Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marinette had never imagined she would have to flee Paris—until it happened.

The final battle had come. Ladybug and Chat Noir had won. Hawk Moth, Gabriel Agreste, had lost.

The Miraculouses had been recovered, one by one, repaired with patience and devotion. Balance had returned.

Peace, like a fragile flower, blossomed once more in Paris.

For a few years, the city lived without shadows. Marinette and Adrien married in silence, far from the spotlight, with simple rings and intertwined hands that spoke of everything they had lived through. At last, they could simply be themselves. At last, Paris belonged to them.

Until it happened.

First came an attack. Silent. Lethal.

Then more. One by one, those who had once possessed the Miraculouses were killed, their bodies left as warnings in a sick game only understood by those who had been heroes of the miraculous. The murders continued until only four remained—four retired heroes who chose to vanish before they could be next.

Four retired heroes who chose to hide from the grasp of one man.

A demon.

Ra's Al Ghul.

A name that until then had only been whispered in the records of the ancient. A man who no longer seemed human, obsessed with immortality, the purification of the world, rebirth. A man who inspired fear even among the Ancients who knew the stories of the Temple of the Miraculous.

When Ra's discovered the secrets of the Miraculouses—those ancient artifacts capable of altering matter, soul, time, even death—he considered them sacred, yet legendary. A natural extension of the Lazarus Pits. The key to a perfect eternity. Something that did not exist—until he noticed it did. And then he wanted them.

And to obtain them, he began to hunt.

Not for the artifacts themselves, not at first.

He sought the Great Guardian. Marinette.

The one who held each jewel in her hands and the power to wield it.

It didn’t matter that she was no longer Ladybug. It didn’t matter that the temple was sealed, or that the Miraculouses were hidden beneath layers of magical seals. What she knew was valuable. And her very existence was a threat to his plan.

There was no safe place.

Not once their identities were discovered.

Not once Paris stopped being home and became a trap.

They had to flee. They were being hunted, tracked like animals, desired for the Miraculouses—or at least information about the Great Guardian. Information about Marinette.

The city, once their home, was now dangerous. There was nowhere they could stay safe. Not once their identities were uncovered. Not once Ra's Al Ghul learned who was behind the masks of Ladybug and Chat Noir.

Marinette lost her parents, her grandparents. Her family.

Adrien lost Natalie.

Paris was no longer safe.

And then there was nothing left. Only them.

Only the urgency to survive.

And they had to flee.

Not as heroes.

But as fugitives.

Changing their names, their faces, their stories.

They became Jack and Janet Drake, from a random city in the United States, south of New Jersey. They became archaeologists traveling the world in search of mystical artifacts and ancient relics, always moving, always running.

But more than that, they used it as a cover: a true search for the lost Miraculouses, those vaguely mentioned in the Grimoires, those once believed destroyed, hidden, or sealed.

A way to escape Ra's Al Ghul’s grasp.

The world believed Ladybug and Chat Noir were dead.

And in part, it was true.

Only their ghosts remained, hidden under borrowed names.

They settled temporarily in Gotham to avoid suspicion. Their house was next to a man, an orphan like them, whom they were confident wouldn’t bother or interfere. They mingled with high society, making sure people recognized the Drakes, the eccentric couple who loved traveling the world. They hid in plain sight, knowing that the best way to run was to present themselves to the world with new identities and appearances.

Gotham was the perfect city; a place already familiar with monsters, where they could blend into darker shadows. There, Marinette established a new headquarters: a fashion, science, and technology company called Drake Industries, yet another façade. But also a way to reclaim a piece of herself.

It was there they discovered it. A terrible yet wonderful piece of news.

Marinette was pregnant.

For a moment, they considered staying. Trying a life. Stopping the running. And they did, as soon as Marinette gave birth to their only child: Timothy Jackson Drake. They were happy for a few years. Four years.

Until they were no longer happy.

Ra's was near. Again. The League was tracking them, closing in.

And when the first warning arrived—a note from a friend who had stayed close—they had to start moving again. The archaeologist couple traveled once more, moving and protecting their son the best way they could: trying to keep their masks intact so no one would discover them. Not this time.

Timothy Jackson Drake, meanwhile, grew up in Gotham.

To the world and to his own eyes, he was simply the son of Jack and Janet Drake, a pair of eccentric archaeologists who spent more time in planes and remote jungles than at home. His house was filled with ancient maps, mislabeled figurines, artifacts vibrating with energy he couldn’t explain, and boxes he was never meant to open.

He spent more time with nannies, tutors claiming to be friends of his parents, and the occasional intermittent butler hired from afar.

His bodyguard, affectionately called Gorilla by his father, a man too old to continue working and completely mute, always watched over him and accompanied him.

His mother called every night, no matter where in the world she was. His father sent strange postcards with riddles instead of messages. And though he sometimes felt lonely, Tim never doubted their love. He felt it in the meticulous care with which they prepared his things, in the unwavering security surrounding their home, in the gifts he received—strange, ancient, priceless—and that always carried stories of adventures no other child had.

And even though his family was far away, Tim was brilliant.

Observant. Silent. Always watching from the shadows. He grew up developing a prodigious memory, an astonishing ability to connect patterns, details, gestures. He learned to read people like open books. Perhaps he did it because his parents had always seemed enigmas to him.

And Gotham—that cold, gothic city, torn between misery and power—shaped him.

At four, he saw Batman for the first time. Fear did not fill him. Fascination did.

At five, he heard the name whispered at dinner, as adults murmured about him like a myth. His parents encouraged his admiration for the vigilante, but said no more.

At seven, he watched him fight from a distant rooftop. He lost Gorila; the man had died of old age. Tim saw his father cry for the first time then.

At nine, he already knew who was under Batman’s cowl. His parents were spending less and less time at home.

At ten, he discovered Robin’s identity.

Not because anyone told him.

Because he deduced it.

By then, his parents only visited on birthdays and Christmas, occasionally on some other date. Sometimes a couple of his parents’ friends, a musician and a lawyer, would visit and spoil him for a few weeks before leaving.

At ten, Tim already knew the perfect balance between obsession and intelligence (both inherited from his mother, according to his father). The same combination that, years later, would make him stand out—not for strength, but for his mind. For his ability to see the whole board while others barely saw the move in front of them.

