it's because I pulled them out of a dumpster—"

"Hey!" Kon laughs abruptly, desperate to lighten the mood before Tim spirals.

He grins, nudging Tim with his shoulder.

"Also, nah. I would have liked you even if you had just fallen face-first into the trash with me."

Tim gives him a look, but Kon means it.

Of course, Tim doesn’t believe that.

Because he can’t.

Because Tim is Tim, and the idea of someone liking him just for him is a hard pill to swallow. Tim looks at him and thinks no, lets be honest, Kon only gave him a chance because he proved himself, Kon would have just thought of him as a waste.

(Kon would argue black and blue that he’d love Tim even if Tim was a worm.)

Tim glances away, exhaling.

"Anyway." he says, clearing his throat, "She didn’t know me. In fact, I was probably more of a problem for her than anything, and she still liked me enough to let me take the photos and then tossed me her jacket."

Kon snorts, smirking.

"Which was basically trash at that point. Falling apart. Tim, let me put my jacket on you."

Tim raises a brow. Kon Purrs because his distraction is working, but also he knows Tim doesn’t like to dwell, so Tim is doing half the work.

"Oh, jealous?" Tim jokes back.

Kon glares.

"No." he says stubbornly. "I’m your boyfriend. You should be wearing mine too, even if you have to wear both. I don’t get cold. Wear it."

And then, before Tim can argue, Kon is already pulling off his leather jacket, aggressively trying to shove it onto him.

Tim dodges immediately.

Tim knows the exact moment Kon gets that look in his eye. The one that means he’s about to do something stubborn, ridiculous, or both. Before he can so much as prepare himself, Kon is already coming at him again with his jacket as he brandishes it like a weapon.

"Wear it." Kon demands, his voice full of that intense, overprotective tone he gets whenever he decides Tim is in need of his personal brand of care.

Tim is already backing away, hands raised. "Kon, it’s not even cold in here!"

But Kon isn’t hearing it. "Wear it!" he huffs, lunging forward, fully intent on shoving the jacket onto Tim by sheer force of will.

Tim does the only logical thing.

He dodges once again and books it.

With a quick pivot, he twists away from Kon’s outstretched arms and takes off in the opposite direction, laughing as he hops over the smooth stones lining the shallow stream in the aviary. His boots land lightly on the other side, and he spins around just in time to see Kon gape at him in absolute betrayal.

"You did not just—"

Tim grins, hands stuffed in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels, taunting.

Kon’s expression morphs into something dangerous. "Tim, get back here!"

The chase is immediate.

Kon moves like a force of nature, eyes locked on Tim like a predator hunting down prey. Tim, knowing exactly what kind of trouble he’s in, sprints further into the aviary, weaving between the lush greenery and stone pathways like his life depends on it. Kon, to his credit, isn’t even rushing at full speed—Tim knows that if he really wanted to, he could have tackled him already—but he’s clearly enjoying the game, his sharp grin matching the wild, playful energy in his eyes.

"You're just making this worse for yourself, y'know!" Kon calls out, floating a few inches off the ground now to avoid the uneven terrain. "You will be wearing my jacket!"

Tim laughs, ducking behind a broad tree and then darting around a flower-covered archway. "Over my dead body!"

"Don't tempt me, Babe!" Kon fires back, using his flight advantage to swoop over an obstacle Tim had to scramble around.

Tim narrowly avoids him, pivoting sharply and dashing towards a more enclosed section of the aviary, only to realize—ah, hell—he's backed himself into a corner. Behind him one of the walls separating the aviary from the outside, vines creeping up the edges, and in front of him—Kon lands, arms crossed, jacket still clutched in one hand, a triumphant smirk on his face.

Tim isn’t technically trapped—he could still attempt an escape, but it would involve some very questionable acrobatics and possibly a bruised ego if Kon decided to just grab him mid-air.

Still, he lifts his hands in a peace offering, grinning as he tries, "How about when we get back outside?"

Kon squints at him, considering. The silence stretches just long enough for Tim to wonder if he’s about to get tackled anyway, but then—

Kon sighs. Dramatically.

"Alright." he concedes, albeit begrudgingly. But then his lips stretch into a smug grin because at least he’s getting what he wants. "I guess."

Tim huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

Kon shrugs, smug. "And yet, you love me."

--

They lie down near the waterfall, the sound of cascading water filling the aviary with a gentle hush. The climate-controlled warmth wraps around them, making it easy to relax, even if Tim is still catching his breath from dodging Kon just moments ago.

