Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

glory

[ˈɡlɔːri]

noun

1. high renown or honour won by notable achievements
2. magnificence or great beauty

This story starts, as it will end, with the sun.

…

The sunlight pooling through the large windows of the top layer of Mount Justice dapples gently on Tim’s skin, leaving him feeling as soothed as if it were water. There is lots of noise and action around him, but in this moment, Tim is peaceful. He is finally able to rest his eyes in a place where he can feel safe, where he knows he-

Thwack

The controller hits him square on the nose, jolting him out of his reverie and straight back into the misery that is his default state.

“Bart.” Tim huffs, lifting his head off of Kon’s leg (which he had been using as a pillow) and squinting at the speedster. “What the fuck.”

“Sorry!” Bart squeaks, darting over to pick up his controller, then retreat to a safe distance. They’re playing some kind of game which requires the controllers to be moved in order to win, hence the velocity which it was unintentionally hurled at Tim’s head. Tim’s pretty sure it’s the Mario Olympics, but he honestly doesn’t care. Due to the antics of three over-powered teenagers, he has already had to fix seven controllers today. He doesn’t want it to be an eighth. Curse super-strength and it’s effects on weak technology. Tim’s going to have to look into super-proofing his tech again, isn’t he?

Just when he has officially decided to lay back down and ignore the shit show of a posturing contest that is his friends playing a game, his cat Squish decides to jump onto his face and smother him. Great. He pulls her away with a frown, which she responds to with wide, innocent eyes. Manipulative bitch. He loves her.

Kon has, apparently, been watching this whole interaction, because he laughs gently and scratches Squish behind the ear.

“How dare you take her side over mine!” Tim huffs, lowering himself and Squish back down onto Kon’s thigh, resting his head there once it gets too heavy to hold on his own.

“Oh, come on now,” Kon grins, “It was just one murder attempt. Surely we can look past it!”

He looks back at Squish. “Yeah, for her I can. It’s another story with that fucking Demon-Brat.”

Kon winces in solidarity. “Yeah, that’s… yikes.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get rid of me so that he can have ‘his turn’ being Robin.”

“That’s fucking stupid.”

Tim groans. “I know! But, why else would he do it? I mean, he’s always going on about how he’s the ‘blood son’ and shit, and he definitely feels like Robin is his… I don’t know, his birthright? Something like that.”

“But they can’t just… he can’t just take Robin from you, can he?”

“I took it from Jason,” Tim point out, helpfully, which earns him a gentle slap on the forehead.

“That was different and you know it. He couldn’t uphold the mantle. Not only are you upholding it, you’re doing a damn good job of it, so Batman has no reason to take it from you.”

Tim sighs, and focuses on a spot of paint on the ceiling. “B won’t take it from me. I’m pretty sure. Maybe he’ll make a new moniker for Damian, or maybe he’ll give it to him when I grow out of it. He’s only 10, after all. Even so, I reckon if I die under ‘suspicious circumstances’ he will be next in line.”

“Bullshit. I’ll tell them it’s his fault if that happens.”

Tim hums. “Yeah, you tell them.” His eyes flicker shut, and he’s out like a light.

…

When he wakes again, the afternoon sun has slipped below the window-sill, bathing the room in a red-ish light. Cassie, Bart and Kon are sat around the coffee table with a pack of Uno: talking and chattering away. Conversation slips into a discussion about the plans for the afternoon, which appear to revolve around food. Kon mentions the possibility of making cookies, which makes Bart perk up instantly.

“We need to make cookies together. It’s a bonding experience.”

“I think we’re already pretty bound.” Tim argues, deciding to make his presence known in the conversation by gesturing at where they are all sat around the sofas, barely a few inches between them.

“Yeah trauma bonded.” Cassie argues. “We could do with some actual team bonding.”

“Fine. We’ll bake cookies.” Tim relents, despite never really being against it in the first place. Before he’s even finished his sentence, Bart is darting out of the room, presumably to source whatever ingredients he thinks they’ll need. Tim just hopes it’s a reasonable amount of chocolate chips this time. 20 bags was far too many.

In the meantime, Cassie pulls them into the kitchen, handing both of them aprons and little chef hats. Tim had absolutely no idea they had these, as barely anyone even uses the kitchen, which is reflected by its’ small size. Tim is rich enough that they can order from whatever restaurant they want, and on the nights they can’t be bothered, they have enough pot noodles to feed a small army. Tim doesn’t really know how to cook- he’s never had the chance or reason to learn- but he knows that Kon and Cassie have at least a vague idea. He’s pretty sure Ma Kent would die before letting one of her boys get away without basic life skills.

Kon slips on his apron, which is a blinding pink with the words ‘Kiss the cook’ emblazoned across the front. He puffs his chest proudly, showing off the apron to Tim and Cassie, who both coo appreciatively. Tim helps him tie the back of the apron with dexterous fingers, then plants a kiss on the side of his jaw.

“Ew!” Cassie admonishes. “Not in the kitchen!”

“I was just following the instructions.” Tim argues with false-innocence, gesturing to the apron.

“Just get your fucking apron on, idiot.” Cassie says, while rolling her eyes. Tim’s own apron is black, with the words ‘King of the grill’ emblazoned in a fire-y font. The only vaguely normal apron is Cassie’s, which is blue with a single white word on it. The only thing strange is that the word is ‘Kelly’, a name that none of them have and no one who has ever lived here has had.

Tim has long ago given up on questioning things like this. Instead, he helps Cassie with tying her apron, then turns to allow her to do the same for him. He instantly regrets this, because Cassie snatches his waist so tight he feels like a Victorian woman in a corset who doesn’t have any ribs. Damn, those women were soldiers. 

Before he can object, and beg to be freed from his apron-based prison, a familiar gust of wind announces the return of the fourth of their number. Bart dumps the groceries on the small kitchen counter, and quickly hurries into an apron of his own (bright red, with the yellow word ‘princess’ on it).

They make short work of the dough, mixing and rolling it with ease. Tim mainly stays by the side and watches Kon’s arms as he kneads the dough (he’s a simple guy, alright?) and tries to stop Bart eating the raw cookie dough (“You’ll get salmonella!” “I don’t care!”)

Once the dough is finished, it occurs to them that they should use cookie cutters, which apparently they have; despite none of them having ever needed or used them before. (Tim is very convinced that the mountain is haunted, or at least a bit alive.) The only cutters they manage to find appear to be Halloween themed (further proving the ghost theory) with little pumpkins and ghosts. Tim argues that they can just use a knife to cut circles, but that idea is instantly and aggressively vetoed by the rest of the group, so Tim can just go fuck himself, he supposes.

Bart and Kon cut out the shapes, while Tim and Cassie prep the baking sheets and pre-heat the oven. They both agree that making the boys attempt to do maths or handle any kind of machine is a terrible idea, so insist on being the ones to slide the (slightly misshapen) cookies into the oven. The next half an hour is spent frantically attempting to make white, green, black and orange icing, as well as sourcing the sweets to stick on. They get so distracted in their escapades, that they almost forget to take the cookies out of the oven, resulting in slightly charred edges.

The cookies have not held their shape, having spread in the oven and turning into vaguely spherical clumps. Unfortunately, they’ve already planned the colours in accordance with the designs; so Bart decides that they will just have to decorate them to look how they are mean to. This perks the everyone up somewhat, and they all bustle around grabbing piping bags full of icing, while chatting amiably. Kon grabs Tim’s hand while they lean against the counters, waiting for further instruction.

 “Right!” Cassie announces. “We need to make a production line. Bart; you and I be on flood-icing duty, because I don’t trust you to not mess up the details, and it’s a big job so I need to help.” The Bart frowns in offense, but doesn’t deny it. “Tim, are you artistically minded?” 

“I would like to think so?”

“Great. Tim will be on details.”

“Wait, what about me!” Kon complains.

“You can be in charge of sticking the little sweets on the ghost’s hands, how about that?”

Kon seems childishly pleased with this turn of events, and lets go of Tim’s hand to join the others in their endeavours. Tim just sighs and turns to his new work.

…

They have a great system going. They stand in a line along the counter, each armed with piping bags, and a mission. Bart is in charge of flood-icing the ghosts, then handing them to Kon to stick little gem-like gummies to their hands. He then passes them to Tim to add the details. Much to Bart’s amusement, Kon insists on kissing Tim with each cookie he passes, which is certainly slowing down production somewhat, but is definitely increasing the overall mood of the room.

 Similarly, Cassie floods the pumpkins with bright orange icing, then passes them down to Tim to add the details like the face and stalk. Though, thankfully, her passing is sans-kisses.

At some point, Tim hears a disappointed huff from Kon, and an accompanying complaint about running out of sweets.

(“Well, if you hadn’t eaten half of them,”)

With a small smile to himself, Tim continues piping out intricate drawings on the cookies, until he feels hands snake around his waist, hugging him from behind. He stiffens automatically, until he feels a chin plop down on his shoulder, and sees a familiar shock of black hair out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey Cloneboy.” He says as evenly as possible.

“Hey Rob.” Kon grins into his shoulder.

“Oi, Kent!” Cassie laughs, pulling at Kon’s shoulder. “Stop distracting Tim! He’s the best artist out of all of us here, he doesn’t need you mucking up his art.”

 “Nah, he’s fine.” Tim interjects, honestly enjoying the warmth emanating from Kon.

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Cassie laughs, winking at him.

Tim sticks out his tongue at her, and turns back to his work; only to notice a large bite taken out of the side.

“Hey! What happened to my Cookie!”

“Nothing…” Kon mumbles through what is clearly a mouthful of cookie. Tim gasps in mock-offense, before picking up a pot of icing and turning around abruptly to smear some on Kon’s nose. Kon gasps in response, and it soon turns into a full-on icing battle, though neither of them seem to want to step away from the warm circle they have created between them, which makes it quite difficult.

When Cassie and Bart catch wind of the battle, however, it becomes an all-out war.

 Within minutes, everyone is covered from head to toe in icing, the carefully painted cookies long forgotten. Tim dodges and weaves as flying attacks come from all sides, frosting flying around the room, sticking to walls and sliding down cupboards. Bart is now bright green, and wielding a pot of orange like a maniac, chasing Kon (at human speed) around the room. Tim has cornered Cassie between the counter and the fridge, and is flicking white icing at her in huge globs, while she shrieks and cowers.

In a shocking move, Kon pretends to slip on a patch of icing to distract Bart, then uses his TTK to flip Bart’s pot of icing into his face. Bart flails and cries out in despair, sinking to the ground to lay by Cassie, who has given up on all hope. Kon circles his arm around Tim’s waist and grins into his hair, looking at the destruction they’ve caused. “How’s that for a power couple. We can defeat anyone!”

Tim grins, and rocks up on his tiptoes to pull Kon into a kiss. It’s sweet, the remnants of frosting coating both their lips, but Tim breaks it abruptly, pouring the bowl of Icing over Kon’s head. “Never let your guard down, Kon. Enemies are everywhere.”

Kon shrieks, causing Cassie and Bart to cackle and pull him down to join them on the floor. They whisper for a moment, before collectively turning to face Tim, who begins to back away.

“Wait, no, I didn’t… wait!”

Before he can properly escape, the three of them gang up on him, pouring icing over his head, and rubbing it all up and down his arms.

“Eurgh! Fuck you guys.” He screams, while they pull him down to the floor with them, into a big sticky pile.

…

They decide to shower before eating the cookies, because despite how fun it was; the icing felt really weird while drying, so they all agreed it needed to go. Bart was tasked with cleaning the kitchen, as he made the most mess and could clean it up the fastest.

Tim steps out of the en-suite, teasing a towel through his wet hair. It’s gotten longer in the last couple of months; missions getting in the way of appointments, but Tim finds he actually quite likes it. Kon likes it too, if the way his eyes trail to the nape of his neck where the wet tendrils stick to his skin is any indication.

“Hey,” Tim announces, breaking the comfortable silence, and moving to sit on the bed. Kon had insisted Tim shower first, like a proper gentleman, so he is just sat on the edge of the bed in his icing sodden clothes. (Tim insisted Kon sit on a towel so he didn’t get the duvet dirty).

“It’s all yours.” Tim acquiesces, nodding his head towards the bathroom. Kon grins and ducks his head in to press a quick kiss to Tim’s lips before darting towards the bathroom, clearly ready to de-icing-ify. Tim grins and flops back down onto the bed.

It’s their bed these days. They made it official a few months ago, when it became clear that Tim was spending more time sleeping in Kon’s bed than his own. This was, of course, all a long-winded ploy on Tim’s part to slowly integrate himself into Kon’s room. Totally not due to Tim’s inability to stay awake when in Kon’s company for too long, because he lets himself relax for once in his life. No, that would be ridiculous.

It also just made sense, because Tim has a habit of working on the bed in his room; leaving it covered in gadget parts and papers, and it would get to a point where he would just choose not to sleep, rather than attempt to tidy.

So yeah, all in all, the mission was a success in that sense. Now Tim gets to share a room with his wonderful boyfriend, and a home with his amazing teammates, and pretend that he doesn’t have to go back to Gotham on the weekdays. That’s the worst part, if he’s honest. Not that Tim is one to begrudge Gotham, he loves his city more than life itself, it’s just… well, it’s a lot right now. Jason is in the middle of one of his ‘you don’t love me, dad’ tirades, Dick is running himself spare trying to get his emotionally constipated family to connect, and Damian is… well, Damian.

When a short 10 year old showed up on the front door step claiming to be Bruce’s biological son, Tim didn’t know what to expect. He expected to be ignored, treated like the middle-child he was always meant to be; but what he hadn’t expected was to have attempts on his life on a daily basis. And sure, he gets it. The kid’s traumatised, and he’s threatened by Tim’s existence, and he’s taking it out in the only way he knows how (and a thousand other excuses Dick has made), but it doesn’t really change anything. Tim still has to test his tea for arsenic, and avoid broken glass on his shower floor. Constant vigilance. He never gets a break.

So yeah, in Gotham, he’ll let his life be risked and his spirit be broken by a child who at best, doesn’t care for him, and at worst actively wishes death upon him. But here, in California, with his team? He can just… be.

It kind of sucks that he spends the majority of his time with them sleeping, but he has to catch up on a week’s worth of dodgy nights, where he wakes at any slight sound, or doesn’t sleep at all for fear of Damian showing up at his door with a knife. Again. His team don’t seem to mind, though, and he loves them all the more for it. Unlike his family, they want him around, even when he isn’t actively contributing anything. He loves them so much.

Squish jumps up onto the bed next to him, and curls up on his pale bare torso. With her gentle warmth and soft purring, as well as the quiet humming from Kon the next room over, it’s barely a minute before he’s asleep once more.