And when Jason Todd died, something changed in him. He didn’t just feel sorrow. He felt… an absence. A crack.

Tim was just a child, but his mind worked like a strategist’s. Batman was changing. More aggressive. More erratic. Tim observed. Compared recordings. Reconstructed patterns. Studied Dick Grayson, and understood what had to be done.

Batman needed Robin.

And he… he didn’t want to be Robin. Not at first. He just wanted to help. Just wanted to fix what was broken.

But Bruce Wayne was not easy to convince. Nor was Dick.

Then came the test. Gotham needed a new sidekick. Tim stepped forward.

He was trained by the best. He fought, bled, fell, and rose. And in the end, he succeeded. He became Robin—not the heir to a legacy of tragedy, but someone who chose the mantle with open eyes, gaining a new family in the process.

Things went as well as they could.

Until they didn’t.

Chapter Text

Marinette was exhausted. She was forty-two, her physical abilities no longer the same as when she operated as Ladybug or during her twenties and thirties, and she felt a deep, painful nostalgia whenever she thought of home.

She had spent decades traveling, hiding, fighting, and defending. Decades living as a nomad, without a home, never staying in one place for more than a month or two, always choosing randomly to avoid creating a pattern that could be tracked.

She had been away from home so long that she no longer remembered what her own room looked like, and, worse, she wasn’t even sure how her own son looked anymore. That was what hurt the most; it hurt because she knew, deep down, it was her fault and no one else’s. Hers and her husband’s. Nobody else’s.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Adrien asked. His hair, once a beautiful golden blonde, was now a light brown, slightly wavy and discreetly combed back, with some gray at his temples and sides giving him an air of wear that made him look like a busy, well-traveled man.

Marinette nodded, showing him a photo—a message from Tim. Something simple, a picture of a beautiful spot he had taken himself in Gotham, with some ducks that Tim later described in detail with additional fun facts in a voice message.

“Does he have a new hyperfixation?” Adrien blinked. His intense green eyes, slightly darker and duller than they once were, sparkled with genuine amusement and affection as he listened to his son’s voice.

“Yes,” Marinette nodded. “It’s the ducks this time.”

“I thought he’d gotten over ducks when he was six,” Adrien said, looking at the photo Tim had taken.

“Apparently, it’s back.”

“Mhm. Yeah. Sounds like something Timmy would do…” Adrien said with an amused smile. “And you too.”

“Me?” Marinette raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Adrien nodded, amused, leaning against a table cluttered with documents. “He got all of that from you. Even his obsession with certain things… or people.”

“It’s not—”

“You knew my schedule in detail,” Adrien teased. “At fourteen years old.”

Marinette blushed. “And what of it?”

“Tim does the same,” Adrien reminded her. “Or should I remind you about Batman?”

“Don’t remind me about Batman,” Marinette said, frowning slightly. “I still don’t like that our son has been secretly following him. And without getting caught.”

Adrien shrugged. “He’s smart like his mother. Maybe even smarter. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised it happened.”

“Sometimes I wish he weren’t,” Marinette sighed. “It will put him in danger.”

“We’ll protect him,” Adrien said.

“Yes,” Marinette looked at her son’s latest message, something about more ducks. “We will.”

She replied with a simple, «That’s interesting, Timothy.» Then, hesitantly, she added: «But I’m busy. Maybe you can tell me more later during our usual call?»

Tim didn’t respond. Marinette could only sigh before returning to her paperwork. She couldn’t even talk to her son as much as she wanted. And she knew it was purely her fault.

Adrien moved beside her, picking up some papers from the table as he put on his glasses and began reading. It wasn’t long before the search team entered the tent to comment on a new find.

Adrien and Marinette feigned more interest than they felt, leaning in to look at the new pieces. Marinette’s heart tightened. She missed her son.

“Jack,” she called to her husband, aware of ears that could be listening. “The gala season is coming. We should head back to Gotham.”

Adrien nodded without looking at her, seemingly focused on a clay bowl inlaid with gems, but clearly listening. “We should,” he finally replied. “Anyway, we only have a few days left of this expedition, Janet, my dear.”

Marinette couldn’t wait to see her little boy.

Adrien resumed talking to one of the attending archaeologists, feigning enthusiasm over a piece neither of them intended to study closely. Marinette stepped aside just enough to settle into the most protected corner of the tent. There, between a couple of closed suitcases and boxes inscribed in dead languages, she took out her secure communication tablet and swiped through until she found what she really wanted to see.

Not Tim’s latest message. Not the security reports.

But an old photograph.

Taken eleven years ago. In Gotham.

Tim, six years old, hugging Adrien’s leg, with a toothless grin and his shirt on backward. Marinette behind them, hair messy, dark circles under her eyes already part of her, and a tired smile. All of them together in Marinette’s office at home, in front of the first Drake Industries logo they were designing.

It was a blurry photo. Imperfect. And to her, sacred.

Marinette swiped her fingers over the image. No tears. She no longer cried. She had learned to store her grief in her bones. But she let out a sigh—the kind that only escapes when the heart is constricted deep inside.

Then, a secure notification blinked.

[Codex Channel. Protocol 8.]

Priority message from Gotham – Source: M.

Marinette tensed.

She opened the message.

There is League movement in the slums. Near the docks. Batgirl reports Lazarus symbols. Batman has begun surveillance, apparently concerned… The League isn’t looking for something. They’re waiting for something. Or someone.

Talia Al Ghul was seen at the opera a week ago. She was alone. Watching the Wayne family box. Silent. Just watching. Timothy was accompanying the Waynes.

Be careful. —M.

 

Marinette deleted the message immediately. Then she sat in silence, the device still in her hands.

Adrien approached from behind. He didn’t ask. He just placed a hand on her shoulder, soft yet firm.

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” Marinette replied. Noticing some glances, she added, without seeming to lie: “They need us at our company. Apparently, some major shareholders are demanding to see us.”

Adrien looked at her, then shifted his gaze to the side of the tent, toward the resting suits, equipment, and things they no longer used but never left behind. Things that knew them better than anyone.

“I understand,” Adrien said.

The expedition ended for them that day, even if the rest of the team stayed a little longer.

.

.

.

Tim was in the Wayne Manor library when he received the message.