Kon, the insufferable jerk, is not out of breath.

Which is so unfair.

"How the hell are you so good at dodging though?" Kon asks, shifting onto his side to face Tim, still baffled. "I know Bats—"

Tim laughs, stretching his arms behind his head.

"Yeah, when Bats got sick of beating me to a pulp, he shipped me off and I got beaten to a pulp by Lady Shiva instead."

Kon chokes.

Because, what—what??

Tim just—he just said that so casually.

Like it was nothing.

Kon stares at him, brain buffering, because okay, sure, he knew Tim had been trained—every Robin had. But the way Tim just said it, so offhandedly, so blasé, like Batman beating him to a pulp was just another Tuesday, and then Shiva—Lady Shiva, one of the deadliest assassins in the world—was apparently just round two?!

That was new.

That was horrifyingly new.

Tim, realising his slip, waves a dismissive hand, trying to play it off.

"I'm kidding, Kon." he says, though the forced lightness in his voice doesn't help. "Training is training. If it got a little rough, well—that just prepares you for the real world."

Kon doesn't care.

He stares.

Tim sighs.

"Can we just drop this?" Tim mutters, shifting uncomfortably. Then, as if trying to placate him, he adds, "If it helps, he's already been chewed out by both Alfred and Oswald. Oh and Dick"

Kon growls under his breath, ears twitching in irritation.

Because, no, that does not help.

He doesn’t want to drop it, but Tim is clearly not willing to talk about it.

Kon doesn’t want to push, but—goddamn.

Now he wants to punch Bruce in the face.

Which... is probably a bad idea.

Kon huffs, grumbling to himself, shifting onto his back and staring up at the glass ceiling of the aviary. He watches as a few birds flit between the branches of the carefully cultivated trees, forcing himself to focus on them instead of his rising frustration—

Only to suddenly feel a tug on his boot.

Kon blinks, sitting up.

A turkey vulture is standing right next to him, beady eyes locked onto his feet, a clawed foot firmly gripping the untied lace of his boot.

"Oi!" Kon jerks, twisting around as the bird scurries away, looking far too innocent for a bird that was very much caught in the act.

It doesn’t fly off, though.

It just hops away and… stands there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Tim props himself up on his elbows, amused.

"That’s Feathers." he says, grinning. "He likes stealing things.”

Kon glares at the bird.

Feathers glares back.

A silent standoff.

Then, finally, Kon sighs, standing up—

And immediately trips over his own undone shoelaces. The bird untie his shoelaces.

Tim bursts into laughter.

Like, actually bursts into full-body, unrestrained laughter.

Kon grumbles, pushing himself up, flushing slightly.

"You literally saw it pulling at your boots." Tim wheezes, struggling to catch his breath.

Kon scowls, but—

Okay.

Yeah.

That was kind of funny.

"I thought it was just pulling at the boot itself, not the shoelaces." he mutters, brushing himself off.

Feathers cackles, clearly thrilled by the chaos he’s caused.

Tim is still laughing.

Kon huffs.

Yeah, fine. Maybe that’s worth the humiliation.

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up with a sigh, the familiar weight pressing down on his chest. He’s not surprised this is just how Kon sleeps but still, the sheer mass of the guy makes it hard to breathe. Kon is sprawled on top of him, his head resting against Tim’s chest, arms wrapped around his stomach in a way that would be oppressively tight if Tim wasn’t so used to it by now.

He looks down at Kon and barely stops himself from laughing.

Kon, Guard Dog , Mr. “I’m a cuddlebug but only for Tim ” , is snuggled up like an overgrown teddy bear , his face soft and relaxed , his wild hair even messier than usual. Blackmail material.

Tim reaches for his phone.

He’s got a system for this.

Silent movements, quick taps, no flash Tim snaps a few perfectly angled photos.

One where Kon’s face is pressed into his chest, looking impossibly peaceful. Another where his arm is curled protectively around Tim’s waist, clutching him like a security blanket. And then the best one of all Tim tilts the camera down slightly and catches the thin line of drool trailing from Kon’s mouth onto Tim’s shirt.

Oh, this is gold.

Tim bites his lip, barely containing his amusement. He doesn’t even mind that his shirt is damp because, honestly? It’s worth it. Kon looks so completely unguarded, this giant Kryptonian hyena of a man, drooling all over Tim like some kind of giant, cuddly puppy.