…

At some point, he stirs enough to be fed a (frankly disgusting) cookie, and watch five minutes of a movie with the others, but after a while even Bart decides its time to call it a night. They leave the movie half finished, with the promise to come back to it the next day.

Cassie and Bart head back to their bedrooms, but Kon insists on carrying Tim bridal-style back to theirs, because he’s a dork. He is also an incredibly ungainly dork, so he dumps Tim unceremoniously onto the bed, before wriggling under the covers to join him. Tim gives him a defeated look, but permits Kon’s arm to snake around his waist and pull him into a hug.

One thing about Kon, is that he’s a hugger. Tim had the (mis)fortune of discovering this one time on a mission in Barbados, when the four of them had been sleeping on the floor in some abandoned warehouse and Kon had decided that Tim was his nearest target. That had been a sleepless night for hopelessly pining 14 year old Tim.

At this point, however, Tim is used to Kon’s antics. Enjoys them, even. He is self-aware enough to accept that he is terminally touch starved, so the more cuddles he can get the better. Also, they’re comfy.

Tim is wearing an old Superboy shirt, which he’s pretty sure was Kon’s. It was definitely Barts for a while, though, maybe even Cassie’s, but it’s Tim’s now. They tend to share clothes as a team, to the extent where sometimes Tim forgets who originally owned the item. It’s even worse when you factor in the fact that Tim’s family are the same, so it’s not uncommon for Tim to see his friends in his brother’s clothes which is just… so weird.

Kon, clearly deciding that Tim is too far away (read: further that a millimetre) pulls him closer until Tim is basically just laying on top of him, like a human blanket. Satisfied now that Tim could quite literally not get closer if he tried, Kon lets his head thump against the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. They’d put up some of those glow-in-the-dark stars a little while back, because Tim had joked that they get their powers from the sun, just like Kon, and so Kon had insisted they were his brethren and deserved pride of place (the ceiling).

It doesn’t seem like Kon is looking at them though, his eyes are unfocused; as if he’s somewhere else, somewhere Tim can’t reach. Tim props himself up against Kon’s chest, cradling his jaw with his hand. “Hey; penny for ‘em?”

“I… What?”

“Penny for your thoughts? Never heard that one before?”

“Can’t say I have…”

“It’s something Alfred says, so maybe it’s a British thing.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Whatever; what are you thinking?”

“Just…” Kon pauses, looking back at the ceiling. “I don’t know… about the future.”

“The future?” Tim prompts, because it seems like Kon’s going to finish his statement there, despite there being so much more to unpack. Which kind of future? Like, Bart’s version of the future? Or the one where they all go evil and Tim becomes Gun-Batman™?

“Like, our future.”

Tim stills, breath going short. A thousand bad outcomes to this conversation start to swirl around his mind. Is Kon breaking up with him?

“I just mean… well, we’ve both been heroes for so long, right? I mean, for you, it’s been since you were 13, and for me… well it’s been since I was born. Or… made, I guess, but that’s not important. One day, we’ll have to stop and… then what?”

“We’ve still got a while yet.” Tim reminds him. “We’re only 17. B is still going strong, and he’s in his forties.”

“I know, it’s just… I don’t know, it’s nice to think of a future where we don’t have to fight stuff all the time.”

“What else would you do?” Tim asks, voice hushed against the weight of the conversation. This feels… important somehow. Tim has always assumed that he would work as a vigilante until he died a young and brutal death. That’s just how it has to be. But for Kon to be imagining something else…

“I would like to live somewhere sunny.” Kon decides. “Somewhere like Italy, where you can have, like, siestas and stuff. Yeah, some kind of Italian villa would be nice. I think I would end up spending most of my time curled up on the patio, though, just soaking up the sun. You know how nice it is when the sun heats the stone?” Kon asks, almost reverentially, and Tim nods, hooked on his every word. “And, we could have a pool. That would be cool, wouldn’t it? And we would have one of those fruit bowls that is always full of something new, and we could spend our evenings eating exotic fruit by the pool, ooh, and we could get a motorbike! One of those Italian vespa types. Then we could-”

“Wait.” Tim cuts off, voice shakier than he anticipated. “We?”

Kon’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, yikes, um, that was a bit too forward wasn’t it? Didn’t mean to make you feel awkward. Actually, dismiss all of that, it was just a stupid idea, ignore-”

Tim cuts him off with a kiss. Kon lets out a little yelp of surprise, but instantly melts into it like chocolate in the sun.

Here’s the thing, Tim isn’t good with words, so he tries his best to show his emotions through actions. He hopes Kon gets the message. From the quiet noise that he lets out, Tim is pretty sure he gets it. Tim lets his teeth scrape gently against the soft flesh of Kon’s lower lip, earning himself a little gasp from his boyfriend. Opportunity seized, he moves to Kon’s jaw, slowly moving down towards his ear and the little flutter of pulse that is right there-

“I take it you are on board with the idea then,” Kon chuckles thickly, clearly struggling to focus with Tim latched to his neck like a limpet. Or a vampire. Or a Vampire limpet…

“You could say that,” Tim acquiesces when he takes a minute to breathe, earning himself a chuckle from Kon. “Fuck it, why don’t we go right now! I’m rich, you can fly, we’ll have an Italian villa by the time the sun rises!”

Kon grins, and presses his lips to Tim’s temple. “I know, but we unfortunately have duties that we kind of need to attend to before we retire to be an eccentric gay couple in the Italian countryside.”

“Ugh.” Tim groans and folds back down to lay on top of Kon, squishing his face into the crook of his neck. This also, causes Kon to laugh, and even forces a few huffed breaths out of Tim himself. He can’t help it, really, not with how funny everything is when Kon is around. It’s those damned happy chemicals. He can’t help it!

“Wait! What if-” Tim starts, ready to come up with an elaborate scheme for them to hypothetically retire together at 17, but Kon (the bastard) presses a finger to Tim’s lips, silencing him. Now, Tim is no stranger to this tactic; he has more siblings than he would care to count, who usually cover his mouth when he’s speaking with their whole hand. Tim, in retaliation, licks their palm. It’s simple, it’s easy. The issue is, it requires the recipient to be grossed out by the act, so that they release the mouth. Kon probably wouldn’t be. In a stroke of genius, Tim’s animal brain says bite, and he’s halfway there before he thinks that perhaps that would be a bad idea. Not for Kon, who can quite literally withstand bullets, but for Tim, who’s teeth will probably shatter on impact. Aborting his plan midway leaves him awkwardly resting his teeth on the pad of Kon’s finger. Never wanting to be the one caught without a defence, he decides to scrape his teeth across the sensitive part of the skin, causing Kon to recoil in vague horror. Tim just smirks up at him.

“That was gay.” Kon decides, shaking his head.

“We’re gay!” Tim retaliates, waving his feet in the air. “besides, I’m wearing socks. Nothing can be gay now.”

“That is not a thing.”

“That is so a thing!”

“It’s about the covers, isn’t it? Like, it’s not gay if you’re over the covers? I don’t think socks have any bearing on the gay scale.”

“But what if it’s both? Because we’re under the covers, but we’re wearing socks? But how would someone know that?” Tim gasps. “We’re Schrödinger’s gay.”

“OMG, yes.” Kon decides. “We’re Schrödinger’s gay. They’ll never know.”

“The public certainly won’t.” Tim sighs, flopping his head onto Kon’s collarbone. Thankfully, there is no need for Tim to make his voice audible, because Kon has the annoying super-hearing ability. “Have you seen what they’ve been shipping lately?”

“I can’t say I have. I don’t really look at social media. Too stressful.”

“Yeah, but I am the team’s media-manager, so I have to see what they’re saying.”

“Yikes; what are they saying now?”

“Ok, so the second biggest ship is Superboy and Impulse,” Kon makes a little gagging noise. “That’s not even the worst part! The top ship is Robin and Wondergirl.”

Kon cackles at Tim’s misery, because he is a mean, mean man.

“It’s not funny! It’s awful!”

“It’s kind of funny…”

Tim looks into Kon’s unnaturally blue eyes, so full of warmth and mirth, and he has to agree. “Fine, it’s a bit funny…”

Kon pumps a fist into the air and lets out a little whoop of triumph. In doing so, he catches sight of the clock, which is currently displaying a harrowing 1:32 AM. “Shit. We need to sleep.”

“Do we have to?” Tim groans, wanting to spend as much time with Kon as physically possible.

“Kind of. This is, like, your last chance to sleep before going back to Gotham tomorrow. You should probably take it.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

…

Tim wakes up to blaring alarms and bright red lights. He practically somersaults out of bed, landing next to the clock, which is displaying a measly 3:46 AM. The warning lights flash around them, and Cassie’s voice rings over the intercom. “Suit up. Now.”

Kon is already pulling the book in their bookshelf to slide open the secret passageway. It leads straight to a hole which Kon flies down without hesitation. Tim, not blessed with the ability of flight, takes the fireman’s pole, careful not to skin his hands on the way down.

When he reaches the emergency hangar, Impulse is already suited up and waiting for him by his locker. They worked out a system very early into their tenure as heroes, as they all have different dressing speeds, mainly due to different power levels. Impulse, of course, can have his on in seconds. Same goes for Cassie, who can pretty much just wear whatever civilian item she was already wearing (except for night times like this, because she refuses to get blood on her pyjamas). Kon takes a little bit longer, having to slip into his super suit and get on his leather jacket, but by far the longest is Tim. Now, this isn’t a testament to Tim’s getting-ready skills, he’s usually first out when they are in civvies, but his gear requires significantly more prep-time. His suit is made from a Kevlar weave which- while helpful at stopping him from getting shot- is very stiff and difficult to get into. When he’s finally managed to attach his cape, he has to fill and check every piece of equipment: Batarangs, Bo staffs, grappling hooks, knives, shark repellent, and a whole host of other protective and offensive items. Because, unlike the others, Tim has to make himself a hero. He didn’t just get it naturally.

And so, of course, he became the running joke of the group. There was only so many “Robin is so slow!” jokes he could take before he decided his pride couldn’t stand it anymore. He tasked the entire group to (not using powers) ready up with all his gear in less than the time it takes for him (5 minutes and 46 seconds.) none of them made it in under half an hour. They had a bit more sympathy for him after that, but after they nearly let a building collapse because of having to wait on Robin’s instructions, Tim agreed that he needed to find a way to speed up his routine. Enter; Impulse.

At first, Tim had been firmly against the idea, partially because he doesn’t really like people seeing him undressed, and much less someone else dressing him, but Bart is surprisingly thorough and decent about the whole thing. He helps Tim get into his suit, sure, but his main job is to check all of Tim’s gear, and ready it for him, the aspect that takes forever. Now, with Bart’s assistance, Tim is usually finished before Kon (54 seconds).

All this being said, it takes barely a minute for them all to be suited up and ready to go. A quick check to his wrist scanner confirms that Cassie has sent through the co-ordinates of the battle. A beach in Hawaii is currently being held hostage by a giant metal spider-crab-thing. Right. Okay.

Cassie hops onto Bart’s back, into a piggy-back stance that they insisted on spending 2 hours perfecting one weekend, and they rush off to Hawaii at super speed. Tim does a final check of his gear, making sure Bart got everything correct (Bat paranoia is real, and can hurt you. Besides, Bart once gave him a nerf gun instead of his grappling gun, and Tim had nearly fallen to his death, so he always checks.) Satisfied, he nods to Kon, who lifts him in a bridal carry and speeds into the air.

…

When they arrive, Cassie and Bart have already begun the civilian evacuation procedures. These basically consist of ‘get as many people as possible as far away as possible’. Kon, who is also capable of super speed, drops Tim carefully then runs into the throng- picking up civilians and hurling them with his TTK towards safety. While this is by no means the most elegant solution, and also definitely not the least stress inducing, it is very fast and very efficient. In situations such as this one, the others don’t really have time to stop and get permission from every civilian for their individual evacuation preferences. Ergo, they yeet.

Tim has yet to get any complaints for saving people’s lives in a way they don’t like. Or, well, not many at least.

Tim’s job, however, is not to evacuate civilians. Once, again, it is not a good use of his skills and time as the non-powered member of the team. Instead, he does what he is best at; he uses his brain.

It’s sunrise in Hawaii, the pink of the sky just beginning to peak over the horizon, and dapple onto the water. Or, well, it would be dappling onto the water, if it wasn’t for the fact there is a giant fucking metal crab in the way.

At a guess, Tim would say that the top ‘head’ section is roughly football-field sized, and each leg is a car wide and a hundred metres tall. Yikes.

Vaguely, Tim is aware that he should be scared, but for Young Justice, this is just another Tuesday. Even though it’s a Sunday. That’s unimportant.

Tim stands for a moment, just watching. A thousand different attack plans formulate in his mind, and he works through them one-by-one, vetting them for success. The crab-thing (He’s just gonna call it the crab. That’s easier) is thankfully very slow. Clearly its’ enormous size has slowed its’ overall approach, however it appears to be deploying hundreds of tiny little crabs into the  sea to swim towards shore and wreak havoc. Right, okay. He’ll send Bart and Kon towards the big guy, get them to find a way to deactivate him, and fight the mini crabs here on the shore with Cassie. If he’s lucky, it’ll be a kind of hive-mind situation, where the act of killing the main guy shuts down all the mini ones, but Tim is rarely lucky.

The crackling of his comm alerts Tim to his teammates, awaiting his instructions. “Rob; area is clear of civilian activity. Is the plan of attack finalized?” Cassie’s voice buzzes in his ear.

“Affirmative. SB and Impulse are to focus attacks on the major threat. Fly out to the middle of the ocean and attempt to stall and/or distract it. Look for weaknesses or potential hack-points. Return to shore and collect me if spotted. If worst comes to worst, attempt a take down AT-AT style, and tie its’ legs. In the event of a technical task requiring my assistance, SB will remain on shore to continue my job, which is to be shared with Wonder Girl. Our job is to minimize civilian casualties and damage to infrastructure as well as ward off the smaller enemies. Understood?”

“Affirmative.”

“Affirmative.”

“Affirmative.”

“Clear comms and keep them open for updates. Now, engage.”

Bart and Kon both go rocketing towards the mother-ship, leaving only sea-spray in their wake. Tim pulls out his Bo staff and locks it into position, preparing for the first wave of mini-crabs to come their way. Each one is only around the size of a small cow, so the individuals shouldn’t be too hard to attack but as a group, there is certainly a chance that they will be overwhelmed and have to call Kon back to shore for backup; which would be less than ideal. He needs them to keep the large one distracted for long enough for them to find a weakness.

He lets himself watch the little orange and blue blurs in the distance, before turning to Cassie. “Ready?”

She bucks her shoulders a little, attempting to pull some adrenaline into her body, eyeing the waves of mechs careening towards them. “As I’ll ever be.”