He hadn’t noticed his phone was on silent until the screen flickered once, then twice. He unlocked it, expecting nothing special. Maybe a reminder from Oracle, maybe an alert from Damian about a patrol. Or a picture his father had sent of some shiny rock that caught his interest. Maybe even a strange photo of Dick, dressed as a cow, because it was Tuesday.

But no.

It was a message from his mother.

From: Mom

"We’ll arrive in Gotham Friday afternoon. The gala is at eight. See you there."

That was it.

No “How are you?” no “We’re excited to see you,” not even a simple “Son.”

Just a notice. Short. Formal.

As if she were his boss and he her assistant.

Tim read the message three times.

Not because he didn’t understand it. But because he wanted to convince himself that this time, maybe there was a hidden word between the lines. There wasn’t. Or if there was, he couldn’t find it.

Because his mother was never so formal, so cold. She had always shown warmth, even with simple words. She always made sure to tell him she loved him. This time, she hadn’t. Why not? It felt strange.

His phone buzzed again.

From: Dad

"See you soon, champ. Your mother and I are bringing gifts; your mother even knitted a scarf for you in her spare time, but don’t tell her I told you. Take care. I love you."

He didn’t respond. A smile, however, crept onto his lips. Yes, of course. How could he forget? His parents were like that. They loved him, even if they weren’t the kind to openly show it (though there had been a time, he remembered, when they had been: affectionate, sweet, and full of care).

“What’s got you so happy?” Jason, who had just entered the library, asked.

“My parents are coming back Friday,” Tim replied. “We’ll see them at the gala.”

“At the gala?” Jason raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Not even meeting you first?”

Tim blinked, confused. “Why would they? We’ll see each other at the gala anyway.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watched him for a few seconds, then let out a low, humorless laugh. “God, you’re so civilized I sometimes want to kick you.” He muttered.

“Thanks, Jason. Good to see you too.” Tim replied, returning to his previous task.

“No, seriously. Are you listening to yourself?” Jason snapped. He hadn’t been able to help noticing it all this time, ever since he met Tim. Dick had said to ignore it, but moments like this made it difficult. “Your parents come back after months without seeing you, and the first thing they do is go to a gala? Really?”

Tim calmly set down what he was doing. “Jason…”

“No, listen to me for once, Tim.” Jason silenced him. “It’s not normal, Tim. It’s not normal for your parents to see you once or twice a year like you’re a houseplant that needs watering every so often. It’s not normal for your neighbor and his butler to raise you more than they do.”

Tim stayed quiet. For a moment, he just looked at him.

“And speaking of which, did you ever even hear about the dangers strangers can pose? Because even I knew it when the old man brought me here, and I still struggled until I was sure he wasn’t a threat.”

Jason looked at Tim as if he couldn’t understand him, as if the fact that Tim was so confident wasn’t normal.

“I know how you ended up here, and it still bothers me that it didn’t even bother you to move into the old man’s house or spend time alone with him even though you’d never interacted with him before.”

“I did.” Tim defended himself.

“Did what?”

“I made sure Bruce was safe when I was observing him, obviously.” Tim replied. “I knew Bruce wasn’t a threat, so it’s fine.”

“So you just came here and moved in? Without considering the risk? Without your parents telling you anything?”

“My parents know,” Tim said, as if it were obvious. “And it’s fine. They don’t mind as long as I stay with them when they’re home.”

Jason looked incredulous.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then rubbed his face, as if needing to make sure he wasn’t having a stress-induced hallucination.

“Tim, are you even listening to yourself?”

Tim shrugged, uncomfortable but not annoyed. “It’s no big deal. I grew up like this.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what’s not right.”

Jason stepped closer and sat across from him, like he was about to explain that the sky was blue and that people who disappear for months and show up only for galas shouldn’t be allowed to raise children.

“Listen… I had parents before Bruce. They weren’t the best, but even they wouldn’t have left me with strangers to go search for rocks in the Himalayas. I swear I would’ve at least expected a damn video call.”

“They called me every night when I was a kid,” Tim replied calmly. “And they sent me gifts. And Dad sent letters. And Mom even encoded puzzles in the postcards for me to practice logic. I never felt abandoned.”

Jason looked at him. Not mockingly, but with that kind of frustrated compassion one feels for someone who justifies a wound because they’ve learned to live with it.

“And again, they don’t mind that I moved here. They know Bruce is safe. Mom even spoke with Alfred, as far as I know.”

“They don’t mind?” Jason repeated, stepping closer as if he wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him. “Tim, do you hear yourself? Their ten-year-old son moved in with a man they barely knew, and their only reaction was ‘Well, as long as he comes back for Christmas, it’s fine.’”

“I was thirteen,” Tim corrected softly, slowly turning in his chair. “Almost fourteen.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” Jason exclaimed, raising a hand. “Do you know what happens to thirteen-year-olds with negligent parents? Usually ends badly. Very badly. I was one of them.”

“Jason…” Tim sighed patiently. He had had this conversation—or some version of it—more times than he could count, always with different people. Usually it was with Dick, who didn’t seem to care much for his parents even though Tim didn’t understand why.

“And the worst part is it doesn’t even seem to bother you,” Jason continued, ignoring the warning in Tim’s tone. “It doesn’t affect you. You talk about it like it’s normal. Like having parents who show up for a gala is enough.”

Tim lowered his gaze, but not because he was hurt. Rather, because he was thinking.

“I don’t know what you expect me to feel,” he said finally, calmly. “Don’t get me wrong, I wish they were around more often. Of course I do. But… I’m not lacking love, Jason. I never have been.”

Jason clenched his jaw. “Love?” he repeated. “And how do you know you have it if they’re never there to show it?”

Tim looked him straight in the eyes.

“Because they made sure I never lacked anything,” he said, without raising his voice. “Because they call whenever they can, because there’s a giant mute man who followed me for years without saying a word just to watch over me until he got too old and died—that was the same man who practically raised my father.

Tim still missed Placide, Gorilla, sometimes. He was like a grandfather to him. And he had Alfred now, of course. But it wasn’t the same.

“Because every gift they send has a story,” he continued. “Because every letter I receive is written by their hands, even if they’re crossing continents. Because my mother knitted a scarf in the middle of the desert when she barely had time to sleep.”