Tim takes one last photo, making sure to capture Kon’s absurdly soft expression, before finally shifting beneath him.

And that’s when the feeling hits.

Something is wrong.

Not in the usual paranoia-tingling kind of way, but in a deep, stomach-dropping, instinctual kind of way.

Tim freezes, listening.

Silence.

Too much of it.

They’re in Penguin’s main residence in Gotham City, meaning they’re high up but this is Gotham. There’s always noise. Even at five in the morning, there should be the hum of traffic below, the occasional blare of sirens, the distant roar of some reckless biker gang tearing through the streets.

But right now?

Nothing.

The hair on the back of Tim’s neck stands up.

Carefully, he reaches for his Bo staff, wedging it between Kon’s arm and his side. With a practiced motion, he pries himself free it’s an art form, really. He’s been doing it for months, perfecting the escape from Kryptonian cuddle traps.

Kon grumbles in his sleep, rolling onto his side, hugging the pillow instead. Tim ignores him as he grabs his laptop and logs in.

What he finds is absolute chaos.

The news feeds are exploding.

Tim’s eyes flicker across the headlines, nothing, nothing new.

So his heart rate spiking he went to social media instead.

“Trapped in train, parents disappeared, checked the other cabins, even the driver is missing.”
“Uhh we were having dinner and I looked up and they were just gone.”
“No Adults Left?”

Tim seems to notice babies and pregnant women are just, gone??? Thankfully no half developed babies left here.

Tim clicks on a live feed from the other side of the world.

It’s night there, but not the kind of night where people should be asleep it’s dinner time. The time when families should be eating together, when businesses are still open. Except all the adults are just… gone.

Cars abandoned in the middle of the street. Trains stopped on the tracks. Some kids are stuck inside them, staring out the windows in confusion and growing fear. Others wander the streets, clutching their phones, trying to call parents who aren’t answering.

Tim’s mind races.

He bolts out of the room, his bare feet hitting the cold floors as he rushes into the foyer.

There should be security here.

At the very least, there should be casino employees downstairs, dealing with the usual Gotham nonsense.

But there’s no one.

The entire place is eerily still.

Behind him, there’s a muffled groan as Kon stirs.

Tim doesn’t stop moving, his fingers flying over his phone, trying to make sense of this. His brain is already compiling data, trying to find a pattern, an explanation

"Tim?"

Tim glances back.

Kon is standing in the doorway, his hair still sticking up from sleep, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, his eyes blurry with confusion.

But then Kon looks around.

And he notices.

No guards.

No staff.

No sound.

Kon’s expression shifts, his posture tensing as he fully wakes up. His eyes scan the room, his brows furrowing.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asks slowly, his voice lower than usual. He takes a step forward, glancing around the empty hallway, his fingers flexing like he’s bracing for a fight.

Then, he looks back at Tim.

"Where is everyone?"

Tim is already dialing numbers before Kon can even fully process what’s happening.

His fingers move fast, jumping from one contact to the next, calling anyone who might be able to help. Heroes, anti-heroes, mercenaries he doesn’t care. If they’re under eighteen and breathing, they’re getting a call.

The first few calls are frustrating. People don’t pick up, or they do, but they’re groggy and confused. Some of them don’t even believe him at first.

Then he calls Provoke.

Provoke is pissed to be getting a call from Tim, a hero, but the second Tim mentions payment, the mercenary’s tune changes immediately.

"You mean to tell me that every adult is gone?" Provoke asks, voice sharp with suspicion.

"Not just gone. Vanished. And kids are already starting to lose it."

Provoke goes silent for a long moment.

Then he says, "Alright. I’ll keep them from getting themselves killed, but I expect my payment in full when this is over."

Tim doesn’t argue. He just moves to the next call.

Thankfully, Dark Ranger picks up fast.

The kid is still part of the global Bat-affiliations, one of the few heroes who’s still technically underage but already has leadership skills. Tim gets brought up to speed, Dark Ranger is already organizing lesser-known kid heroes across different time zones, pulling together anyone who can help stop the rising chaos.

"I’ll get as many as I can." Dark Ranger promises. "But we don’t have a lot of time before kids start realizing they can do whatever they want."

"I know." Tim says. He’s counting on it.

Because after the grief? After the confusion?

Kids are going to go wild.

He barely even registers Kon’s voice behind him.

"Tim, what the hell is happening?" Kon asks. Again.