…

The first few can be defeated relatively easily, it turns out. So long as Tim is able to vault on top of them, a downward stab from his Bo-staff hits their central cortex and renders them useless. The only vague danger is from their snapping metallic mandibles at the front of the machine, but Tim has been largely able to avoid them so far. He relays all of this to the others, and he watches Cassie take his notes on board immediately, hooking her hand under a leg and swinging herself onto the back of one and stabbing down with her sword.

They seem to be coming in waves of about 10-20, meaning they have just about enough time to incapacitate the current lot before the next set arrive. It’s gruelling work, if he’s honest, because there is just no chance for a break. It also becomes more difficult as time goes on, as the bodies begin to pile up and block exits.

Tim finds himself running from a pack of three, all snapping their mandibles at him aggressively. He vaults over the carcass of one of the earlier crabs, scraping his palms as he does so. When he thinks he’s cleared the pile of still-twitching mechanics, Tim straightens up and begins to run. Except, he’s suddenly stopped by something on his ankle. A glance down gives him enough time to register the wire wrapped around his foot before he’s careening into the sand. He tries to scramble back to standing, but the loose surface doesn’t give his combat boots enough purchase- leading to him just aimlessly flailing in the sand.

He manages to flip himself over onto his back just as the trio of crab-machines climb over the mound of their fallen brethren.

Right. Time to assess the situation.

He’s on the ground, and still tangled in a wire. They’re too close for him to feasibly escape via running, and besides, there are very few options for escape routes. Behind him, the ocean. In front of him, a mound of dead crabs, and some very alive crabs-

On his left, more alive crabs. And on his right? A sand mound. It’s his best bet, but it’s not a good one.

He grapples with the wire, trying to pull it off himself before the crabs reach him. “Um… Rob?” Bart’s voice wavers across the intercom. “Is it important right now?” Tim manages to hiss out, finally pulling the last strand of wire off himself.

It’s then that he looks up, and finds himself face-to-face with the razor-sharp mandibles of the largest crab in the trio. Shit.

They circle him; clicking and whirring. All points of escape are moot now, his only choice is to fight his way out. It’s either that, or some to terms with a crustacean-based death. He tucks his legs up against himself, about to kick out and attempt to escape, when he hears a massive groaning noise from above.

Before he can register what’s happening, the crabs are crushed beneath a large metal foot. The crunching of the metal is music to Tim’s ears, until he realises what this means. “You let the big one get the beach?” He roars into his comm, cursing his terrible luck.

“It’s not our fault! It’s much faster than we thought.” Bart chimes in.

“Fuck. Okay. New plan. Superboy? Come and get me now, and fly me up to the head area. I’ll work on disabling it.”

“Affirmative”

In seconds, Tim is snatched up in a whirlwind of Blue and Red, and pulled into the sky. He has enough time to press a gentle kiss to Kon’s cheek before he is being placed on the slippery metal surface of the giant crab’s head.

“Go, help the others. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too. Now go.”

Tim turns to look around the head of the giant crab. There isn’t any clear indication of an off-switch, which is hardly a surprise, but annoying all the same. He decides to head to what he assumes is the front, hoping to find some kind of sensor or device that he can scramble to confuse the robot.

The roof is slippery- perfectly tempered metal curved along a gentle line- resulting in a completely unstable surface. It’s hardly optimal, but Tim fights Mr Freeze every month, so he’s pretty used to unstable surfaces. He kicks his heels together hard, causing little blades to be revealed at the soles of his boots. It’s a bit weird, he has to admit, having ice-skates ready at any eventuality, but when that’s a genuine daily risk, you get used to it. Most people in Gotham have a set of emergency skates for just this eventuality. The skates work surprisingly well, except for the horrible screeching noise as they glide across the metal.

He skids to a stop at the front of the machine, where a giant dome rests, facing out into the island. It’s almost like an eye, except made of glass and metal. He takes out his mini toolkit and gets to work, attempting to get into the main section of wiring and disable the mainframe. He’s so focused, in fact, that he barely notices the dome begin to glow red.

There’s no way to ignore it for long, though, because in seconds a gargantuan crimson beam is erupting from the centre, and cutting up into the city.

“Shit!” He curses, opening up his comms again. “Right. Change of plan. Kon, you are on distraction. Try to keep the beam focused on you, and away from the city. Bart and Cassie, shift to civilian evacuation. Get everyone out of the city. I am doing the best I can to disable this thing.”

Kon pages in an affirmative, then starts flying around the head of the crab like a gnat, attempting to draw its’ fire. Tim turns back to the panel in front of him. He’s managed to unscrew a section above the eye, and is currently staring down at a birds’ nest of wires. Seriously, has no supervillain ever heard of cable management? He sighs and dives in, elbow deep into the mess of wires; cutting and re-wiring as he goes. If he hadn’t had about a million practice versions of this with Bruce, he wouldn’t be able to juggle all his responsibilities like this. He (somehow) manages to focus on re-wiring the crab, keeping an eye on the civilian evacuation, and guiding Kon’s evasion manoeuvres.

In fact, it’s all going perfectly, until it isn’t.

He very nearly has the wiring re-routed when it happens. It’s his fault, if anything, because he’s distracted, head ducked into the wire cavity. He only looks up at the last second to see one of the Lazer beams clip Kon’s ankle and send him careening down to the floor. Which is-

No. That’s not possible. Kon’s invulnerable. He can’t just…

But it’s happening. He lands in the sand, creating a small crater in the centre of the beach, and he’s screaming. Fuck.

Everything in Tim’s instincts is crying at him to go; to save the person that means the most to him in this world. But his training disagrees. He’s so close, and if he could just finish this-

“Bart; Kon needs immediate assistance. Beach. Now.”

“Affirmative.”

The red blur in the distance satiates him enough to look back down at his work. The Lazer is charging up once more, but there is a little red wire, close to a metre down. He’s almost certain that’s his last wire to cut; then the crab will be rendered useless. He plunges the whole top half of his body into the crevasse- fighting through wires and electric sparks to reach and- there! His pliers snip precisely into the rubber of the wire, and slice through the delicate copper. He wrenches his head back, as he feels the crab’s legs start to buckle. Fuck, he’s in for a wild ride.

When he looks back into the open air again, he sees the sky very quickly dropping away from him. The crab is falling. He’s done it. He starts to lift off the surface of the roof- the wind pushing him up and away- but he grips on tight to his wrecked wires and rides it out, praying his bones won’t crack from the g-force. The carapace of the metal crab slams into the ground with a deafening, bone rattling thud. Shockwaves careen away, spreading sand all across the beach, stopping Bart in his tracks as he wipes sand away from his eyes. When the shaking stops, Tim gives himself a second to sigh in relief. He’s safe now.

But Kon isn’t.

When he opens his eyes again, Tim sees that the red light hasn’t gone away. The Lazer had been building up to shoot again, but without any instruction to do so, it has just been sat there, waiting. Building. The crab begins to tremble with the force, and Tim knows its only a matter of time before it’s released.

And who is directly in the path of the fallen Lazer? Kon.

The next few seconds feel like they happen in slow motion.

Bart, having finally cleared his eyes, rockets towards Kon, faster than Tim has ever seen him run before. Tim screams Kon’s name, just as the blaster fires: with a blast so strong it pushes Tim onto his back, looking into the sky. The last thing he sees is Bart darting in front of Kon, shielding his body with his own, then white.

…

When he blinks to, Cassie is calling his name; shaking his shoulders. The ringing in his head is agonizingly loud, so loud that he can barely hear it when Cassie breaks down in tears, telling him she thought she was the only one left. That makes no sense. Because even if Tim was dead, Kon and Bart would be fine, right? Cassie wouldn’t be alone.

She helps him off the carcass of the giant crab and onto the beach.

Where Kon and Bart were, there is only blackened sand.

Tim feels sick. He’s not sure why.

“Ca- Cassie? Where are Bart and… Where’s Kon?”

She doesn’t answer him, just breaking down in sobs. Which… no. That doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. It can’t. Death is… death is reserved for the end of the world. A huge event where the only option is sacrifice. Not… not this. Not something normal. This was just a normal day! Kon can’t be- That’s not how it works.

Tim stumbles over to the blackened sand, leaving Cassie sobbing by the seashore. He drops to his knees in the crater where he saw Kon land, searching for footprints, or buried limbs or… or something that would prove that they are still here. Still alive. Not just… not just scorch marks on the sand. He sinks his hands into the still-burning sand; ignoring the pain and heat blisters. There has to be something here. They can’t just… he can’t just be gone.

His hands burn, and his heart burns, and his vision burns. His hands hurt so much that he barely feels it when they brush against something cold and smooth. Trembling, he pulls it from the wreckage.

It’s his ring.

Kon’s ring.

He had made them a few months ago, from some kind of metal that can only be found on Krypton. He had heated the metal with his vision and shaped them into rings for himself and Tim; matching, with little stars on each. A piece of the homeland he would never know, on Tim’s finger. Nothing had ever been more perfect. They both promised not to take them off, but now…

Tim has no choice but to accept it. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t…

Kon is dead.

The realisation steals the breath from his lung because that is just-

It’s not possible. That’s not possible. And yet, all the evidence points to the contrary. Even so, Kon just felt like… he felt like a constant. There is the Earth, and the Sun, and the Moon, and there is Kon. Without one- it feels like the world should be ending. He expects the sky to come crashing down, and the oceans to turn to blood. He expects to burn.

But nothing happens.

Civilians begin to filter back in, now that the danger is past. Some are taking pictures. Talking about cleanup. Tim just collapses in the sand. He wants to bury himself in it- to join Kon in whatever comes next. He can’t do this alone.

The sun finally rises over the horizon in Hawaii- the place where Kon took his first breath.

And his last.

And Tim burns.

…

The cleanup was easy. They spoke to the local authorities for the mess on the beach, and contacted Aquaman for the carcass. Then they went home. Neither Tim nor Cassie spoke the whole way; both lost in shock and grief. The only thing Tim can think is: No. Not them. Not this.

Distantly, he thinks ‘ah, denial.’ As if that helps anything. Because it isn’t true. It can’t be. And yet, the soft, cold ring in Tim’s hand sings a single song: It is, it is, it is.

The return to the mountain is… strange. Bart’s shoes are by the door, thrown haphazardly there instead of in the shoe rack, like Tim has told him a thousand times. Tim wishes he could tell him just one more time.

The living area feels like a shrine; clothes and objects strewn around a home that no longer has inhabitants. Tim doesn’t think he will ever come back here. On the table, the icing sodden cookies from earlier lay prone and uneaten. No one will eat them now.

He makes it to his room without breaking down. In fact, he makes it to his bags successfully; it’s only when he opens the closet to shove his clothes in his bag that it hits him. There, nestled between the clothes they shared, Tim breaks down.

Because this was their home. Their clothes. And now, what? It’s just Tim’s? how can he possibly go on like this?

He manages to vaguely throw some of his (mostly Kon’s) clothes into a bag, before he collapses into the bed, his tears staining the pillow. Only a few hours before, they had been laid on this bed together, talking about the future. Their future.

Not anymore.

He keeps thinking about what he could have done differently. After all, it was his instructions that led to Kon getting killed. His blood is on Tim’s hands. He circles round and round, what if’s and possibilities consuming him. He tries to get up, to go to Gotham. To be with his ‘family’, but he can’t move. It’s not like he can go home anymore anyway. His home is dead.

Distantly, he can hear Cassie sobbing as she packs up her own things. He should go comfort her, be a good team leader, but the guilt is eating him alive. How could she stand to see him after he got her best friends killed?

So he stays in their- His room, and weeps. The blinds are shut, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever see the sun again. Distantly, he feels that he deserves it.

Kon is dead, and Tim deserves it.

Chapter Text

Tim blinks open bleary eyes to a familiar sight. The light streaming in through Kon’s bedroom window is yellow and warm, but not as warm as the quiet smile on his boyfriend’s face. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Tim groans and flips him off. Kon doesn’t have to sleep, not much at least, stupid Kryptonian biology once again coming in handy. Tim, on the other hand, needs so much sleep. And Kon’s bed is unfairly comfy.

He can hear Krypto barking in the distance, and the gentle noises of the Kent family farm waking up for the morning. If Tim was a morning person, he might even go so far as to call this a perfect morning. Tim is not a morning person.

“Five more minutes?”

“No! Come on, you promised we could go swimming in the lake this afternoon!”

“Yeah, this afternoon. I have at least…” He checks the time, “Four hours until it’s afternoon.”

Kon sighs, and Tim closes his eyes happily, feeling as though he’s successfully won yet another argument. He is about to pull the blanket up around his bare torso and snuggle in further, but a sudden gust pulls the whole thing away, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. “What the fuck.”

Tim’s entire body feels cold, and he’s so focused on the sensation he barely smells the slight hot-petrol-smell that characterises Kon’s tactile telekinesis. Almost.

“You bastard.”

“Hey!” Kon pouts, floating at the edge of the bed. “Is that any way to treat your loving boyfriend?”

“It is if he’s a blanket thief.”

“You’re being dramatic”

“Me!?” Tim gasps, clutching his chest and rolling off the bed, stopping mid-air just before his nose touches the ground. Kon huffs and lifts him upwards to join him in the air, settling Tim down on his hips. “I would never.”

Kon just rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, dear.”

“There,” Tim grins leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “You’re getting it now.”

They stay like that for a while, floating lazily in the air, kissing gently and discussing their plans for the afternoon; swimming in the nearby lake that Kon insists is better than any pool. Kon’s hands trail gently along Tim’s bare chest, along the many lines of white scars that litter his torso. His fingers leave warm lines as they dance across his skin, never lingering in any one place for too long, as if overwhelmed with choice. Kon’s hands dip to the small of his back, and Tim leans down to capture Kon’s lips in his own, with the yellow sun shining down on them and the heat on his back-

A slamming door wakes him from his dream. He is in his room at the manor, and it is dark. So dark.

“Tim, come on!”

It’s Jason’s voice. “Oracle says there is about to be another Arkham breakout, we need to get there stat.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim isn’t in Kansas, with Kon, because he’s in Gotham. And Kon’s dead. And Tim has a job to do.

“I’m coming.”

But the light of his dream is still engraved behind his retinas, and with every flicker of his eyelids he can see the sun and a pair of bright blue eyes. He can handle nightmares, anything his horrible brain can throw at him; it’s the good dreams he can’t stand. It’s anything that gives him that hope he can never have. That’s what really breaks him.

…

Tim’s return to the manor is clouded by grief and shock. He still can’t accept it; every fibre of his being rebels against even the very concept of Kon’s death and yet…

The weeks go by, and nothing changes.