Jason looked at him, more serious now. Silent.

“They may not be here,” Tim went on, quieter, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t love me. It just means… they can’t be. And that, too, is love. Even if you don’t see it that way.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Jason sighed, scratching the back of his neck, uncomfortable. He seemed to want to say more but held it back.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said finally, turning toward the door. “I’m just worried that one day they won’t come back. And you’ll still think it’s okay.”

And with that, he left.

Tim stayed in his chair. He didn’t respond. He just took out his phone again and reread his parents’ messages. He smiled, faintly, as if that smile hurt. He really didn’t understand Jason and Dick. What was wrong with his parents? They loved him! Shouldn’t that be enough?

Then, without a word, trying to ignore the previous conversation, he wrote:

To: Dad

"Okay. You take care too. And I’m looking forward to the scarf and the gifts."

 

To: Mom

"See you Friday. I’m counting the days too."

 

What nonsense, he thought when he saw the photo of a cat his father had sent. And then the heart emoji his mother sent. Jason and Dick definitely didn’t understand.

.

.

.

[Gotham International Airport. Private Terminal. 3:14 PM.]

The plane descended without turbulence, as if even Gotham’s sky—gray, dirty, still—knew it was better not to draw attention.

From the window, Marinette watched the city without emotion.

Towers twisted by time, dense clouds that never seemed to leave, and a suspended feeling in the air, like old ash. Gotham hadn’t changed. Not even in their absence.

Beside her, Adrien slept with his arms crossed, his coat draped over his shoulders, a crease on his brow. He didn’t dream. He hadn’t dreamed in years. He just closed his eyes and pretended the world vanished.

The light flickered once.

Marinette closed the notebook she’d been filling with loose sketches. Designs without shape, without purpose. It had become almost a ritual now—drawing things she would never finish, only to later recall the warm feeling in her chest that her son gave her, and then her designs would transform into clothes for him. For little Timothy.

“We’ve arrived,” she whispered.

Adrien nodded without opening his eyes.

Ten minutes later, they walked across the airport tarmac, shielded by long shadows and the discretion of those who knew money could buy silence.

She was dressed in midnight blue. Long coat, leather gloves, dark glasses. Everything that wasn’t Marinette, but that Janet Drake would be. Adrien, elegant as always, looked like a ghost in an expensive suit: dark gray, shirt without a tie, and that expression of his that said, don’t bother me—which sometimes reminded Marinette a little of Gabriel Agreste.

They looked more like fallen royalty than parents on a family visit, which was ironic, considering Adrien’s mother’s origins.

A chauffeur waited by the armored car. No questions were asked. No greetings exchanged.

Only movement.

The chauffeur opened the back door, and Marinette went in first. Adrien lingered outside for a second longer, gazing at the city as if waiting for something to stop him. But nothing did.

“Do you know what time it is in Mongolia right now?” he asked as he climbed in.

“Three in the morning,” she replied, without thinking. She always knew these things.

“We could have stayed. Just one more day.” Of course, Marinette knew it was only a dream speaking for him.

“Weren’t you the one who said the sooner we get to see Timothy, the better?” Marinette teased.

Adrien smiled. “I did.”

The car started, disappearing into Gotham’s thick smoke.

For a few seconds, there was only silence. Adrien turned to her, looking as if he could read her heart in her eyes.

“Are we going to tell him?” he asked, without harshness. Only worry and doubt.

She didn’t answer immediately. “Should we?” she asked. “He’s already seventeen.”

Adrien sighed. “He’s still a child.”

“He is.” He was. Tim was still a child, a teenager. Not even old enough to drink yet. “Let’s wait a bit longer,” she finally said. Marinette gazed out the window. “At least until he turns eighteen.”

Adrien nodded. He didn’t argue.

“Or we could never tell him.” He murmured. “We’ll handle it anyway.” But both knew that was no longer an option.

Gotham surrounded them again. Its distant lights. Its sleeping monsters. Its lies.

Marinette closed her eyes, and for a moment wished she had never returned.

But their son was there.

And for him, they would walk through hell once more.

When they arrived home—their home—Marinette felt a void fill her. The mansion was large, with a beautiful garden tended weekly by gardeners, and it was stunning inside. But it didn’t feel welcoming as it should. Not anymore.

“Tim isn’t here,” Adrien noted.

“He spends time at the Waynes’, remember?” Marinette said, avoiding the truth. Tim had moved out. He hadn’t wanted to live there alone. And that was their fault—hers and Adrien’s, both knew it. But ignoring the truth was far easier than facing it.

“Right,” Adrien murmured. “He has friends there.”

Marinette let the housekeeper—who now only appeared once a week since Tim no longer lived there—carry their luggage to their room. Her eyes scanned the spacious house, with white walls and expensive, ancient artifacts that a pair of archaeologists were supposed to own as decor.

There were no photographs of them anywhere, except for a family portrait taken when Tim was ten, hanging in the living room where they received guests or spent time together, right above the fireplace.

She smiled.

Tim looked adorable there.

“How many hours until we have to go to that gala?” Adrien asked, yawning.

“Three hours.”

“Good.” He began climbing the stairs with her. “I’ll sleep until one hour before. Then eat and get dressed.”

“I’ll shower then,” Marinette said. “And then send some emails to the company before getting ready.”

“As you wish, darling.” Adrien said goodbye, kissing her forehead and then flopping onto the bed as soon as he took off his shoes. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Marinette hummed in agreement. She would try.

.

.

.

[Winter Gala. Wayne Foundation. 8:10 PM].

The hall was lit by hundreds of warm lights hanging from the ceiling like tamed stars. Everything smelled of old money, expensive perfume, wine bottled decades ago. The floor gleamed as if someone had painstakingly polished each tile. Laughter was soft, murmurs measured. Gotham knew how to fake elegance better than anyone else.

Of course, that was Gotham—pretending at elegance over its rot.

And there, in the middle of it, were they.

Jack and Janet Drake.

Perfect.

Janet and Jack Drake, entrepreneurs and archaeologists, arrived at precisely ten past eight, as they always did: late enough to seem indifferent, early enough to prove they were not.

She, draped in a simple black dress, with lace details on the sleeves and an updo that revealed discreet but priceless earrings. He, in a tailored tuxedo, no tie, as always, jacket casually unbuttoned with deliberate nonchalance.