Tim doesn’t answer out loud, but he isn’t ignoring Kon either.

Instead, he grabs a notepad, scribbles something down while still talking into his comm, and shoves the paper toward Kon.

Kon grabs it, brows furrowing as he reads:

“Fly over Gotham. Look for any adults. Any at all.”

For once, Kon doesn’t argue.

Tim watches as he moves toward the penthouse window, and for once, instead of just crashing through it like a lunatic, Kon actually opens it first.

Then, he’s gone.

Tim barely has time to think about it before he’s back to coordinating a global response.

Fifteen minutes later, Kon returns.

His expression is grim as he lands, wind still whipping around him, but he doesn’t even need to say it.

Tim is already getting dressed.

Red Vulture’s gear is layered and tactical, designed for mobility but also protection. He pulls on his gloves, fixes the reinforced plating, and checks his weapons.

Kon doesn’t say anything.

He just nods once, confirming what Tim already knew.

There are no adults left in Gotham.

--

The morning has been absolute chaos.

Tim has had to pull together older teens who aren’t exactly heroes but have the experience the kids who, like him, had to grow up too fast.

He hires them on the spot, paying them out of his own funds to run food stalls at Gotham’s soup kitchens, making sure that every younger kid in the city has somewhere to go to eat and rest.

Because let’s be honest not every kid is going to be stoked about the sudden absence of adults.

Yeah, some are going to take advantage of it pull stunts, cause trouble, play out their villain or hero fantasies. But others?

Others are going to be lost.

They’re going to cry and panic and shut down.

They’re going to need someone to take charge.

So Tim does.

Most of the older teens he contacts refuse payment at first.

They try to act tough, saying, "Nah, you don’t gotta pay me for this. I ain't a merc."

Tim doesn’t even blink before deadpanning, “Child slavery is illegal.”

It works like a charm.

The second he says it, every single teen he calls starts laughing, and that’s all it takes before they agree to take the damn money.

With basic survival covered, Tim moves on to his next problem:

Children playing with real, actual guns.

He doesn’t have time to deal with every Gotham brat pretending to be Batman or the Joker, firing off stolen firearms from abandoned police stations or looted pawn shops.

So?

He makes a judgment call.

"Fuck it."

Tim smashes open every single toy store he can find.

Breaks in, rips open every case filled with plastic weapons, foam swords, water guns, anything that’s not lethal, and starts handing them out.

It works.

Instead of idiots shooting real bullets, he sees kids running around with Nerf guns and lightsabers, smacking each other with cheap plastic katanas.

It’s not perfect, but it’s damage control.

He barely gets a second to breathe before he hears the unmistakable roar of a fighter jet overhead.

His head snaps up.

That is not a toy.

Kon, standing next to him in full Guard Dog gear, sees it too. His tail flicks.

Tim doesn’t have to say anything.

Kon already knows.

"On it."

And then he’s gone launching himself into the air, full-speed toward the jet.

Tim is already on his bike before Kon even reaches the cockpit, tearing through Gotham’s streets as he follows the unfolding aerial disaster.

It takes longer to chase down a military-grade aircraft, but not that long.

By the time Tim arrives at the scene, Guard Dog already has the jet grounded.

Kon is standing next to the weeping would-be pilot, a kid who couldn’t be older than fourteen, and the fighter jet is miraculously intact.

Not for lack of trying, though.

Tim can see where Kon had to rip open part of the fuselage to get the kid out.

The moment he gets off his bike, Impulse arrives in a flash of lightning-speed motion.

"Whoa, WHOA, WHOA!" Impulse bounces on his heels. "Red Vulture, my dude, what the actual hell is going on? Where did all the adults go? Are we in some kind of post-apocalyptic Lord of the Flies situation, or?"

Tim sighs.

One problem with being the detective?

Everyone expects him to have the answers.

Even when he doesn’t.

Tim explains his theory quickly, running through the facts as he knows them:

• Adults haven’t disappeared permanently they’re missing, not dead.

• This isn’t random. It’s targeted.

• The world isn’t fully collapsing… yet.

Before he can go deeper, every screen in Gotham lights up.

The same broadcast plays across every channel.

A blurred, glitchy image of Billy Batson appears on the screen.

Tim’s entire body goes tense.

"Billy Batson. We need to get to him."

Guard Dog groans beside him.

"That guy?"

Tim glares.

"Yes. That guy. He is the key to getting in contact with the adults."