Well, no, that’s not true. A lot changes, but the one thing; the only thing that Tim wants to change, stays exactly the same. Kon stays dead.

Tim’s grades drop violently; he only goes into school to see the few civilian friends he has left (the only ones who haven’t given up on him after years of missing hangouts and parties). He gives up on keeping himself presentable, on pretty much everything except his work as Robin. The tabloids go insane trying to guess what ‘trouble’ he’s gotten himself into; whether it’s drugs or crime, but somehow none of them guess the truth. He’s grieving.

It’s especially strange for him, because he’s never really grieved anyone before. Not that he hasn’t lost anyone- he’s lost more than most people ever will- but he never felt that much grief for them. Not like this. His parent’s deaths were traumatic, and violent, and dark, but he never found himself missing them, because they were never there to begin with.

It’s different now. With Kon and Bart gone, it’s like he’s missing a limb, or a vital organ. Whenever he feels even vaguely alright, he remembers one more thing that is gone now, and he spirals. The new episode of Wendy the werewolf slayer comes out, and he has to stop himself from turning to Kon to tell him about it. He’s not there. He never will be again.

The R&D department at Wayne enterprises finally finishes a superspeed-proof pair of trainers that Tim had commissioned months ago for Bart’s 17^th. Now, he puts them in a box in the back of his closet, never to see the light of day. They’re pointless. Everything is pointless.

…

Bruce tries to be supportive, dragging him to family events and offering to give him time off from being Robin, but a deep, dark part of him reminds him that Bruce just wants to stop him becoming another Villian. There’s no other reason to actually care about him.

Alfred locks up the liquor cabinet after Tim takes to drowning his sorrows, and gently suggests that Tim consider a visit to therapy. Tim refuses, and simply works out how to pick the new lock. He can’t sleep now, unless he’s blackout drunk. His body just won’t let him. It’s as if it knows, somehow, that there is a lack of warmth beside him; strong arms holding him. He’s so deeply alone.

Cassie doesn’t come to visit him. At first, he thought they would try to stick together, as the only people who understand their grief, but neither of them can look at each other anymore. She’s only a reminder of what he’s lost.

And it’s wrong. It feels wrong, because they were never meant to be like this. The four of them were meant to be together forever, way into their old age. They were going to raise their kids together, and watch them grow old. Tim would always think, even if (and when) he died young, at least the others would be able to stay together. And yet, here they are. Bart and Kon are forever young, and Young Justice died with them. Tim is not just mourning his friends, he is mourning a whole life he dreamed for himself. So yeah, Cassie may be alive, but he mourns her all the same.

…

Dick comes to the funerals. They’re held in California, at the base of Mount Justice, because Tim insists that’s where they would want it to be. No one objects, because no one has any reason to. The speedsters can make it to Bart’s grave in seconds if they want to visit, and other than Tim, there isn’t really anyone to visit Kon’s grave. He’s just as lonely in death as he was in life.

Tim considers killing himself.

It would be easier, all things considered. He could see Bart and Kon again, and he would stop being a worry and a burden for his family. The only issue is Robin. He has a duty; to his city and to it’s people. He can’t abandon them just because he’s sad. That’s ridiculous.

So he puts on a brave face, and keeps going.

Jason kidnaps him every couple of weeks, for what he calls ‘brother bonding time’. He takes him to his favourite restaurants in crime alley, and they spend the night patrolling together. Tim likes it. Bruce never lets him patrol crime alley or the narrows, so it’s a blind spot in his understanding of the city. If he’s going to do this, he needs to be the best, and that means no stone left unturned. Tim is going to live and die for Gotham.

Not that it seems like he’s going to live very long, because Damian hasn’t slowed down his attacks. Tim had tried complaining about them the first few times, but after being shot down, and told he was being ‘insensitive’ about Damian’s situation, he decided to give up. Either the brat will kill him, or he won’t. Tim doesn’t really care. The only safe space he had died with Kon, so he just accepts the brunt of Damian’s assassination attempts without respite.

So far, he has been stabbed, poisoned, beat, shot at with an arrow, drugged, and a whole host of other things he doesn’t care to mention. But it’s fine. He’ll be fine.

…

As previously noted, Tim has not been focusing on his schooling. He has become irritable, angry and depressed, causing the last few friends he had managed to hold onto to slip away. The worst part is, he can’t even tell them what’s wrong; simply left with the classic excuses; “I’m just tired”, “It’s just been a long week.”

The only friend who has stayed is Sebastian Ives.

Tim and Sebastian have known each other most of their lives. It’s one of those things, when you are born into a small group of elites; there’s only so many people you can know. Therefore, almost everyone in Tim’s school have been there since he was in kindergarten.

This being said, Tim and Seb weren’t friends most of their childhood. That’s not to say they were enemies, just that they never revolved in the same circles. It was only at the start of Highschool, when Seb came out as Gay, which resulted in all of his friends ostracising him, that they began to get close. There was even a rumour of them dating for a while, but Seb managed to shut that down. Ever since, Seb has been pretty much the only civilian that Tim has actually been close to, and also the only one who Tim had told about his Boyfriend. He didn’t name names, for secret identities’ sake, but Seb knew about Kon and also- later on, his death.

Seb has looked after Tim a lot since. He’s made sure Tim was eating, kept him away from the alluring drugs some of the kids at school peddle, and somehow manages to hide every pack of cigarettes Tim brings in.

So yeah, Seb has been a pretty amazing friend in keeping Tim sane in the past couple of months. He’s smart, kind, funny and… oh yeah. He has brain cancer.

Now, this isn’t a new thing; Tim has known about this for about a year, from around about when Seb found out. It made the headlines for a few days, before people moved onto something else, and since then Seb has been the laughing stock of the school, for some reason. Kids are evil. It only got worse when the chemo began to thin his hair, resulting in bald spots. The fancy private school they go to forbids hats in the dress code, so Seb couldn’t even hide it from the prying eyes of their classmates.

For a while, it seemed mostly benign. It looked like the cancer would go away, so long as he stuck to the strict chemo regiment. And he did. But the cancer didn’t wane. and that’s what leads Tim to be here, right now, In Gotham hospital.

“Hey Sebbie.”

“Tim!”

Tim strides into the white-walled hospital ward where Seb lays, pale against the fluorescent lights. By his side, a bright blue package weighs him down.

“Ooh, What did you get me?” Seb asks, making little grabby-hand motions towards the package. Tim just rolls his eyes. “Oh, seriously. You just want me for my food.”

“Duh.” Seb jokes. “That’s all you’re good for. Now hand it over.”

Tim laughs and does as instructed, passing the blue box over to where Seb’s thin hands are reaching. When he opens it, a heavenly aroma permeates the room, causing Seb to sigh in delight. “You know, that butler of yours is truly a godsend. I’m so jealous you get to eat his food every day.”

“It is pretty great,” Tim concedes, remembering the years of pot noodles that characterised his childhood. “Better than hospital food, anyhow.”

That’s part of the reason he brings it. Seb has always been a bit of a fussy eater, and now his system is more fragile, there’s only so much he can eat. The hospital, however, have a pre-set menu, resulting in Seb picking at his food most days. When he mentioned this to Alfred, however, the butler had insisted that this was ridiculous and has insisted on cooking a full meal for him at least twice a week. Tim doesn’t complain, because it’s a great excuse to go see his friend.

Seb sighs quietly when the food hits his tongue. “Ah, that’s the good stuff.”

Tim lets him eat his food in peace for a while, tapping at his phone to tell off the various unhelpful members of the WE board who are trying to get him to cut back on his DEI budgeting. He turns his phone off with a huff, and turns to look at Seb who is watching him curiously.

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but never got the chance to?” he muses, still staring into Tim’s soul.

“In what way?”

“Like, straight up bucket-list shit. Things you have to do before you die.”

Tim thinks for a moment, resting his hand on his chin. “You know, I’ve never actually thought about it.” Tim has always known he would die young and afraid, on the front lines of a battle field. He didn’t really leave time for dreaming. “I guess something basic, like… skydiving?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Seb laughs. “That’s not true and you know it.”

“Fine. I guess… I would want to do something relaxing. Maybe, like, spend a year travelling the world or something.”

“Oh, where would you go?”

“Italy.” Tim says before thinking. He winces, and moves on, hoping Seb didn’t notice. “Then Spain. Maybe London, definitely Edinburgh. I’ve kind of always wanted to go to Mongolia as well. Then Korea. You know, get in touch with my heritage and all that.”

“You’ll have to go to Japan!” Seb decides. “You should go when the Sakura trees are out so that you can see all the pretty petals falling down.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. That’s my bucket-list item. I’ve always wanted to go, but I would go late in the month, that way all the tourists who came to see the trees in full blossom would be gone, and it would be much more peaceful. Besides, I think it’s all well and good to see the blossom on the trees, but when it falls… I imagine it must be like the most beautiful snow.”

“That sounds beautiful. Hey, maybe when we’re older, we can go together!”

Seb’s face falls at this, but Tim can’t work out why. There is a mournful look in his eyes when he changes the subject.

They make idle chatter for a while, gushing over a new piece of technology that WE is working on. Seb keeps wheedling to try and get Tim to reveal company secrets, and Tim is pretty weak to his friend’s puppy-dog eyes, so he tells him everything he can get away with. The hours pass in pleasant peace, with quiet chatter and laughter. Tim can almost feel the hole in his heart shrinking, being filled with friendship. He is mid-story about a chaotic ski-trip he took a year ago (which was actually part of a mission, but Seb doesn’t need to know that) when his watch buzzes twice, causing him to glance down.

“Shit.”

His watch-face reads ‘DPEF HSFFO’, which to anyone else would be unintelligible, but Tim knows what it means. ‘Code green.’ The Joker has broken out.

“What is it?” Seb asks, brows furrowed.

“I’m so sorry, there’s… um, a work emergency. I need to go. Like, now.”

Seb frowns, but reaches out to pull him into a hug anyway. He’s warm, and his shirt smells of lavender and coconut, and Tim wishes that he could just stay here, with his friend, but he has a job to do. He shoulders his burden, and sprints out the hospital.

…

Sebastian Ives dies at the beginning of March, just as the Sakura trees begin to bloom. He never got to experience them fall.

His cancer spread much faster than the doctors could counteract, and Tim didn’t even have time to say goodbye. He was too busy with the recent Arkham outbreak. He’s one of the only friends that shows up to Seb’s funeral, but it’s too little, too late.

Tim quits High school, fakes a graduation certificate and moves on with his life. It’s not like they were going to teach him anything useful anyway. They don’t exactly cover interrogation techniques in Calculus class.

He takes to hiding in his room, obsessively solving cases during the day, then attacking the perpetrators at night. Every morning he wakes up with tears dried into his pillowcase, and a hole where his heart used to be. He’s barely a person anymore.

…

And then Bruce dies.

It spins the universe off it’s axis, because Batman- Bruce- has always been in Tim’s life. Before Tim even knew him personally, B’s entire existence helped him to feel safe. After a time, Bruce even became the Father that Tim always wanted. And now he’s gone.

The fight with Darkseid was long, and brutal, and Tim didn’t think to check on Bruce, too busy fighting his own fight. It was only when a light started glowing from the centre of the battlefield, highlighting Bruce and Darkseid’s withering forms, that Tim realised what was happening. Bruce aged and turned to dust right in front of him, and Tim did nothing.

He did nothing.

…

Tim is done sitting on the sidelines. He can’t keep watching as everyone he loves dies. He just… can’t. And it’s wrong. Of course he knows it, how could he not? With every passing second of his research, Tim feels more and more dirty; his soul coated in a thick layer of grime and sin that he’s not sure will ever be absolved and cleaned. He’s not sure he cares.

Because here’s the thing. He can’t get Bruce back. He can’t get Bart back. He can’t get Seb back. He can’t even really get Kon back- not the years of growth and experiences- but he can give him the chance. He can get a make a new body, a new Kon. He can raise him right, tell him everything they went through together, try his best to give him a new life. And sure, Kon might hate him, but at least he will be around to hate him. Tim just… he needs Kon alive in any way he can have him. He needs-

It's remarkably easy to break into the CADMUS labs and steal two of their cloning tubes. He has to make a few trips back and forth for all of the accompanying equipment, and only gets shot once, which he decides is a success. Hiding his actions from Oracle is a bit harder, but he manages by arranging an Arkham breakout to distract her. (Riddler likes him enough to escape at the time he asks.)

All he has to do now is hide his experiments from his family. He considers setting up his lab in Drake Manor, as he is the only one with the keys to the place, but it’s not like a lock will stop any of his brothers, and going to Drake manor is more suspicious than just locking himself somewhere in Wayne Manor. So that’s just what he does.

The seventh floor of Wayne manor is hardly used, with only a small, wooden, rickety spiral staircase leading up to the warped corridor that makes up the majority of the floor. It’s lined with family portraits of generations of Waynes, which Bruce had decided to move up here around 3 years ago, when he decided that only the portraits of his grandfather and parents should be kept downstairs. The piercing blue eyes of hundreds of Waynes judge him as he lugs strange equipment to and fro across the corridor to the dark room at the end. Bruce had set this aside for Tim’s photography when Tim turned 15, and Tim is pretty sure he is the only one who has been in here in the time since. Even Alfred doesn’t come in here, after Tim complained over and over about him ruining the prints by opening the door and letting all the light in. It’s the perfect place for his experiment.

The two cloning tubes he stole from CADMUS are placed in the right corner, the ominous green glow illuminating the hundreds of beeping machines required to run them. Tim sighs, and opens the DNA port, sliding in the fragments of Lex and Clark’s DNA into the compartments required. Clark’s DNA was much easier to procure, as Tim simply had to go to the Kent’s house (they let him in without question) and sneak into Clark’s room and find his hairbrush. He took plenty of hair, so he shouldn’t have to worry about increasing his supply anytime soon. Lex Luthor’s DNA was significantly harder to come by, mostly due to the fact that he is painfully bald. Tim had to steal his champagne at a gala and separate the strands of DNA from his spit. It was gross. Regardless, now he has all of the components to make… well, Kon. The bright blue screen blinks in front of him: ‘Initiate Cloning sequence, experiment One?’

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knows Kon better than anyone, and he knows just how violated Kon would feel by this breach of trust, but he just… can’t stop himself.

“Initiate Experiment One.”

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment One.

DNA was rejected almost instantly, not even reaching foetal stage. Switching DNA between Zygotes, Luthor will now be the Ovum. Kryptonian DNA appears less stable. Recalibrating the Zygote machine to account for this.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Three.

Successful Zygotes created. Running low on Luthor DNA, but I have enough Zygotes created to last nearly 20 attempts. Not worried. Beginning proper cloning attempts.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Ten.