They looked charming. Powerful. Untouchable.

And, at the same time, invisible.

“Look at how they watch us,” Adrien murmured, leaning toward Marinette with a glass in hand. “I wonder if they think we steal Egyptian art or hobnob with Himalayan cults.”

“Maybe both,” Marinette whispered without looking at him. Her eyes scanned the room with patience—not like an anxious mother, but as someone who belonged there.

Adrien was scanning too, though with the same diplomatic smile he had used on runways at fourteen.

Their steps made no sound. Their gazes seemed to roam the room with vague interest, greeting faces they didn’t remember, nodding to people they thought they knew. But their eyes were searching for something else.

They were looking for Tim.

“Do you see him?” Adrien whispered, lips barely moving.

“Not yet,” Marinette replied, turning toward the area where company representatives stood. No. Just bankers. Politicians. She recognized them all.

No one with a red bow on their lapel, though Marinette recalled Tim was too old for those adorable red bows now.

Adrien brushed his champagne glass without tasting it.

Marinette continued scanning.

Until she saw him.

It wasn’t his voice, nor his walk.

It was the way he smiled as he leaned to say something to Bruce Wayne. That smile—soft, contained, so much like Adrien’s at seventeen, so much like hers when clinging to hope. He was their son. In the midst of that distant, polished hall, he was their home made flesh and blood.

Bruce was at his side, hand barely resting on his shoulder. Like a guardian, silent, oblivious to the storm.

Marinette straightened. “There,” she whispered.

Adrien turned his head. His eyes softened. Just for a second. Then he returned to the expression Jack Drake usually wore.

Tim wore a perfectly tailored suit. Midnight blue, sober details. Hair neatly combed, posture straight, eyes sharp. He looked older. Not because of the clothes. Because of the way he carried himself, how he seemed to measure every word that came out of Bruce’s mouth, even though he appeared happy.

An invisible knot tightened Marinette’s chest.

Adrien had noticed it too. He said nothing, but his fingers lightly brushed her wrist. A small gesture. Silent. Familiar.

Both knew their son had changed. They had felt it long ago, but never wanted to address it, too afraid of the answer.

“Shall we?” Adrien asked.

She nodded.

They approached without hurry.

Every step rehearsed. Every gesture studied.

They walked toward him as what they were: Jack and Janet Drake. A polished, affable couple, confident in themselves.

And when they were close enough, Tim saw them.

His expression changed. It wasn’t dramatic or exaggerated. Just a sudden spark in his eyes. A slight lift of his eyebrows. And then, that smile that always disarmed them.

“Mom. Dad,” he said with a polite, perfect smile, though still unable to hide his emotion.

Bruce Wayne also turned, greeting them with a slight nod, as if measuring something in them that remained unspoken.

“Timothy,” Marinette whispered, and only then did she realize how much the wait had hurt.

She hugged him.

Not with the desperation of a mother absent for too long, but with the delicacy of someone still feeling guilty, unsure if they had permission to hold him. Yet she held him. For a second. Two.

She embraced him, forgetting decorum for a moment, holding her son—now taller than her, yet still shorter than Adrien—between her arms. Tim tensed for a few seconds, then relaxed, wrapping his arms around her.

“You look good, sweetheart,” Marinette said, adjusting Tim’s tie out of habit.

“You too, Mom.” He replied, simply letting her do it. His words were so simple, so honest, they hurt more than any reproach ever could.

Adrien ruffled his hair as they pulled away, and Tim feigned annoyance, then smiled back at them.

“You made it,” Tim said.

“We always do,” Adrien replied with a smile more genuine and soft than the one he usually reserved for others.

Marinette smiled.

“Yes, it’s true.” Tim nodded. Then turned to Damian, whom Marinette only now noticed was there. “See, little guy? I told you—they’d come.”

“Tt.” Damian clicked his tongue but studied the adults with curiosity hidden in his eyes, analyzing them.

Marinette thought that child, Damian, looked oddly familiar. Especially his eyes. Those green eyes seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place why.

Bruce watched them with his all-seeing eyes. He said nothing, but Marinette felt his judgment as a silent pressure behind the quiet. She held herself steady, as someone who had carried heavier burdens for years.

“Bruce,” Adrien greeted in a neutral but polite voice, shaking the man’s hand. “Thank you for taking care of our son. It’s always a relief knowing he’s with someone trustworthy when we can’t be.”

Bruce didn’t reply immediately. His gaze traveled from Adrien to Marinette, then to Tim.

“Tim is very capable on his own,” he finally said, low and firm. Yet without losing the playful tone that “Brucie Wayne” used as armor. “He doesn’t need much supervision.”

Then he smiled. That smile—perfect, disarming, vaguely empty, charismatic. The smile of someone raised in a mansion with more mirrors than affection, learning to hide wounds behind the reflection of a dandy.

Adrien returned the smile with equal skill, as if they were playing a silent game.

“Ah, yes. That’s what school says too,” Adrien replied, with a soft, barely forced laugh. His eyes moved to Tim. “By the way, we need to talk about school.”

Tim made a face. Right. He had forgotten that leaving school was something he should have discussed with his parents first.

“It’s always been this way,” Marinette said, her smile that of an ancient queen carrying impossible secrets, completely ignoring her husband’s comment. “Even when he was little. Timothy has always been a calm and intelligent child.”

Tim shrugged slightly, a little embarrassed.

“Do you have time for a drink before the speeches start?”

Marinette looked at him. Not as Janet. Not as a guest. She looked at him as his mother. And gently, with a gesture no one would notice but him, she smoothed a small wrinkle on the lapel of his suit.

“Of course, mon cœur,” she whispered in French, barely audible. As if it had slipped out, as if the language meant nothing. “In fact, we assumed tonight you would come home with us.”

Tim blinked, then shrugged. “Sure, okay.” A smile appeared on his lips. He turned then to say something quietly to Damian, diverting his attention from his parents but staying close, as if unwilling to lose the chance to reclaim time with them.

Bruce looked back at them, his smile now softer. “It’s good to see him smile like that,” he said, as though he hadn’t really said it. Like a casual comment about the weather. But Marinette knew it wasn’t. She noticed.