Tim adjusts his gloves, face set in determination.

"We need to find him. Fast."

--

They make it to Billy Batson’s location, tracking the broadcast back to its source.

Impulse, of course, has invited himself along which is fine, except for the fact that Impulse cannot sit still or keep quiet for more than two seconds.

So when they arrive, Red Vulture quickly assigns Guard Dog a very important mission:

"Distract Impulse."

Guard Dog raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Seriously?"

Tim just stares at him.

Guard Dog groans, but he does it.

While Kon does his best to keep Impulse busy, Tim makes his way over to Billy.

The kid looks small.

Not just physically, but emotionally.

Tim had been expecting a little more confidence this is still Billy Batson, the kid who wields the power of the gods, the kid who can turn into the literal Champion of Magic. He’s also the one sending out calls telling kids to calm down and remain inside.

But looking at him now, Tim realizes

Billy is scared.

And not just in a "things are bad" kind of way.

He is terrified.

His fingers keep twitching, his body is tensed like a coiled spring, and his eyes won’t meet Tim’s for more than a second.

Tim gets it.

“I, I know why you’re here.” Billy says looking up at Red Vulture.

And it doesn’t take much to figure out why.
But Billy continues “But I can’t.”

Tim sighs he knows he could just say “Billy, you’re afraid that if you say the words, you’ll die."
But that is too blunt, instead he says “I’ve calculated the odds, the fact that infants are missing too, makes it all the more likely that the adults aren’t … permanently gone.”

Billy flinches. He doesn’t want to do it.

His jaw tightens, and his hands clench into tiny fists, but he doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

Tim already knows the answer.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, thinking.

The logical thing to do would be to tell Billy that this might be their only shot that turning into Captain Marvel could be the only way to fix this mess. Get a message through to the adult hero’s that they are alive.

But Tim can’t say that.

Because Billy is just a kid.

Because even though Tim is more than willing to throw himself into danger, even though he has made sacrifice after sacrifice, and he would have no quarrel in taking the risk himself… he will not force that on someone else.

Billy is young.

Too young.

Tim kneels down in front of him, keeping his voice calm and steady.

"Billy, I won’t make you do it."

Billy blinks.

Tim keeps going.

"If you don’t want to say the words, then you don’t have to. I’m not going to force you. We’ll figure something else out."

Billy stares at him for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the catch, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

But there isn’t a catch.

Tim means it.

And eventually, Billy nods.

Tim gets back to his feet just as he turns and walks to Guard Dog and Impulse.

"Red, did you get anywhere?" Guard Dog asks.

Tim shakes his head.

Guard Dog sighs.

Impulse, on the other hand, just looks confused. He doesn’t know Billy’s hero identity.

Tim doesn’t explain. He just says, "We’re not forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do. We’ll find another way."

Impulse beams at that, which is unexpected. But for the last few milliseconds while Tim just said that he had noticed the boy going somewhere just from the blur.

And then, grinning, Impulse says, "Good thing I found something super weird that you guys are gonna wanna check out!"

And just like that, he’s gone, zipping ahead.

Tim sighs.

He knows he should be used to this by now.

But still.

"I hate speedsters."

Guard Dog snorts.

Tim looks at his bike, debating if it’s worth trying to follow Impulse the normal way.

But considering Impulse just casually ran across half the city in less than a second?

Yeah.

He’s not catching up that way.

Tim just sends his bike back home remotely and turns to Guard Dog.

"You’re carrying me."

Guard Dog smirks.

"You just want an excuse to be held, huh?"

Tim glares. "Shut up and fly."

Kon grins wider but obliges, scooping Tim up before launching into the air.

They follow after Impulse, tracking his rapid movements, until they finally reach the location he wanted to show them.

Happy Harbor.

And what they see?

It sure as hell isn’t normal.

The entire place looks like something out of a twisted nightmare.

The air feels thick, like static electricity is humming under their skin.

Buildings look distorted, like they’re bending in ways they shouldn’t be able to.

The streets? Empty.

Not just empty wrong.

There’s an eerie, unnatural silence, like the city itself is holding its breath.

Tim has seen a lot of weird shit in his life. So he knows what this is.

This, this is clearly Magic… or Magick, or any numbers of the different types or names.

Chapter Text

The air in the lair is thick and heavy, humming with a strange, unsettling energy.

Tim, Kon and Bart had barely managed to crawl their way out of the death pit, avoiding the jaws of the Nazi dinosaur that had nearly crushed them.