All foetuses have been rejected thus-far. I am unsure whether or not the accelerated aging is splitting the cells apart too fast, but they appear unable to knit together properly. Adjusting the Amniotic fluids accordingly.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Seventeen.

First successful foetus. Lasted until the 3 month mark (Two hours with accelerated growth.) Showed promising development; appeared in keeping with other foetuses of a similar age. I am struggling to separate them in my mind. I almost feel like a father. I don’t think I like it.

Will ensure to emotionally separate for future experiments.

Note to self- collect more Luthor DNA.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Eighteen.

It appears that progress is not linear. Experiment 18 terminated within minutes of launch. Adjusting Zygote connection times accordingly.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Twenty-Nine.

Most foetuses are capable of reaching the end of the first Trimester (3 months/ Two hours and 15 minutes) yet I am as of yet unable to achieve the next stage. Amniotic fluid should be more Alkaline.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Thirty-Four.

First successful second trimester Experiment. Foetus appears to be progressing at a normal human-esque rate, more muscle-mass than expected on the average foetus. (Kryptonian genes?) Will be attempting an artificial birth at 9 months (5 hours), and continuing accelerated aging outside of Cloning tubes, in keeping with CADMUS techniques.

 Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Forty-Five.

First successful Third-trimester experiment, Ready to attempt artificial birth.

Kents are still unsuspecting of my actions. Luthor appears to be suspicious. Stay alert.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Forty-Five.

Artificial birth unsuccessful. Still-born.

Taking a break.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Forty-Seven.

Artificial birth successful, but experiment did not survive. First breaths were taken, but the foetus (Baby?) was unable to handle the accelerated growth.

How did CADMUS do this?

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Fifty-Two.

Baby survived initial birth and accelerated growth. Reached the equivalent of two years old (ten hours.) At first attempt to instil information utilising CADMUS logs, experiment experienced bleeding of the brain. Attempt unsuccessful.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Fifty-Nine.

They all look so young. These are just kids. Am I just creating kids? It all feels so wrong. I don’t know if I should keep doing this, but is it worse just to stop now? To let their sacrifice in the eyes of science be wasted?

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Sixty-Seven.

Longest surviving Experiment thus-far. Experiment 67 has survived 50 hours, to the equivalent of 10 years old. Will continue to monitor. Experiment is even exhibiting signs of a personality. This might be it.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Sixty-Eight.

I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep letting them out. From now on, all aging will take place within the amniotic fluids. (Why am I doing this?)

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Eighty-Two.

Experiment 82 reached full maturity within the tube (17 years/ 86 hours), but attempt to instil information utilising CADMUS logs resulted in bleeding of the brain again. Will attempt to instil in parts throughout the process in future.

He looked just like him.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Ninety-Four.

I’m close now, I can feel it. Experiment 94 reached full maturity, and was even able to uphold an conversation, however suffered from paper-thin skin, causing internal bleeding. Reduce alkaline levels in Amniotic fluid.

Tim’s Cloning logs, Experiment Ninety-Nine.

Ninety-Nine times the charm? Currently at the 72 hour mark, all is progressing as it should. I think I have finally done it. Kon, darling, I am so sorry. I had to-

The door to the dark room slams open, light spilling in and blinding Tim for a moment. The reverberation of the crack of wooden door against stone wall swims in the silence as Cassie comes running in. She throws her arms around Tim’s neck, breathing in deeply, despite the fact that Tim is pretty sure the last time he showered was over 7 days ago. (He’s been busy, Okay?). She pulls back, grabbing his face, and her own crumples. “I heard about Bruce. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here sooner; I was on Themyscira, and we don’t exactly get the news there. It was only when I was visiting my Mom that she mentioned it, and-”

Cassie trails off as her eyes move around the room, taking in the scenery she had previously ignored in favour of hugging the air out of Tim’s lungs.

“Tim…” She spits out quietly, and Tim is taken aback by the emotion in her voice. She sounds… she sounds afraid.

“Cassie, it’s not…”

“Tim, what the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear,”

“Fine. What is it then.” Cassie levels him with a stare, pulling her eyes away from the tubes and machinery “Explain to me how it’s ‘not’ what it looks like, because I’m pretty fucking sure you’re cloning someone, and I’m willing to bet I know exactly who that is.”

“Cassie, it’s not… it’s not like that, you know? I just, I have to have him back. I don’t care if he hates me I just…” His face crumples, and his breath hitches in a sob. “I can’t be alone anymore.”

Cassie looks like she’s going to be sick. “How could you! You know better than any of us how much Kon fucking hated the way that he was made! It made him hate himself so much that it took us all years to convince him he was worth loving! If he knew you did this? Knew you were abusing his memory? He’d be sick, Tim.”

“But he’s not here! And that’s the problem! He can hate me all he wants once he’s alive, but he needs to be alive first!”

“It won’t even be him! Just some perverted shade of him, a sick and twisted shadow of my best friend. I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you tarnish his memory. I won’t!” Before Tim can stop her, Cassie launches herself at the equipment, smashing the glass of the tubes and ripping out wires, cracking motherboards, pulling off dials. Her super-strength allows her to pull apart all of his fragile machinery like it’s putty, throwing it to the ground in her disgust. When she’s done, standing in the littered wreckage of his last hope at ever seeing the love of his life again, she stops and turns to face him. Tear tracks mar her perfect face, and shards of glass and hard plastic dig into her fists, golden-red blood dripping onto the floor- an accusation, a condemnation. “I’m leaving.” She chokes out. “If you ever even consider this again, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Our past, our friendship? It means nothing after this.”

He's pretty sure she means it.

…

Just when he thought his life couldn’t get any worse, it did. Because clearly Tim had pissed off some primordial god, who is now taking great pleasure at watching him suffer. Either that or he really is cursed, just like his mother told him all those years ago. Cursed to cause everyone he loves to die around him.

Because Steph dies too.

It shouldn’t even be a shock, at this point; all signs lead to Tim being some kind of soul-sucking Parasite: a leech who eats the joy and happiness from the world, one beautiful life at the time. Or at least, until he is painfully and completely alone. So he does the only thing he can to save everyone he loves- he locks himself away.

He shuts himself up on the 7^th floor of the Manor, barely eating, barely sleeping. He cracks case after case after case during the day, and takes his revenge on the world at night. His family try to come and see him occasionally, but they are busy with their own grief. Dick tries to take up the mantle of Batman, and so does Jason, so they spend most of their time fighting over a cowl that neither of them ever wanted. It keeps their eyes away from Tim, though, so he’s thankful.

He spends his free time mourning his best friend.

…

A couple of weeks into this way of living, something changes. It’s not noticeable, at first, just a subtle sense that something is… off. He notices it most when walking through the 7^th floor corridor, filled with the undeniable feeling of wrong-ness. He chalks it up to the hundreds of eyes upon him; the ancestors that are not, and will never be his own. He wonders if their ghosts hate the way he infiltrated their family. A fake son. A cuckoo in the nest.

But as time goes on, the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets stronger, pushing him to the edge. (He was very much already off the edge of sanity at this point, but the phrase still stands) He resolves to figure out what is wrong: spending hours analysing paint-flakes for arsenic, and researching the history of each and every Wayne portrayed, but nothing comes up.

He assumes he’s just continuing to go crazy. Nothing new.

But he still feels it; every time he scurries through that corridor back into the safety of his dark room. That sharp, metallic taste in the air. That prickling on the back of his neck. His instincts screaming “Wrong! Wrong! Something is wrong!”

It was only after three weeks of this endeavour that he sees it.

He’s returning from patrol, minor lacerations along his chest from a set of wooden boxes chucked at him by Killer Croc, wincing and stumbling his way to his med-kit- when he spies it. A painting. A family portrait. It’s clearly a Wayne, the characteristic Black-hair-and-blue-eyes combo making his heritage obvious, but Tim could have sworn he’s never seen this Wayne before. Not just that, he’s never seen this painting before.

There are 24 paintings on the seventh floor corridor.

Or, there were 24. Because there is now, most certainly, 25.

And the strangest part is, Tim recognises the man in the portrait. Which is ridiculous, because the little plaque next to it states a firm 1768, which was definitely not a year Tim was alive for. Even so, Tim knows this man; knows his face.

He sees it every night in his dreams.

Somehow, somehow, there is an old family portrait of Bruce Wayne.

Chapter Text

In total, Tim spends 18 hours looking at the painting. He tests it in every way he knows how, and even some he doesn’t. Every test says the same. It’s real. It’s not from another universe, or a cleverly crafted fake. It’s a real, 18^th century painting, of Bruce Wayne.

The question now is not, ‘What’, it’s ‘How’? How is there a painting from so long ago of a dead man? Tim is at a loss. He knows time-travel exists after some… unfortunate experiences with Young Justice. He knows it’s possible, but… there is no record of Bruce ever having travelled back in time, and certainly not to the 1700’s. And Tim has combed through his records. All of them. Most pressingly, the Bruce in the painting has a small scar on the right side of his chin, which was only gained a few months before Bruce’s death, and Tim has detailed accounts of where Bruce was the entire time. (Sometimes Tim’s stalker qualities come in handy.) This means that there is simply no way that Bruce could have travelled back in time before his death, or before Tim’s records. And besides, The painting had only appeared a few weeks prior, if the start of the strange-feeling is anything to go by. It certainly wasn’t there before, or Tim’s count would be off.

Well, like Arthur Conan Doyle said, ‘When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

And Tim has eliminated nearly everything. Nearly. Because there is one answer. One answer that makes perfect sense, and fits his well-documented timeline. But that answer is one of a grieving and hopeful child, right? Not a proper scientist.

Even so, however improbable, Tim has to entertain the notion that Bruce is alive, but stuck in the past. That, perhaps his fight with Darkseid didn’t go as Tim thought, and he had been sent back in time instead of simply to his grave.

Tim scours the internet, looking for strange objects appearing in the last few weeks. To his joy and partial horror, he finds at least 10 that appear to fit his requirements. Each have turned up mysteriously in previously well-excavated sites, with a thin film of Zinc over the top; which Tim had noted on the original painting. Most importantly, all of them shared a similar symbol: a crudely carved Bat.

Upon discovering this, Tim’s first response was to check his painting. He didn’t notice a Bat before, but that doesn’t necessarily rule it out? Or maybe the painting was the first clue Bruce left, and he didn’t think about the Bat yet?

Sure enough, however; in the corner where an artist’s signature would be, lies the outline of a Bat.

Tim is almost certain he’s right. He has to be. This is some kind of lead, or hint. Bruce is lost in time, and He’s relying on his sons to save him.

The only issue, is that he has no idea what time Bruce is currently in. The artefacts are from a range of places and times; from cave paintings to the Victorian period. A bat-brooch from ancient Egypt is Tim’s favourite. Bruce seems to be jumping around in the past, not staying in any one place for too long. The objects all appeared within 2-3 days of each other, so Tim can only presume that is accurate to Bruce’s travels. (It’s a working theory, alright?)

If Tim could pinpoint Bruce’s location, (Time-tion?) he could ask Bar- one of the speedsters- to take him there and save Bruce. The only issue is that Bruce’s movements appear to be completely random, with no rhyme or reason. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. No, like looking for Batman in Metropolis. You have no proof he’s there, but even if he is, you won’t find him.

Fuck, this is going to be so hard.

It is also going to be difficult to convey any of this to Dick. He doesn’t think it’s right to leave him in the dark- Bruce is his father in every way that counts- but he runs the risk of Dick’s grief clouding his judgement, which could lead to Dick not believing him or… worse.

He will tell Dick, right after he goes on patrol.

…

Tim is running, feet pounding on the rooftop asphalt as he launches himself ever forward. He can feel Man-Bat’s strange bat/dog children nipping at his heels, pushing him further, faster. It was meant to be a standard patrol: stop a few muggings, save a few kittens, and now look at him; desperately outrunning packs of rabid whatever-those-are. Gotham has really gone to the (bat)dogs since Bruce died; all the rogues having realised that something is different with Batman, and choosing this time to strike. Dick is too busy with his grief, and trying to train Damian, and being Batman to really stop the Rogues before they attack, so Tim has been taking it upon himself to work on that. In this case unfortunately, investigating Man-bat’s new base of operations alone was a frankly terrible idea.

He leaps across the gaps between buildings, barely even noticing the 30ft drop right below his feet. One misstep would mean certain death, but Tim doesn’t miss.

He’s leading the Batdogs towards the harbour, assuming given their thick coats that they wont be able to swim. Or that Killer Crock or some other harbour-dwelling freak will appreciate a little pack-of-Batdogs snack, and take them off his hands. Or they’ll just perish from the sheer toxicity of the harbour. That would work too.

Note to self- do not fall in.

The cutoff as the buildings hit the water is nearing closer, but so are the teeth at his heels. Tim rockets as fast as he can to the edge, only slowing slightly to fetch his grappling hook and pre-set it to stop after a couple of metres. No one can say Tim can’t multitask.

He makes it to the edge, taking a running leap and hooking his grapple around the building’s ledge, trusting it to catch him. He doesn’t have a super-powered boyfriend to catch him anymore, after-all.

The Batdogs follow only a second after, spilling over the ledge and straight into the water. Tim himself rests just below the ledge, above the thick concrete path about 30 feet below. The barks, clicks and screeches of the Batdogs stop suddenly as they hit the water, so Tim can firmly say that his plan was a certified success. He is, however, horrified and a little intrigued to find that they dissipate into a puff of red smoke upon contact with the water; like candyfloss. Weird.

He hangs there for another moment, watching the smoke drift into the sky, before he becomes aware of a crunching on the gravel above him. Someone’s coming.

He shifts carefully, tucking himself under the ledge. Hopefully, so long as the night cloaks his grapple, it will be like he was never here. Hopefully.

His hopes are dashed almost instantly, though, when a small gloved hand reaches down and grabs the top of his rope, knife blade instantly pressed against the fibres. Tim reacts on instinct, pushing himself away from the wall to get a good look at his attacker, but he stops short the second he does so.

It’s a kid. Not just that, it’s a kid in a Robin costume. The costume is similar to Tim’s own, except it has a slightly different cut, and a darker colour scheme. There is none of the bright yellow of Tim’s cape. It’s darker, broodier, not the light that Robin is meant to embody. Perhaps most strikingly, however, is the fact that Tim recognises the kid.

“Damian?”

“Tsk. Code names, Drake. Though, I guess you don’t have one anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, Batman has finally realised who the true heir is, and allowed me to take my place at his side. Therefore, you are useless. You will simply get in the way.”

“B made you Robin?” Tim chokes out, eyes embarrassingly itchy behind his Domino. But no, It’s not true. First off, Dick would have told him if he was firing Tim. Dick may be grieving, but he is not cruel. Secondly, Damian? The kid from the murder cult? Obviously, Tim believes in rehabilitation etc. but surely it’s a bit early for them to be considering putting this child back into high-stress, dangerous situations, where the choice to make the kill is right-there? No. Tim doesn’t believe Dick would be that stupid.