She held his gaze a moment longer. And then, as if he had never broken character, Bruce spoke again:

“And how are things in Egypt? Or was it Peru last time? Archaeologists are harder to track than paparazzi here in Gotham.”

Adrien let out a perfectly fake laugh. “Lately more Peru than Egypt. Fewer curses… though more snakes.”

“And less elegance than in Gotham,” Marinette added, adjusting the sleeve of her dress. “But they have good coffee. And wonderful culture.”

“Wow, that sounds lovely!” Bruce said, barely rotating the glass in his hand. “Though undoubtedly exhausting. As for me, I stick to Gotham’s old mysteries. They don’t require bug spray.”

“Oh, never underestimate old mysteries,” Marinette said softly. “Sometimes the oldest are the most dangerous.”

Bruce let out a laugh that made a nearby couple chuckle, as if it were the punchline to a joke everyone was supposed to understand. “Quite true! I’ll remember that next time Alfred forbids me from entering the east wing with my muddy shoes.”

Tim turned toward them at that moment, unknowingly interrupting the scene, with a bright look. “Can I steal you for a moment?” he asked, still as if asking permission to approach.

Bruce raised his hands theatrically. Marinette noticed Tim tried not to grimace at that. “Of course! Just make sure you return them for the second round of toasts. This hall won’t be the same without the charming Drakes present. The audience loves you, Janet. And you too, Jack,” he added, with that conspiratorial tone that made reporters laugh and disarmed politicians.

Marinette smiled back with the same dangerous elegance she had once used to defuse bombs. “I will, Bruce, dear. But I can’t promise much. We’re quite sought after, you know.”

Bruce smiled. “And you will remain so. It’s Gotham. Here secrets are worth more than gold.” With a wink, he turned halfway, shedding the charming host mask for a few moments… until someone else needed him.

Tim looked at them with a sincere smile, as if unaware of the edge beneath every previous word, even though he had noticed. “How was the trip?” he asked, polite but with genuine curiosity in his eyes.

Adrien was the first to respond, as he usually did when Marinette needed a few extra seconds to breathe. “Calm. A stopover in London, another in New York. Your mother slept most of the way.”

“That’s not true, Jack,” Marinette said, smiling with a gesture only Tim and Adrien could read. “I was drawing. New designs. They don’t have a purpose yet, but… they were for you.”

Tim tilted his head, like when he was a child trying to understand what his mother meant when she spoke in half-words. “For me?”

“I always draw when I think of you. I guess I never stopped,” she admitted, lowering her voice. “You’ll have a new suit soon.” She let him know. “I just need to take your measurements again.”

“Okay,” Tim replied, guiding them out of the center of the hall, toward a side terrace where the murmurs were softened by the glass and the music’s hum barely became a distant vibration. Gotham’s night was cold, but there, amid the soft lights and the distance from the world, it seemed more bearable.

Marinette was the first to break the silence. “You’re taller.”

Tim smiled, glancing at her while leaning on the marble railing. “You say that every time you see me, Mom.”

“And every time it’s true,” Marinette replied, shrugging.

Adrien stayed at her side, watching him silently. Something in his expression was softer than usual. More… honest.

“The suit fits you well,” he finally said, gesturing vaguely at the dark blue fabric. “This cut is better than the previous one. More mature.”

Tim grinned, amused. “Thanks. Alfred helped me choose it.”

Marinette smiled too, though her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her clutch. A tic Tim didn’t recall noticing before… or perhaps had forgotten.

“You okay?” she asked suddenly, looking at both of them. Her eyes darkened slightly, alert. “Are you in Gotham for anything besides the gala?”

Adrien raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Can’t we come just to see you?”

“Of course you can,” Tim replied calmly. “But normally you show up two days after the gala, not before.”

Marinette swallowed, sharing a glance with Adrien. “We just… wanted to spend a little more time with you this time,” she said, her voice breaking ever so gently without fully cracking. “Work can wait.”

Tim lowered his gaze, a serene smile on his face. “I’m fine, Mom. Really. Gotham hasn’t tried to kill me in weeks, I haven’t been kidnapped recently, and that counts as stability.”

Adrien let out an involuntary laugh, but Marinette gave him a half-squinting look.

“Don’t joke about that.” She scolded them both, sending a reproachful glance. Tim and Adrien shared a similar sense of humor after all. It was obvious her husband would laugh.

“Sorry,” Tim said. But he didn’t really mean it, and his parents knew.

Marinette shook her head, sighing resignedly.

Adrien placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “You really are taller,” he said, the silliest and most inevitable thing he could have said. But sometimes parents said silly things when they didn’t know how to say ‘I missed you’ without breaking their voice. “Taller than your mother, at least. I think you inherited her height.”

“You’re grayer, Dad,” Tim replied, smiling.

“Lies!” Adrien exclaimed, hand to his hair, pretending to be offended. “It’s just the lights’ glare. And stress. Lots of stress.”

Marinette let out a low laugh. Adrien had recently started dyeing his hair to make it look like he had gray hair, but only so people wouldn't notice that his natural hair color wasn't actually that.

"How have you been, Tim? Really," she asked her son this time, without the usual tone of politeness.

Tim blinked, as if the question had caught him off guard. "Good." He hesitated for a moment, then corrected himself. "Busy. School, the Foundation, the company. You know, Gotham stuff."

"Dangerous stuff?" Adrien asked casually, though his jaw was tense.

Tim shook his head. "Just… intense. But Gotham’s always like that."

Marinette studied his gestures with the precision of a seamstress who knows every fold of the fabric she works with. She noticed the faint lines of fatigue under his eyes. The way his back was straight—too straight for someone so young. She saw the mask.

She felt guilty for having taught him so well how to wear it.

"You don’t have to pretend with us, you know," she said softly.

Tim looked at her, genuinely confused. "I’m not pretending."

And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe, for him, this had already become normal.

"We just want to make sure you’re okay," Adrien said, more seriously now. "We always want that."

"I know," Tim replied without hesitation. "And I am. Really. Bruce has been… a constant. And the others too. I’m not alone, if that worries you."

Marinette lowered her gaze. Just for a second. Only a second. But enough for Adrien to notice how her eyelashes trembled.

"Speaking of school…" Adrien continued, deciding to change the subject before his wife started to cry.