But now?

Now they were deeper inside what was definitely the lair of whoever had caused all this.

Tim doesn’t like it.

There’s something off about the place.

Something that doesn’t sit right in his gut. Tim mentions that maybe this place feeds off there nightmares.

And then

Kon says something.

Something casual.

Something about their worst villains.

And then

Poof.

Tim’s vision warps, distorts, bends in on itself.

And suddenly, they’re not in the lair anymore.

Suddenly, Tim is standing in a twisted, dreamlike version of Gotham, the city warped and wrong, like something pulled out of his nightmares.

Kon is gone.

And when Tim turns

He comes face to face with his worst nightmare.

But it’s not the Joker.

No.

It’s himself.

Or rather, it’s a Jokerfied version of himself a version where the Joker had won, where Tim had lost.

And it doesn’t stop there.

Because as he turns, he sees Jack.

Not his father, but portraits of him.

Portraits that move, twist, sneer, and speak.

"You're happy now that your old man is dead, aren’t you?" the portrait of Jack hisses, curling into an ugly sneer.

Tim grits his teeth.

"You should’ve killed him years ago." Joker Tim says. Another jack portrait with a voice mocking, cruel, says. "Should have Killed me yourself at least. Shouldn’t have relied on the Joker to do it for you."

Tim’s stomach twists.

"I never wanted my dad dead." he says sharply, voice flat. "I just… I just wanted him to be better."

Joker-Tim laughs.

The sound is wrong, grating, like glass grinding against metal.

"Maybe if you had been anything like Kon." Joker-Tim grins, teeth sharp and wrong, "or your new friend, maybe your father would’ve loved you. Maybe you didn’t do enough to be lovable."

Tim swallows, glaring.

"Maybe." Joker-Tim tilts his head, "you're just a weak little kid with no powers, not even close to as good as the Bats and Robins before you."

Tim breathes through his nose.

Okay.

Okay.

He gets it now.

This whole place?

It’s using their imaginations against them.

Which means

Tim grits his teeth, mind racing.

Kon.

Kon is probably fighting his worst nightmare too.

And what was that?

Kryptonite.

Tim realizes it instantly.

Not having powers, not having weaknesses it was exactly what put him a step ahead of Kon’s nightmare.

Kon was probably fighting someone like Metallo, and Kryptonite?

That was just a rock to Tim.

Tim focuses.

Imagines a portal.

Imagines an exit, a way in.

And then

It appears.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He jumps through, tumbling into a nightmare world of red sunlight and green-glowing death.

Kon is fighting Metallo, dodging a constant barrage of Kryptonite attacks, and Guard Dog, clearly confused, is trying to keep up.

Tim grins, adjusting his gloves.

"Hey, Kon!" he calls, smirking. "Tag me in!"

Kon, still mid-dodge, doesn’t hesitate.

He dives back, letting Tim take his place.

Metallo turns to him, confused.

Tim spins his bo staff, twirling it between his fingers.

"Kryptonite?" he grins, cocking his head. "It's just a rock to me."

And then he swings, slamming his staff into Metallo’s jaw.

Kon, watching from the sidelines, finally gets what Tim’s doing.

So he moves to do the same

To get to Impulse.

--

Guard Dog moves fast.

Too fast for Gorilla Grodd to react, and even though Impulse had been handling it, he still appreciates the break.

One second, he’s fighting for his life against a hyper-intelligent psychic gorilla

The next?

He’s somewhere else.

Impulse blinks, adjusting to the weird, warped space he’s suddenly in.

"Okay, cool, weird nightmare land." he mutters. "Got it. Shoulda expected that."

Then, he spots someone in front of him.

A kid?

A kid version of the Joker?

Impulse quirks a brow.

He doesn’t know much about the Joker never fought him personally but something about this one looks... off.

Not in a Joker way.

More in a something is deeply wrong way.

But whatever.

Impulse shrugs it off.

Doesn’t matter.

Nightmare, enemy doesn’t matter who or what it is, all he has to do is win.

And, honestly?

Man, he’s glad they have someone like Red Vulture on their side, because without him?

He and Guard Dog would probably still be stuck in their own nightmares.

The weird teen Joker tilts his head, humming.

Then he chuckles.

And

Oh.

That voice.

That’s... definitely Red Vulture’s voice.

Huh.

Weird.

Impulse doesn’t care.