“I am the superior protégée.”

“Whatever. Move the knife, then we can go talk to B like civilised people.”

Damian considers this for a moment, staring down at Tim, who is still suspended mid-air. “No. I don’t think I will.” Ignoring Tim’s indignant squawking, Damian presses on. “I considered for a while trying to make you into some kind of cannon-fodder. Getting you killed in some way that would benefit me, but I simply… can’t be bothered. You are a nuisance, a fake son. It is better to get rid of you as fast as possible.” Damian begins sawing at the rope that suspends Tim, 4 stories up. A quick calculation tells him that his chances of surviving, especially with minimal injuries, is low. Great.

“Damian. Stop. What are you doing?”

“My name is Robin.”

“Whatever. Robin, please, stop! Just let me go, and we can talk about this like reasonable people.”

“You need to go. You are an interloper in our family. You need to die.” and fuck, if that doesn’t hurt. Every intrusive thought he’s ever had is being spat at him by this tiny murderer (except for the ones about him being a bad boyfriend, but those are not really applicable here.) It’s not looking good. Well, if appealing to the brat’s humanity doesn’t work, maybe his pride will.

“Why are you killing me like this, then? When I’m completely helpless, unable to defend myself?”

“What are you talking about, Drake?”

“Well, I’m just saying, You have tried to kill me, what, 27 times in the last four months?”

“29.” Damian huffs.

“Damn, they were that bad that I didn’t even notice them? Anyway, that just proves that while I am able to move around and fight, your assassination attempts are useless. Hell, even the attempts you made while I was asleep failed.”

“Quiet, interloper.” Damian hisses, sawing at the now-frayed rope with renewed vigour. Hm, maybe antagonising his supposed murderer was a bad idea.

“I’m just saying, you’ve said all that shit about being the ‘proper’ heir, and being so much better and stronger than me, but you don’t seem to want to actually fight me. Why? Think I’ll beat you?”

“Of course not.” Damian scoffs, but he doesn’t seem very certain.

“I’ve beaten you every time in training.” Tim points out helpfully, as the rope sways a little with Damian’s angry sawing.

“That is irrelevant. You have had more training than me.”

“Technically years-wise, you-”

“Be quiet!” Damian shouts, but his face is flushed, and he appears embarrassed. Hm.

“Look, how about you let me get up there, and we fight like men, alright? That way, if you win, you can kill me and know that you actually deserve the title.”

“And if you win? Will you break your no-kill streak?”

Tim huffs a laugh at that, because his ‘no-kill’ streak is purely a bat formality. Plenty of his opponents have perished, but none of them directly at his hand. He always makes sure there is another aspect at play. It’s not his fault if he happens to hit certain areas that might be weaker on certain individuals!

Besides, Bruce had quite the kill-count of his own, even if he didn’t know it. During that dark time after Jason, when Tim had just become Robin, and Bruce was still throwing himself into fights like each one was life-or-death, lots of his opponents had died later in hospital from their injuries. Tim was aware of this, as he hacked Batman’s email account almost instantly upon becoming Robin, and hid all of the emails related to deaths at Bruce’s hands. And there were a lot. It slowed down a lot in recent years, but even now there will occasionally be a particularly harsh and well-placed hit that Tim will just know will mean paperwork later. Or at least, there was. Bruce is dead.

“No, I won’t kill you, brat. I just get to live if I win, alright?”

Damian considers it for a long moment, head tilting to the side like a dog’s. “Fine. I can accept those terms.” He stops sawing, and steps back from the edge, allowing Tim to scramble back up his rope and onto the ledge.

Once he’s up, Damain begins to circle him, katana aloft. (seriously, Dick wants this kid to be Robin? With a lethal weapon? It’s like he’s asking for his legacy to be tarnished!) Tim unsheathes his own Bo staff and mirrors the movement; until they have completed half a circuit, with Damian now standing near the edge, and Tim near the buildings. They are still for half a moment, eyeing each other, before Damian lunges, Katana swishing in a deadly arc. Tim, however, turns and runs.

Technically, it’s cowardly. However, unlike Damian, Tim has no concept of pride or dignity. He has a job to do, and that involves being alive to do it, and not leaving it to a maniac with a Katana. He’s still pretty sure he could have won the fight, but he would have been hurt, and he doesn’t fancy having to explain to Dick why his golden child might need his Katana removed for everyone’s safety.

Tim leaps over the buildings, once again being chased. A look behind him shows that Damian took a second to respond, presumably dumbfounded at Tim’s lack of respect for duels. He makes chase, though, but that second of bewilderment is enough for Tim to be considerably ahead. And one thing about Tim? He knows this city like no other.

See, Damian has been in Gotham for around 5 months. He has had plenty of time to map the general gist of the city, but he has had no reason to hide whilst doing so. He knows the general patrol routes very well, but Tim’s old stalking routes? Well, Damian hasn’t got a hope of finding him.

Tim knows his city. Loves his city. And in return, the city let him in on her secrets. Small, seemingly inconsequential alleyways. Tiny gaps between buildings. Windows that don’t quite swing shut. If there’s one thing Tim can do in this city, it’s hide. After all, he hid from the Batman at only 9 years old. He can escape Damian easily.

And that’s another thing. The Robin suit is designed to stand out. It’s bright- reds, greens and that shining yellow all coming together to make a traffic-light-esque get-up that looks like if Christmas threw up on a little boy. And Bruce designed it to be able to find Robin in any situation, but it had the unexpected effect of making the Robins incredible at blending in. When your job requires not being seen, being dressed in neon Lycra makes you shockingly skilful at hiding when in plain sight. Bruce often complains about Tim and Jason creeping up on him, but they don’t even notice they’re doing it. It’s second-nature. Dick has mostly un-learned that habit, by announcing his presence in every room he walks into, but that’s mostly due to years of the Titans insisting he announce his presence, lest they attack him out of panic.

Damian has only ever worn dark colours. In the league of assassins, the general outfit code is black, or ‘civilian’ clothing. He’s never had to work against himself. And even now, in Damian’s toned-down Robin suit, Tim can see him coming a mile away.

He leads Damian to the upper-side of Gotham, allowing him to catch little snippets of Tim as he darts around corners, making him think he’s winning. Then, as they reach the edge of the city, he slips into the shadows. He watches Damian swing by, completely oblivious to the eyes on him, then turns back, heading to the cave. Dick has some explaining to do.

…

He slams his hand down on the main table, jolting Dick from his focus on some case or another. “We need to talk.”

“Timmy!” Dick says, and it’s so strange to see the Batman smile. “Just the boy I wanted to see.”

“You were planning to talk to me?”

“Yes! I’ve been wanting to speak to you about something for a while. Like, two weeks, actually.”

“Well I also have something to talk to you about.”

“What a coincidence! Do you mind if I go first?”

“Well, if it can wait two weeks, it can wait until after my thing.”

“It can’t!”

“My thing is so definitely more important.”

“Look, Timmy, I have a lot on my plate right now, and whatever you have to say-”

“Bruce is alive.”

Dick is silent, just staring at him, mouth slightly open. Tim thinks, slightly hysterically, that he looks like a fish.

“No, Tim. Bruce is dead. He died in the fight with Darkseid, remember?”

“No, he didn’t! He got sucked into the timestream! I’m not sure how, but we can ask him that once we get him back.”

Dick’s eyes are achingly gentle when he says “How about we sit down.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that. Just… sit down, okay Tim?”

Tim stays standing.

“Look, I have proof, it’s not like I’m just making this up for fun.”

“I never said you were, but grief is a funny thing, you know.”

“There’s a painting! From 1756! And it’s of Bruce!” Tim’s breath is coming short and fast, and he knows a panic attack when he feels one, but he refuses to let it happen. Not now, not when he’s so close.

“And… and there’s a brooch! From ancient Egypt! It’s of a Bat, and I’m certain Bruce made it, because they found traces of Zinc on it, and-”

“Tim.” Dick says, and his voice is soft, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, not a teenage genius scientist, who is the best in the world with a Bo staff, and the first Robin to force his way into the job. “Please just sit down.”

Tim relents. If that’s what Dick wants for them to have a proper conversation, then that’s what he’ll do. It’s only when he sits down that he realises his mistake.

Bindings whir out from around the edges of the chair; wrapping tight around his shoulders, arms, waist, legs, ankles. He is completely trapped and bound, and not in a fun way.

“Dick? What is this?”

“It’s for your own safety, baby bird.”

“That’s ridiculous. I am fine.”

“look, I know you have lost a lot of people you care for in the past few months,”

“You mean everyone I care for?” Tim spits out, because it sure feels like it. Dick winces for a moment, but continues.

“Yes, well, grief can do really strange things to your psyche. When my parents died, I would think that they were everywhere, just in the corner of my vision. I was convinced they were there, even though they weren’t.”

“Okay, but that’s a completely different situation! You were a grieving nine-year-old, and I am 17! I’m nearly an adult, and I have proof.”

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, disappointment leaking out of him, but when he opens them, he looks determinedly down at Tim. “Fine. Show me your ‘Evidence’.”

Tim breathes out, thankful to finally be listened to; and he’s about to ask Dick to bring him his laptop so he can show him the files, when a door slams loudly behind him.

Dick looks up at the noise, and his eyes go wide. “Damian? You shouldn’t be out on patrol yet! Certainly not alone-” Damian ignores him, and stalks around to make eye contact with Tim, katana drawn.

“You cheated!”

“I didn’t cheat at all!” Tim defends, despite the fact that he absolutely cheated. “ I gave you a proper fight!”

“You ran away!”

“No, I used my skills to my advantage. Hiding is just as important as fighting if you want to have a chance of being Robin someday.”

Dick chokes. “Um, right. Well, about that…”

Tim’s stomach drops. “No.”

“Look, okay! He needs something to aspire to and work towards, especially to help him get over the grief of losing his father! This is perfect for that, and for him to work out his anger and cultivate his people-skills! I really didn’t want you to find out like this,” Dick sighs, eyeing Damian in his awful not-really-Robin suit. “I told him to wait until I told you properly, but he was just so exited about his new suit, you know?” Dick shrugs at him in a ‘kids these days’ gesture, and Tim just feels sick.

“What about me?” He asks, and his voice is so much weaker than he meant it to be, and his eyes are stinging, and he can see Damian smiling out of the corner of his eye, and it’s just so goddamn embarrassing.

“Well,” Dick starts, looking over at where Tim is completely trapped in his bindings, and sighs. “You are getting too old, to start with. You are nearly 18, Tim. Robin isn’t an adult. It’s a little boy’s hero, you know? It’s time you grew up and chose an identity of your own.”

“But… I’m Robin.” And it’s stupid. It’s plaintive, and useless, because even as he says it, he knows what Dick will say next. Gently, oh so gently. “Not anymore.”

And it’s not fair. It’s just not fair, because he worked so hard to be here. To be respected, to be understood, even just to be allowed to be here at all. He had to work for it all in a way the others never did.

He had to raise himself, in that big, empty house. He had to drag himself to the city in the night to spy on Robin, to learn his moves, to photograph him. He had to figure out Bruce’s identity all on his own. He had to pick up the broken pieces of a grown man, to stop him killing himself or others, at the ripe age of 13. Had to nod his head and go when Bruce sent him to Paris to train as far away from him as possible. When Bruce would get drunk and call him ‘Jason’, he had to respond as if it were true, because both of them would prefer Jason to be there, for Tim to have died in his place, even if neither of them said it out loud.

He had to make a name for himself in the wider hero community- had to make them respect the ‘replacement’ Robin. He had to learn to lead, had to learn to shoulder the burden of other’s lives on his own, had to earn their respect. He had to watch his mother die, then his father and his stepmother. He had to watch as all the hard work he put into healing Bruce was stripped away as the very boy that they both wished he was came back and tried to kill him. In a strange way, Tim thinks maybe it would have been better if Jason had just killed him in that tower, because at least then there would be a reason for him and Bruce to fight. Sometimes Tim just wants to take Jason by the shoulders and shake, because Bruce loves him, in a way that he will never love Tim, but Jason still chooses to resent him for something that would never have happened. Tim would kill for Bruce to love him like that. Tim has never been a natural in the way Jason and Dick were. He had to work and work and work and work and work some more, pushing his body past it's physical limits, then further still. Bloody knuckles and broken ribs have been the defining characteristic of his tenure as Robin.

He has had to carve out a place for himself in this family. Carve it out of his own flesh and blood and bones. And despite it all, despite everything, he thought he had managed it. Had managed to finally be wanted. He clawed his way back from the middle of nowhere, and he found his family, and he felt wanted. Wanted in a way that he never had before. For fuck’s sake, his earliest memories are of his mother, before she got bored of him, sitting with a bottle of red wine and a ruddy face, telling him that she wished she never had him. That he ruined everything. Her body, her life. That he was the reason his father was having an affair with his secretary. Then he had to listen to Bruce wish and wish and wish that he had his real son back, not some interloper. Not a cuckoo. Not Tim.

He had to watch as his Mother, then his Father, then his Step-Mother, then Bart, then Kon, then Seb, then Bruce, then Stephanie died in front of him.

And even throughout all of this; all of the heartbreak and pain, he still had Robin. He could keep others safe, happy, alive. After all that death, Robin is the only thing he has left. He’s devoted what’s left of his life to it. He’s willing to die in action, to devote even his death to the cause, because then maybe, finally, he’ll have lived up to that impossible standard set before him. For once in his life, Tim just wants to be enough. Robin was his way of doing that. Of taking the shit the universe threw at him, and turning it into light and hope. And now Dick wants to take it from him? 17 years of being told he’s not enough all come flooding back through him in one go, and Tim just screams. “You can’t! Bruce is alive! You aren’t even Batman, not really!” He pulls and pulls against his restraints, the harsh material cutting into his skin, drawing blood. “You can’t take away the only thing I have left, you just… you just can’t!” They just don’t understand. They don’t understand what this means to him, how losing this will break him. He just needs to make them understand.

He's distantly aware that he is screaming hysterically, sobs wracking his stick-thin frame, but he doesn’t care. Everything in him is screaming ‘Wrong’ so loudly that he wonders if everyone else can hear it too. He hears in the corner of his consciousness Damian’s voice scoffing and saying “We knew Drake was too unstable to be Robin anyway.” Before the needle slips into his neck, and he passes out.

…

When he wakes, it’s to white padded walls, and harsh fluorescent lights.