Tim made a face. "Ugh," he complained. "I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you first."

"Why did you leave in the first place?" Marinette asked her son, without reproach—only curiosity and concern.

"I was bored." Tim admitted. "I know everything I should. And I have other things I want to spend my time on."

"Like what?" Marinette raised an eyebrow. Tim looked at his father, but Adrien was standing with his arms crossed, raising both eyebrows, clearly waiting for an answer too.

Tim sighed. He had forgotten how strict his parents were about education.

"Wayne Industries." He confessed, choosing to omit the part about being a vigilante. "And Drake Industries."

"I understand your focus on our company," Adrien said, frowning at his son. A protective air surrounded him instantly. "But why Wayne Industries too? Has Bruce been using you to escape his work? Do I need to go talk to him?"

Tim shook his head immediately, raising his hands in peace. "No, it’s none of that. Bruce doesn’t make me do it. I volunteered."

Adrien narrowed his eyes, clearly still unconvinced. "Why?"

Tim turned to them calmly, leaning against the marble railing and crossing his arms with a posture that was part adult… and part child defending his mischief.

"Because it’s useful," he told them. "Because if I want to do something with what I inherited from you, with what you gave me, I need to understand the world you and Bruce move in. The world of companies, foundations, decisions that change real things."

Marinette watched him silently. She could recognize when someone was telling the truth… but she also knew when that truth was incomplete.

"And doesn’t it feel… overwhelming?" she asked gently. "You’re running one of the largest economic empires at seventeen."

"I only manage a few departments," Tim replied, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "Technology. Communications. The essentials."

Adrien let out a dry laugh. "The essentials, he says." He repeated it, then looked at him—not harshly, but with genuine puzzlement. As if a thought had just occurred to him that he hadn’t considered before. "Tim, you don’t need to prove anything to anyone." He let him know. "We’ll be proud of you no matter what you do."

"I’m not trying to," Tim said. Then he lowered his gaze for a second and murmured, "But it’s good to know." There was a pause. "I just want to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Marinette asked, keeping her voice soft.

Tim hesitated. The silence stretched. Then, simply, he smiled. "For whatever comes." He answered. And it was such a bright, polished smile that Marinette felt a pang behind her sternum. Because that smile wasn’t that of a seventeen-year-old boy. It was someone who had already had to survive too much.

And she didn’t like it, because it made her realize her son was hiding things—not like any normal teenager, but in the same way she and Adrien had once hidden things from their own parents.

Adrien sighed, running a hand through his hair, which now definitely had more gray than he admitted.

"Sometimes I wish you had inherited my stubbornness instead of your mother’s," he joked.

Tim smiled. "Isn’t your sense of humor enough?"

Adrien tried to smile. "It is." But his son resembled his mother too much at that age, and it worried them. "So," Adrien continued, "you’re not going to tell us you’re in an illegal biker gang or something?"

"Maybe in another life," Tim replied, raising an eyebrow with humor. "This one, I’m content with shareholder meetings and quarterly reports. I know, I’m so rebellious."

Marinette laughed softly, but her eyes didn’t leave her son’s face for a second. "Just promise us one thing," she finally said.

Tim nodded. "What?"

"That if you ever need help… really," she paused, looking him directly in the eyes, as if she wanted to pierce every layer of his self-control, "you won’t try to handle it alone."

Tim didn’t answer immediately. He looked at his mother. Then at his father.

And for a second—just one—he seemed five years old again.

"I promise," he said, with a smile that was not entirely false.

But neither was it entirely true.

"And for God’s sake," Adrien added, "at least finish school. Even if it’s online."

"You won’t insist on college?" Tim teased. "I thought you cared about my education, Dad."

"As if insisting would do any good." Adrien huffed. "Just finish school. You don’t need a college degree anyway. Your mother doesn’t have one, and she’s done very well."

"Jack, stop telling people that, especially our son," Marinette scolded him. "I do have a degree. I just don’t use it."

"And that’s why I handle the legal and administrative matters of our company, my dear," Adrien reminded Marinette, with indulgence and sweetness.

Marinette let out a small laugh. And she looked at her son. "By the way, Timothy, we’d love to spend more time with you while we’re here." She said softly and calmly, a sweetness in her tone that made Tim smile. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"

Tim shook his head. "I’m free."

"Perfect." Adrien said, wrapping an arm around his son as if he could still lift him off the ground like when he was five. "We could take you to that Japanese place you liked when you were nine. It’s still there. I asked."

"The one with celebrity photos on the walls and soup that looked like lava?"

"That’s the one."

"I’ll take it," Tim said, his smile still shining.

But as they spoke, Marinette watched him again. How naturally he wore the suit. How he glanced around the room by instinct. How he kept a story in his chest that they no longer knew.

And she felt, with sharp pain, that every day they spent away from him was a day he learned to live without them.

Chapter Text

Adrien watched his wife and son in silence, smiling fondly. His body moved about the kitchen as he prepared dinner, carefully chopping vegetables.
Music played around them—a Jagged Stone melody in collaboration with Luka from years ago, one that had become a favorite of both Marinette and Adrien, especially because they had sung it on their wedding day (their first wedding, the real one).

“Is there anything you don’t want me to put in the food?” Adrien asked.

“Duck,” Tim replied, his eyes fixed on the laptop in front of him.

“Peppers,” Marinette answered almost at the same time, her gaze still locked on the notebook before her.

The dish Adrien was preparing didn’t include either of those things. He thought there was no need to remind them. They both seemed wrapped in their own little bubbles anyway. Adrien let out a quiet laugh, the knife tapping rhythmically against the cutting board, unintentionally in sync with the background melody.

It was curious how his wife and son could share the same space and still lose themselves in their own worlds.

Marinette was bent over her notebook, her brow faintly furrowed, lips moving in a murmur so low he couldn’t make out the words. With the tip of her pencil she drew quick lines, erased, redrew. From time to time she stopped to twist a loose strand of hair around her finger, only to let it go and continue sketching. Adrien smiled: the very same gesture she had when designing dresses at fifteen, the same one she used to think with when she believed no one was watching.