"Well, well." the weird Joker says, grinning too wide, "this is a surprise. I suppose it makes sense. Well, I’m not designed to tear down others, so I will concede soon."

Good.

Impulse smirks.

Otherwise, he’d just annoy this nightmare to death.

Before he can fire off a quip, though

"WORTHLESS!"

Impulse jumps as a painting a moving, sneering painting yells at him.

"Of course my son chooses people better than him to be surrounded by."

Impulse blinks.

Quirks his head.

"The hell are you yappin' about?" he says.

But the painting just glares.

And

Before he can react, before he even realizes it

The weird teen Joker grabs him.

Silently.

Grinning.

And Impulse freezes.

Because

Because this up-close?

This isn’t just Joker-like.

The kid’s lips are fully torn open into a permanent smile.

And that’s

That’s not right.

The Joker-kid leans in.

"Please tell Red Vulture." he whispers, voice low, "that he will not escape me."

Impulse’s stomach twists.

"When he stops being so pathetic." the Joker-kid continues, "so worthless-"

His grin stretches wider.

"I’ll be back."

And then, in a horrifying cackle

The nightmare shatters.

But not before it slams something into Impulse’s brain.

Not before it forces him to see.

Torture.

Days of it.

No

A month of it.

Eyes and mouth sewn open.

Pain.

Every day.

Suffering.

Every day.

And

And

And then he’s out.

Just like that.

Everything is clear again.

The nightmare is gone.

But the memories?

Those linger.

Red Vulture and Guard Dog look triumphant.

Tim smiles at him, clearly about to say something

Clearly about to congratulate him for beating his nightmare

Until he sees Impulse’s face.

Until he sees how pale he is.

And then

Impulse throws up.

He doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed.

Because it

It won’t leave his head.

It’s not his memories.

It’s Red Vulture’s.

And it’s

It’s so much worse than he ever imagined.

A hand is on his back.

Red Vulture is rubbing his back.

"Let it out." Tim says, softly.

Apologizing.

Like it’s his fault.

Impulse shudders.

Because now he knows.

Now he knows what Tim went through.

And it’s...

It’s so much worse than anything he could have ever guessed.

--

Guard Dog watches Impulse choke on his words, eyes darting to Red Vulture, concern clear in his face.

Because

What the hell was Tim's nightmare villain?

Impulse struggles for a moment, his breathing uneven. He looks at Tim really looks at him searching for something in the parts of his face that aren't hidden by the vulture-like cowl. The sharp angles of the mask don't hide the tension in Red Vulture's jaw or the tightness around his mouth. Tim knows what Impulse is about to say.

Knows.

And pleads with his eyes, silently begging him not to say it.

Not here.

Not now.

Impulse hesitates. The words sit heavy on his tongue it was you, he wants to say. That Joker-kid, that thing it was Red Vulture. Or... what could have been Red Vulture.

But then he glances at Guard Dog.

And, oh.

Oh, no, Guard Dog looks like he’s about to panic.

Not just worry, panic.

Because he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what Tim saw in there, just that it was bad.

And, yikes.

Yeah, it was bad.

But now isn’t the time for panic.

So Impulse does what he does best.

He redirects.

"That was sure something." he says instead, voice maybe a little too loud, too forced, but who cares.

Then

He jumps up and down, shaking himself off, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Like if he moves fast enough, he can just outrun what he saw.

Just leave it behind.

His mind runs fast, after all.

He can shove it down.

He didn’t see that.

Totally.

Totally didn’t see that.

No need to think about the phantom pain lingering in his eyes and mouth. No need to dwell on the raw, aching horror that isn’t even his.

Impulse wasn’t even the one who actually got hurt.

That was Red Vulture.

So Bart needs to stop thinking about it.

Move on.

Forget.

And soon enough

Yeah.

Yeah, he’s good.

Good enough, anyway.

"Okay, ready, let’s keep going!" Impulse beams, as if nothing happened, grinning at his new friends.

And

Red Vulture sees through it.

Of course he does.

But he doesn’t call him out on it.

He just smiles, soft and grateful, a little sad but so, so thankful.

Guard Dog, though?

He looks suspicious.

Impulse gets it.

Makes sense.

Guard Dog and Red Vulture are partners. They battle together, watch each other's backs.

And some people say Guard Dog’s name isn’t just how he protects people and watches over them, about how fiercely loyal he is,

It’s about who he’s loyal to.