He pulls himself up to sitting groggily, looking around warily when he realises he doesn’t recognise his surroundings. The room is plain; just a bed, chair, table and toilet. Not even a shower. All the edges are rounded, and the walls are squishy and pliant. If Tim didn’t know better, he would say this looks like a room in Arkham asylum. That’s ridiculous, of course, because even if Dick decided (incorrectly) that Tim required legitimate help, he wouldn’t put him in a holding cell with all his worst enemies. Right?

He jumps nearly a foot into the air when a small, spiky, object lands on his foot. A quick glance down confuses him even more, because that’s a paw, right? He peeks under the bed, trying to see what the paw is attached to, and is pleasantly surprised to see a very familiar black-and-white face staring back at him. “Squish!” He shouts happily, reaching down to pluck her out from under the bed. She whines at the harsh white lights, but relents, allowing him to hold her. She’s nearly a year old now; nothing like the tiny kitten she was when he found her. “Sorry I haven’t been looking after you recently” He apologizes, petting her head. “I knew Alfred would keep you fed, and I was busy with… other stuff.”

Squish clearly doesn’t mind, just butting her head into his hand when he stops petting her for a second. He continues petting her, allowing his brain to focus while he tries to work out a plan. There is certainly the possibility he’s been kidnapped, but why would they let him have his cat? That seems unlikely. What is seeming increasingly likely is that, instead of looking at his evidence, Dick has chosen not to believe him and has instead sent him to a mental hospital. Great.

He is brought out of his thoughts of escape by the plain white door banging open. A doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope walks in, then smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, wonderful, you’re awake.” He doesn’t wait for Tim to speak, just walks over to the chair and pulls it up next to the bed, just an inch too close for comfort. The man is short, squat, with a scar running down the left side of his face. His skin is pale, but age has reddened his complexion, giving him the look of a particularly hot boiled piece of gammon. His bald head shines in the fluorescent lights. “So. Timothy. Welcome.” He pauses now, almost expectantly.

“Um… thank you?”

He nods, as if this makes perfect sense. “I am going to explain why you are here, and then we are going to discuss a plan moving forward, alright Timothy?”

“Just Tim is fine.”

“Of course, Timothy. Now, you were sectioned here thanks to your brother, a Mister ‘Richard Grayson’, correct?”

“Um, I think so? He is my brother, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Splendid. Now, he has sent you here because of your delusions, correct?”

Now Tim really is confused. “I’m sorry, delusions?”

“Yes. Your delusions. I am told you believe that your father is still alive, despite having died-” He pauses to check the date on his watch, “Over six months ago, correct?”

“Yes, that’s technically correct, but Bruce is alive, seriously! I just-”

The doctor smiles like he’s won the lottery. “Right then. And I am also informed by your younger brother, Damian, was it? That you are suffering from delusions of grandeur, as well as severe paranoia. Is that correct?”

“Paranoia?” Tim asks, because yes, he definitely does suffer from that (Thanks, Bruce!) but he wasn’t aware that Damian had picked up on that.

“Yes, I understand you believe that young Damian has been attempting to, ah,” He huffs a laugh for a second, “assassinate you?” He scoffs at the idea, clearly dismissing it, but if he just knew that Damian literally came from a murder cult-

“Look, okay. I understand that my brothers put me in here and everything, but I am seriously fine. I don’t need help, or anything. I just need to go home. I have work to do.”

“No can do, I’m afraid Timothy.” The doctor sighs. “You are sectioned, which means you are not able to choose when you do or do not leave. That is up to me and a team of professionals who will be overseeing your care.”

Tim seethes. Bruce needs his help! He can’t just sit around in a mental hospital until Dick decides he’s ‘healthy’ enough.

“Fine. Whatever. Where even are we?”

The doctor looks at him with a glimmer in his eye. “Why, Arkham Asylum, of course.”

…

This is bad. Like, very bad. Tim paces around his room (cell), trying to work out an escape route. It can’t be that hard, really, given the amount of breakouts this place has. Like, seriously, the security has to be abysmal. The issue is, Tim has worked really hard at making the security here better, which is now coming back round to bite him in the ass. He knows the general gist of the security, but not the guard’s routines or paths or-

A hand pulls up the food-grate on his door. “Psst. Over here!”

He stops his pacing, and looks over. Squish jumps off her place on the bed and goes to investigate, nudging the hand with her nose, strangely trusting. Tim heads over, crouching down beside the grate. There is no face on the other side, just the torso of whoever it is that’s come to visit him. They are skinny, too skinny to be healthy, and Tim spots a bunch of bandages and cuts on the parts of their skin that’s visible.

“You are looking for Batman, right?”

“I… what?”

 “Batman.” The voice sighs. “Your dad. Bruce.”

“How the fuck do you know-”

“It doesn’t matter. They are going to be taking you away in a minute. They want to try electroshock therapy on you. Don’t let them. Take your cat, try to make a break for it when they’re distracted.” The voice is rushed, hoarse.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Lets just say it’s in my best interest, okay?” The voice grits out. “Now, look. You need to pinpoint Batman’s location in the timestream. It’s not going to be easy. You will need to collect the artefacts he has left behind, and use them to work out his next location. You’ll work it out, but you need to go. Take the painting from the manor, and head to France. There’s a Mesopotamian pot that appeared there just today. They’re moving it to the Louvre tomorrow. You need to get it.”

“Wait, how do you know all this?” Tim asks, but the figure steps out of his view and away before he can ask any more questions.

In the wake of… all that, Tim is left gobsmacked. The person knew about Bruce. He knew about the painting in the manor. Does that mean he can be trusted? He doesn’t have enough time to think about it properly, though, because as soon as the figure leaves the hatch, a man in white scrubs bangs open his door. Tim has just enough time to burrow under his covers and pretend to be asleep before he is in the room. “Timothy.” The man announces. “You have an appointment in five minutes. Please be dressed and ready in that time.”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shi-

The man shuts the door again, and Tim jumps out of his bed, pacing erratically along the room. The stranger said it was going to be electroshock therapy, right? Can Tim trust the random faceless stranger? He’s not sure, but either way, he is not going to whatever ‘appointment’ is booked for him. He grabs Squish, and shoves her down the large oversized hospital shirt he’s wearing. It’s not the most comfortable, but she’s disguised pretty well, and she’s used to being carried like this. During his journey around America, it was the only way to keep a rambunctious kitten safe, and she’s always enjoyed it since. Tim just has to hope she doesn’t wriggle too much, and give away her position. There don’t appear to be any other personal belongings of his in the room, so he works on a plan. He’s barefoot, with clothes that are seemingly made out of paper. This doesn’t bode well for a potential chase through the Gotham night, but the old pixie-boots on his original Robin uniform were basically just socks, so he’s used to running over glass and rubble practically barefoot. He’s more worried about the rain literally washing away his clothes.

It's better than staying here, anyhow. When the man in white scrubs (Scrubby, he decides,) comes back to accompany him, Tim attempts to give the air of a slightly nervous patient. He’s pretty certain it works. Scrubby leads him down a bunch of plain white corridors, which are sterilised to within an inch of their life. Everything is bright and white and Tim is fairly certain that just being in this building would drive him insane, if he wasn’t already. No wonder Gotham has so many Rogues if this is what the mental health provision is like.

Most of the cells they pass are much like Tim’s own, plain white with a barred door and food hatch, but as they enter what Tim assumes is the main atrium, there is a cell made of glass, completely visible from all angles. That’s not the disturbing thing, though. Not even close. All across the glass, in various stages of drying, is two letters, “HA”, written in what Tim can only assume is… well, blood. Inside the cell, a small figure is hunched over, shaking. If it wasn’t for the bright green hair, Tim isn’t even sure he would recognise him. But he would recognise that peeling face anywhere.

Tim presses his fingers to the small white scars on either side of his mouth- the perpetual smile that is forever carved into his face- and looks at the man who put them there. He looks so different like this; small and fragile, but the cackling wracking his shoulders and shaking through his body reminds Tim who he’s really dealing with. The man he once had to call his father.

The Joker turns to look at them; bright red smile stretched grotesquely wide, eyes manic with joy. Then he starts to laugh in earnest, pointing and screaming his laughter into the silence of the room. Tim just freezes. Does he know? His mind screams. Does he know who I am?

Joker slams against the glass; over and over, until his knuckles split and bright red blood comes careening down his fists. Alarms blare all around them, and armed guards come pouring into the room, but all Tim can see is the rivulets of crimson slipping down that monster’s hands.

It’s then that he remembers what the stranger told him. “Try to make a break for it when they’re distracted.” He spins around and, sure enough, no one in the room is looking at him, they’re all focused on… well, all of that.

He takes his moment. Quiet, without any rush or haste, he walks out of the room. No one even tries to stop him. Then he runs. Down the white corridors, tiles slick with disinfectant. Down and up and round and out. He runs in circles, unable to make his way through the maze that is this strange liminal space. Eventually, though, he finds a window that looks out onto the courtyard in  front of Arkham. The alarms are still blaring, and he registers a guard sprinting down the corridor towards him. It’s now or never.

He reels his fist back, then smashes through the glass; a thousand shards raining down around him. His fists look just like the Joker’s. He doesn’t let it distract him, though, just swings through the now open window, being careful to shield his stomach (and by extension, Squish) from the worst of the damage. He shimmies down a drainpipe, then just runs.

…

The gates of Arkham are relatively easy to clamber over and, mercifully, it’s not raining, so he doesn’t have to worry about his clothes melting off. From there, it’s a simple journey to the Manor. He sneaks back in through the 7^th floor window, leaving Squish in the dark room to protect the painting. She’s such a good girl. He slips downstairs, grabbing one of Bruce’s emergency credit cards. He also grabs a bag and fills it with the essentials. A bunch of knives, two Bo staffs, a couple of grappling hooks and various other bits of protective and offensive gear. After a long moment’s consideration, Tim also places the gun that Jason got him for his 17^th birthday in the bag. Bruce isn’t here, after all.

It’s as he’s slipping out, that he runs into Alfred. The butler is standing at the end of the hall, feather duster in hand. Alfred looks at Tim. Tim looks at Alfred. Then Alfred turns away, as if he never saw anything. Tim turns and leaves.

…

He empties Bruce’s card of cash, so that it can’t be used to trace him, and dumps all of his electronics in the Gotham harbour. Then he catches a plane straight to France, Squish safely in his jumper, and the painting safely in the hold.

“Well, Squish.” He whispers into his collar. “It looks like we’ve got quite the journey ahead of us.”

Squish doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need her to. He knows what he’s getting himself into.

Chapter Text

The vents in the Louvre are just slightly too small for the average human body.

Thankfully, Tim is considerably smaller than the average person, so he fits them just fine. Or, at least, fine enough. He kind of feels like one of those rich guys who goes cave diving on purpose and gets killed; leaving a wife and children behind. Tim hates those guys.

It’s night, but the museum is still busy: guards stationed at virtually every exit and entrance, and a bunch patrolling the corridors.

Fortunately, Tim has worked out that since the pot he needs is new, and relatively unimportant, it isn’t under as rigorous watch as, say, the Mona Lisa. Therefore, there is a 3 minute gap between each rotation of the guard in which he is free to take it.

Unfortunately, Tim has come down with a cold. A bad one.

There is a guard right below his grate, with a slightly misshapen uniform. His suit doesn’t quite fit right, sitting wrong on his shoulders, and he has a slight limp. All of these things would be helpful information to take him down, but Tim isn’t focused on that. No, he’s much more focused on the impending sneeze that is working it’s way up his throat. His nose is tickling, buzzing as if it’s filled with flies, when in reality, it’s just filled with dust from this godforsaken vent. He presses his index finger to the indent above his top lip, which he’s pretty sure is supposed to help? Or maybe it was something to do with pineapples?

There is a tense moment, when Tim is certain he’s going to sneeze with the guard right there, every muscle in his body tensed against the action, but eventually the guard moves on, and he’s able to muffle the noise as much as possible. Thankfully, no alarms start blaring, so he probably got away with it. He waits one more rotation, before he decides to enact his plan.

Thankfully this isn’t a traditional art heist, in that he won’t have to cover his tracks. He’s wearing gloves and a hairnet, so there’s practically no chance of him getting DNA spotted, and a mask to hide his face. There’s no need to replace it with a fake, or pretend like nothing is stolen, because they’ll have no way of finding the culprit. When the guard passes again, Tim begins to slowly remove the grate; placing it carefully up in the vent to stabilise his rope to get back out, before slipping down into the corridor. A quick look around confirms his solitude, and he works on breaking into the glass case.

On the flight over from Gotham, he designed a machine which would emit a frequency of sound high pitched enough to crack glass, and far too high pitched to be heard by human ears. It should make his entire operation completely silent.

In fact, it’s all going perfect so far. His machine works like a charm; creating a neat pressure line through the centre of the glass, which Tim uses his knife to work apart. He gets the pot with little problem, cushioning it in an old jumper so that it doesn’t break. Not that it would really matter if it did, he can still carbon-date without it being in perfect condition, but it’s helpful to keep it that way. Besides, he had architect parents. He learned respect for history a long time ago.

In fact, everything goes perfect, right until he’s preparing to climb back into the vent, at which point a voice calls out from behind him. “Watcha doin’ here, kitten?”

Fuck.

“Selina.”

“Tim!”

She grins at him, her sharpened canines peeking out from behind her thin red lips. “You know, they all said you went off the deep end, but I wasn’t expecting you to start heading into my territory.” Now that she mentions it, Tim notices multiple pieces of expensive jewellery in her arms. Clearly, she’s mid-heist.

“Think of it as a one-off.” Tim announces, turning back to the vent.

“Oh, come now, little kitten. Doesn’t this get your heart pummelling? Is the adrenaline not pumping through you?” Selina drawls, pacing around him slowly.

Tim considers it for a moment. “Huh. Not really.” Not like when he’s out as Robin, swinging through the dark, only his own wits to keep him alive. Selina scowls at his response. “Well that simply won’t do.” She reaches up and plucks his rope out of the vent, causing the grate to clang to the floor in the process. Tim hears shouting in the distance.

“What the fuck Selina?”

She just grins at him. “I’m making it more exiting!” Tim just stares at her in abstract horror. “Why on earth-”

His rant is cut short by pounding footsteps running in their direction. “You are the worst sort-of-stepmother ever.” He grabs Selina by the wrist and drags her along the corridor, making sure to muffle his steps as much as possible. He tries various doors as they run, but they’re all locked. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck….

Finally, a door swings open on contact. Tim goes barrelling in, pulling Selina in behind him and shutting the door, barring it with his body. He grabs something nearby, which looks suspiciously like a… mop(?) and throws it across the handle, preventing anyone from coming in. He holds his breath to keep from panting as footsteps grow closer and closer, until it feels like the rhythmic pounding is coming from inside his skull. Eventually, though, the footsteps grow quieter until they are practically silent. Tim lets out his breath, then whirls on Selina.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He whisper-hisses at her, genuine rage piling up inside him. It was going so well.

“Well, I thought it was a good idea to have some mother-son bonding time!” Selina announces, gesturing around at their situation. “And seeing as we are now stuck in a broom closet, we have plenty of time to talk about you!”

Tim might actually be in hell.

“Nope. We aren’t doing that. I am going to leave, and not get you arrested, and that’s the best you’re going to get.” He moves to unblock the door, but stops at Selina’s giggle from behind him.

“What.”

“And just how are you planning on leaving? Do you think you can just get away? If I had to guess, you set the security guards’ cameras to loop for the amount of time you were down here, which can’t be longer than 5 minutes. So how do you intend to sneak out? They’ll see you.”

Tim slumps against the door. Fuck his life. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

Selina shrugs. “Not exactly. I had been meaning to check up on you, but running into you here was really just a pleasant coincidence.”

“Right. Sure.”

Selina shrugs again, in a ‘believe what you want’ gesture, and relaxes against the shelves of the janitors closet, clearly settling in for the long haul. Tim groans. “At least tell me you have a plan to get out of here?”

“Yup!”

Tim waits for her to expand. “…are you going to tell me?”

“Nope!”

Great. Just great.

Tim sits down himself, and works on trying to flay Selina alive with his mind. When that doesn’t work, he tries to flay himself, to equal levels of success.

“So.” Selina announces, breaking the silence. “How’s that boyfriend of yours.”

Tim just blinks at her. Is she actually planning to torment him? “Dead.”

“I be- What?” Selina looks genuinely shocked, so maybe she actually didn’t know.

“Has been for months. He was the first to die, then it was all my friends and then my dad. I’m shocked you don’t know all this already. Or are you just trying to get me to talk about my feelings.” He spits the word out with malice; glaring at Selina despite the prickling in the back of his eyes. His fingers slip unconsciously to the ring Kon gave him, turning it around and around on his finger.

Selina stares at him. “I thought… Obviously I knew about… about Bruce-“ her voice cracks on his name, and Tim has to remind himself that he’s not the only one who the love of his life. “But I had no idea-”

“Yeah, well. That’s great and all, but my life is, like, literally falling apart, and I have to get this pot out of here to fix it, so if you could tell me your plan, that would be appreciated.”

Selina keeps staring at him. It’s making him a bit itchy now, the intensity of her gaze. He feels like she’s peeling back layers of him, looking underneath his skin, down where his muscles twitch and his blood flows.

Finally, she speaks. “I won’t tell Dick you were here.”

“I didn’t think you were going to.”

Selina shrugs, her air of nonchalance back in full force despite the intensity of her gaze. “He’s been looking for you everywhere. Told the Justice league you’ve gone nuts, I’m pretty sure. He’s asked me to turn you in if I find you, but I don’t think I will.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just…” She pauses, thinking over her words. “Just as long as you are safe. Then I won’t tell him.”

She looks at him again, eyes piercing him deeper than a knife ever will. He isn’t sure that he can tell her the truth, but he doesn’t know for a fact that he’s in danger, so-

“I will be. I am. Safe, that is.”

“Right.” She grins. “Okay then. Here’s the plan”

…

Tim regrets agreeing to the plan. If anything, he should have just run for it when he got the chance, guards be damned. Selina walks him through the crowds of the Louvre, hand on the small of his back. Selina’s ‘incredible’ plan, was to simply wait until daybreak and leave with the crowds. She didn’t want to be too obvious, though, so instead of just leaving through the door, they are going deeper into the museum, checking out the exhibits. Tim is so anxious it feels like there is fireworks beneath his skin. This is awful.

They walk past the Mona Lisa, and Tim catches Selina’s eyes stick on the infamous painting. “Don’t you dare.” He hisses at her, and she sighs. Her kleptomaniac tendencies will have to take the backseat for their escape.

Selina wanders off to look at the gift shop (and hopefully not steal anything, but Tim has very little hope in that regard) while Tim admires some of the sculptures the gallery boasts. They are truly beautiful, hewn from Parian marble and sculpted into life-like creations that Tim would almost think were real, if not for their stationary nature. One sculpture in particular catches Tim’s eye, and he turns to look at the plaque.

The plaque claims that it is “Psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss” by Antonio Canova, made in 1787. The statue features two figures; the woman, presumably Psyche, is reaching up to a flying Cupid, cradling his face as he lifts her to what Tim can only presume is freedom. Inside, the hollow of his chest caves in just a little more. What he wouldn’t give for Kon to come and save him right now. It sounds stupid, like he’s some kind of damsel in distress, but at the moment life feels like a waking nightmare. It feels like everything has gone wrong, and no matter what he does, Tim can’t seem to just wake up. He wants Kon to fly down and bring him into the world of the waking, back to their bed, back into the real world, not this shadow-land he’s found himself in. Not this hell. Not this-

Selina’s hand on his shoulder shoots him out of his reverie. “Time to go.” She announces, face carefully formed into a casual mask. Tim matches it, and together- arm in arm- they walk away from the scene of their crime. As they walk, Tim scrunches his eyes shut. If I’m dreaming, now is when I’ll wake up. I’m done with this all now. You’ve had your fun. I just want to wake up now.

But when he opens his eyes again, the world is still exactly the same.

…

Tim spends the next couple of months travelling the globe, doing his best to get as many examples of Bruce’s existence as possible. Sometimes weeks go by between discoveries, and he spends those weeks doing every test known to mankind on the items that he does have. Sometimes multiple turn up in a day, and he has to race around the world to collect them before someone else.

His only companion is Squish; his cat once again standing by his side when no one else will or can. She keeps him sane in the moments when it feels like the loneliness is crushing him alive. He doesn’t speak to anyone; he hardly eats. Time seems to slip away from him when he isn’t actively working on the case. He finds himself zoning out constantly, and when he comes to hours have passed.

He’s a shadow of a person, but he keeps going.

He could build pyramids with the effort it takes to cling on to life and reason, but instead he travels through time. He throws himself into his work, doing everything short of murder to get whatever he can. He’s going to save Bruce, no matter what it takes, whether it kills him or not.

“Give me a lever long enough, and I’d move the very earth.” -Archimedes

…

Tim has lost track of exactly where he is right now. He’s still in Europe, he’s pretty certain, but he’s spent so many days hitchhiking and walking through the wilderness that he could be in quite literally any country. It’s funny how little borders mean when you’re actually crossing them.

Stumbling out of the forest, Tim finds himself near what appears to be a small southern European town. If he had to guess, he would say Italy or Spain. The houses are all made of a sand coloured stone; with terracotta roofs and colourful shutters on the windows. It’s idyllic, and Tim is wandering in before he quite realises what he’s doing.

The properties are spread out, with curtains instead of doors. It makes it kind of hard to tell where one house starts and another ends, all of them blending together in harmony. Tim walks into a courtyard, Squish curling around his ankles, stopping him in his tracks. There’s a little sign in the corner, boasting the ‘best olives in Italy.’

Right. Okay; he’s in Italy.

His leg twinges a bit from where it was shot nearly a week ago while Tim tried to steal a 1920’s designer watch from a drug lord. He had been convinced that it was one of Bruce’s clues, but when he examined it there was no tell-tale trace of Zinc. He got shot for no reason.
Huffing out a laugh, Tim hobbles to a nearby bench and drops himself down unceremoniously. Squish hops up beside him with considerably more grace, and nuzzles her head into his shoulder.

Finally sat down, he takes a minute to survey his surroundings. It’s undeniably beautiful, with crystalline blue pools by each residence, and stone pizza ovens wafting smoke into the air. Cicadas stretch their wings overhead, a sweet cacophony of humming as they settle in for the evening. The sky is a stunning pink, with hues of oranges, yellows and blues streaking throughout.

Tim reaches down and presses a hand to the warm stone beneath his feet, then freezes. Looks around. Freezes again.

Italy. Pools. Hot rocks.

Isn’t this exactly what Kon had said he wanted?

“Some kind of Italian villa would be nice. I think I would end up spending most of my time curled up on the patio, though, just soaking up the sun. You know how nice it is when the sun heats the stone?”

Tim looks around, and it’s as though he can see their future here; that alternate world where Tim insisted they go instead of sticking around for that fated mission. He can see warm days jumping in the pool to cool off, splashing each other at every opportunity just to hear the other one laugh. The lazy mornings sharing kisses while watching the sunrise from their porch. Running through the vineyards, trying to trip each other up, only to fall down and lay on top of each other to stare at the sky. Kon pressing him up against the sun-warmed stone walls, careful to avoid the gorgeous vines that Tim would have carefully grown. Passion, joy and peace. The life they could have lived.

Tim gets up, scooping Squish into the front of his shirt. He turns and walks away, giving up on the idea of a warm bed for the night. He even manages to ignore the pain in his leg- the pain in his heart is so much greater.

…

As the findings begin to get fewer-and-further-between, Tim begins to get bored. It’s a strange feeling, and one that he hasn’t experienced for so long that he’d sort of forgotten what it felt like.

As a child, Tim was bored constantly. He was left alone more often than not, and there’s only so much a kid can do in a big house with no internet connection before everything loses it’s shine. His parents wouldn’t let him on the internet, because it was ‘inappropriate’ for someone as young as himself. Tim would argue leaving a 7-year-old home alone for weeks at a time was ‘inappropriate’, but each to their own.

It was because of this extreme boredom that little Tim was initially driven to sneak out at night and watch Robin and Batman. Though, at first, it was less about watching them and more about getting out of that mausoleum of a house for as long as possible.

If he couldn’t escape physically then Tim would find ways to escape mentally. He would pour his heart and soul into books, living and breathing them as if they were real. He would memorise obscure facts and figures, for no reason other than to keep himself company. In a way, it had felt like the characters in his novels were all the friends he needed. Besides, none of them had parents around either; and they were able to fight wars just fine! Tim didn’t need anyone but his books and his boredom. He would be fine.

Looking back on this childhood escapism, it occurred to Tim that he might benefit from the same method now. He’s currently in a seedy motel in the north of Poland, halfway through a search for an Inuit bone-knife which has the classic bat insignia on it, and making precisely zero progress. He figures if any time is the time to escape his life, now sounds pretty good. He had brought himself a copy of the Iliad this morning, splurging some of his precious money to buy the ancient epic he had been meaning to read for years. He had gotten round to the Odyssey on his last journey, so he had figured that reading the Iliad this time round was fate. Kind of.

Squish is curled up on his lap, and purring gently- the warm vibrations curling through him and soothing him as he reads. There is a warm cup of coffee in his hands, and it occurs to him that maybe this is the kind of life that normal people can live. Reading, drinking coffee, cuddling cats. It sounds great. It sounds like the kind of future Tim could never have.

The poem itself is incredible. While Tim is unable to read it in the original Greek, the translation does it’s best to stick to the original epic style. He reads about the wrath of Achilles, and the dignity of Hector. He learns the tragedy of Iphigenia and the misunderstanding of Helen. One story in particular sticks with him though;

Patroclus: dying in his lover, his commander’s place. Taking the blow meant for Achilles. Dying under his command.

He thinks of Kon; alone on the sand- facing down a monster that Tim was supposed to stop. Dying on the beach Tim was meant to die on. Laying down his life in the name of a plan that Tim created.

The guilt rises up in him like bile, choking him and making it hard to breathe. He slams the book shut; making Squish jump away from him in fear, and curls in on himself- forehead on his knees. He tries to breathe through it, but it feels like there’s something stuck in his throat, stopping the air from ever reaching his lungs. He wants to cry, but scrunching up his face achieves very little. There are no tears left for him. Is he a monster? What kind of person can’t cry about their boyfriend’s death?

In front of him, at the end of the bed, the sharp edge of one of his knives glints in the flickering yellow light. It feels inviting, like it’s singing out to him, cold and clear. ‘I can fix you. I can cut out the rot and make you whole. I can make you clean again.’

The impulse is strong. So strong in fact, the he reaches out- fingertips grazing the hilt, before he drags his hand back. This isn’t right.

He has to stay whole. Stay as healthy as he can. If he’s going to find Bruce- to save him, then he can’t be injuring himself. He can’t fall back into the habits he had at 13. Any injuries he might sustain have to come from others. Even so, these emotions, these feelings clawing their way up his throat demand to be heard- to be released. The tension curls up inside him until he feels like every sinew of his body is pulled taught: waiting to snap.

And then it falls away.

Or, well, no. It doesn’t. The tension is still there; but it’s like Tim is separate from it. Like he is no longer inside himself. His emotions are somewhere in him, but it’s somewhere he can’t quite reach; locked away with an iron key.

He’s a Trojan horse. Everything that can hurt him is trapped away inside where it can’t be seen. He can go to sleep, rest easy, knowing that he can’t see the thing that will kill him. He can pretend it’s beautiful.

He can pretend that Troy will never fall so long as the horse stays closed; stays a monument to his suffering. So long as he stays empty.

Just stay a Trojan horse.

…

Tim’s 18^th birthday is a low-key affair.

Well, no, that’s not true at all. It’s not an affair whatsoever, because it’s just Tim, alone, in a shitty Motel. He’s in Spain now, having tracked down the Bat-knife and some kind of bangle which Bruce must have left behind recently.

Today should feel like a big deal, some kind of liberation; after all, he’s finally an adult.

 It doesn’t.

It just reminds him of all his friends who will never get the chance to grow up. Ever.

A small cupcake rests in the palm of his hand, and the candle stuck in it is nearly melted down to a stub. He’s been staring at it for too long.

The problem is, he can’t make himself blow it out. If he does, this all becomes real. If he does, then he accepts that this is his eighteenth birthday. In the middle of nowhere, just him, a cupcake and a cat, and his overwhelming sense of grief.

Squish is sat on his lap, gazing up at him and the fire. Her pupils are dilated into black pools, eating up the candlelight like she’s been starved for a hundred years. When he pets her head, she leans into as if the warmth is the only thing she could ever want. He presses a kiss to her scalp, then sets the cupcake down on the table; the red icing like blood against the white surface. Gently, he holds his hand down over the flickering flame, allowing the heat to permeate his skin; to pucker and blister. It feels like the sand on that fateful day. The ashes that were all that remained of his best friends.

He pulls his hand back and closes his eyes. With a breath of air, he makes his wish.

I just want things to be different.

The light of the dark room flickers on suddenly, and Tim whips around in his chair, unsettling Squish.

“Hello Timothy.” Comes a feminine voice at the threshold of his room. Three figures are dressed all in black, the only notable feature a small insignia on their robes. The symbol is golden, and Tim recognises it like the back of his hand.

The league of Assassins.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”