And if Impulse had to guess?

It’s Red Vulture.

--

Finally, after what felt like an endless struggle, they reach the kid. The fight with him was no easy task either when Bart’s imagination kept spawning endless things to fight until Bart realised he could treat it like a video game and realise he could Imagine a Reset.

The poor kid.

Tim had been bracing himself for more of a fight when he got close, for the kind of battle that tears through flesh and bone, that leaves bruises that linger under skin and scars that don't fade. But looking at the boy now really looking at him Tim realizes this isn't a battle they can win with fists.

Because the kid isn't himself anymore.

He’s possessed.

That much is obvious.

The deep purple glow flickering behind his eyes, the way his face twists with something that isn't his own emotion, the raw, pulsing magic swirling around him all of it is evidence of the massive, nightmarish entity that holds him hostage.

Bedlam.

That's what the kid calls himself.

Or maybe that's just what the thing inside him calls him.

Either way, Tim knows what he has to do.

So, he talks. Like a hostage situation, like when he talks down people from gotham bridge, hopefully he won’t fail at it like he sometimes has, has to listen to the crash of water from the Gotham harbour below if he’s too slow to get there.

He keeps his voice steady, gentle. Not demanding, not forceful just understanding.

"Hey, kid." Red Vulture says, stepping forward. "Aren’t you tired?"

Bedlam snarls, but there’s something hesitant in his expression. A flicker of uncertainty.

Tim seizes on it.

"It’s been a long fight, huh? You don’t have to stop forever. Just... take a quick break. Rest for a little while."

Bedlam’s form wavers, just slightly.

Tim keeps going.

"I know you’re not a bad kid. I know this isn’t what you wanted. Just rest, okay, for a little bit.

And

It works.

The magic recoils. The glow dims. The monstrous force possessing the kid lets out a terrible, otherworldly wail

It shrinks more and more as the Kid starts to regain control.

And then it’s gone.

Just like that.

Bedlam no, the kid collapses.

Tim lunges forward and catches him before he can hit the ground.

And suddenly, the fight is over.

The adults are back.

Apparently, Billy had pushed past his fear, reached out, and called for help.

Now, the League is here, wrapping up what’s left of the chaos, helping the civilians, taking over where the younger heroes had been forced to stand alone.

And everyone else?

They’re celebrating.

They won.

They actually won.

But Tim

Tim isn’t celebrating.

Tim is checking on the kid.

His pulse. His breathing. The rhythm of his heart.

Steady. Alive.

But...

Unresponsive.

And that’s when Batman is there.

Of course he is.

Batman never celebrates, either.

He’s by Tim’s side in an instant, checking the boy just as carefully.

Soon enough, medics arrive, moving the kid onto a stretcher, taking him away

Still unconscious.

Tim swallows, his stomach twisting.

"He’s in a coma." one of the medics confirms.

And Tim

Tim feels sick.

Because he told him to rest.

He told Bedlam to rest.

But only for a little while.

Just a nap. Just a break.

Did he?

Did Tim somehow do this?

Did his words put the kid in a coma?

Magic is stupid and horrible and it likes to play tricks.

Batman notices the spiral before it even fully starts. His hand lands firm and reassuring on Tim’s shoulder.

"It is not your fault." Batman says, voice calm but certain. "I even got Zatanna to confirm. The way you phrased it if it was magic it should have just been a nap. This is just the aftereffects of the curse."

Tim swallows hard. Nods.

Zatanna steps forward, adding, "You were so careful with your words, Tim. So smart, so quick-thinking. This is not your fault. And who knows? Maybe him going to sleep was the best thing that could have happened. Maybe if you hadn’t told him to rest, he’d still be in a coma but awake. Trapped in his body, unable to sleep, unable to escape."

She offers him a small, hopeful smile.

"For now, at least, he can dream."

Tim exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Nods again, more slowly this time.

And then

He’s half-tackled by Guard Dog.

The bigger teen slings an arm over his shoulder, laughing.

"Quit with the pity party!" Kon huffs, grinning ear to ear. "We won! Wonder Woman told us we were heroes, Red. Wonder Woman!"

Tim forces himself to smile.

Because he should be happy, right?

Because Kon and Bart are happy.

Because they won.

But Kon watches him closely.

And

That damn smile.

It’s the gala smile.

That carefully perfected, picture-perfect, press-ready smile.

And Kon knows.

Tim isn’t happy.

He’s just pretending.