Beside her, Tim typed with metronomic precision. His eyes were fixed on the screen, sharp and alert, and at one point he began drumming with his free fingers against the table’s edge. Adrien recognized the rhythm: four taps, a pause, another four. A code. Always a hidden pattern in something that seemed like idle distraction. Just like when he was a child and tapped the railings in the manor before solving a riddle, as if the music in the wood lined up his thoughts.

His gaze lingered on Tim’s face, studying it. Even when he looked so much like his mother, Adrien could still find his own features in the boy’s treasured face. Which was normal, after all—he had helped create him.

Father and son, Adrien thought with a flicker of pride that tightened in his chest.

Then his eyes shifted to Marinette, brow furrowed in concentration. Seconds later Tim mirrored the same gesture, immersed in his research.

No—he corrected himself: mother and son. Tim looked entirely like Marinette. That way of frowning, of sinking so deep into a project that he forgot food or time, was all hers. Even the way he tilted his head when something didn’t fit—just like her, exactly like her—gave him away.

Adrien slid the vegetables into the hot pan, and the sizzle filled the kitchen with the scent of garlic and olive oil. Neither of them looked up. He smiled again. “I could set the kitchen on fire and you wouldn’t even notice,” he said, just to test them.

Marinette made a vague motion with her hand, as if waving away an invisible mosquito, without lifting her pencil. Tim muttered a distracted “Mmhm,” which sounded more like agreement with something he’d just read than an actual reply.

Adrien rested his elbow on the counter and watched them, his heart swelling with a quiet warmth. There was something hypnotic about seeing them like that: two reflections of the same essence, so different and yet so alike, breathing in a rhythm he recognized as home.

He stirred the vegetables slowly, savoring the heat rising from the pan. There was no hurry. This scene was too rare and precious to rush.

His eyes returned to Marinette. The pencil moved between her fingers with the same ease she once used to spin her yo-yo. Sometimes she rolled it like a talisman against the world, letting it dance between her fingers while she searched for the perfect word or form. Adrien knew that the moment something went wrong, she would purse her lips, bite them hard, and maybe even stumble over her words if someone interrupted her. He knew her. He had seen her vanish into her own universe a thousand times, forgetting the world around her still existed.

When he turned to Tim, Adrien almost burst out laughing. There it was—the same gesture. Not with a pencil, but a pen, twirling again and again between his fingers while his eyes devoured the screen. Adrien recognized the hunched posture, the way his fingers pressed the keys harder than necessary, as if the urgency of ideas translated into force. And the faint wrinkle of his nose when something didn’t add up—it was identical to Marinette when a design didn’t convince her.

Adrien lowered the flame. He leaned on the counter with both hands and watched them, amused, almost incredulous.

“I wouldn’t even need a DNA test to prove the relation,” he murmured to himself.

At that moment Marinette let out a small sigh and tucked her pencil behind her ear, forgetting she already had one there like an improvised hairpin. Adrien smiled at the sight of two pencils poking out like antennae. The same absentmindedness as always. And as if the universe wanted to underline the resemblance, Tim shoved his hand into his hair in frustration, only to end up with a lock tangled in his pen.

Adrien covered his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. “Adorable,” he muttered to the pan more than to them.

The smell of toasted garlic spread through the kitchen. Adrien tasted a piece of vegetable, burning his tongue by accident. He clicked his tongue and glanced back at them. Neither noticed.

Marinette was muttering something in French, fragmented words that sounded like scraps of instructions only she could understand. Tim, on the other hand, was whispering names, dates, hypotheses—probably tied to one of those unsolved cases he liked to tackle as a pastime. A double melody, almost like an improvised duet.

Adrien rested his chin on his hand and sighed, full of pride and tenderness.

There they were: his wife with her furrowed brow, his son tapping out invisible patterns. Two distracted geniuses, two different worlds, but at their core one same heart beating with the same intensity.

He loved them for that.

Though part of him worried too. Tim being so much like Marinette had its downsides—the tendency to hide things, to take responsibility alone without telling anyone.

Adrien let the silence soak into him, warm and heavy like the yellow light spilling over the counter. The oil crackled softly, keeping time with Marinette’s murmurs and Tim’s typing. For years he had believed that kind of stillness, those warm homely moments, were a luxury his family would never have. And now that he had them—even for one night, in an ordinary kitchen—he felt a knot in his chest that wasn’t just gratitude.

His eyes went back to Tim. The boy was completely absorbed, eyes glued to the screen, fingers moving with the same precision Adrien remembered in Marinette when, at fifteen, she stayed up at midnight sketching plans for a mission of life or death. That level of concentration wasn’t just discipline: it was how both of them shut the world out, as if reality was background noise they could mute.

Adrien recognized the posture: tense shoulders, measured breathing, forehead faintly furrowed. He had seen it in Marinette, in himself, when preparing to face Hawk Moth. And even though his son had never wielded a yo-yo or weapon to save the world—at least not that he knew of—there was in Tim that same hidden urgency, as if he carried an entire city on his shoulders and refused to admit it.

“Too young to look like that,” Adrien thought bitterly.

The knife lay on the cutting board while he watched. Tim had inherited the same ability as his mother to disappear in plain sight: present in body, unreachable in mind, with an innate skill for masking himself and vanishing from the world if he wanted. And while in Marinette that had been admirable, in his son it sparked unease. With her, Adrien had spent years learning to accept that there would always be a part of her world he couldn’t reach: secret plans, dangers she chose to bear alone. But with Tim… with Tim it was different.

He was his son.

His.

Tim was his baby.

Adrien dried his hands on a cloth, trying to shake off the anxiety creeping up his spine. This wasn’t the first time he’d noticed these similarities. From early on, Tim had shown the same sharp-eyed analysis, that patient precision that spotted invisible links. He could catch a lie in seconds, remember every detail of a conversation as if he’d recorded it, solve puzzles Adrien wouldn’t even have thought to attempt. And like Marinette, he never shared more than necessary.

Never.

And that worried him, because Adrien knew too well the cost of silence. He knew what it was to spend sleepless nights pretending everything was under control while guilt and fear ate you alive. He had seen Marinette break quietly, cry without tears, because she never wanted to be a burden. He himself had cried countless nights for that, first as a hero, later as a man running scared, trying to protect his family. And now he saw that same shadow in Tim’s posture, in the almost mechanical precision of his fingers on the keyboard, as if his mind never rested.

Adrien stirred the pan with the wooden spoon, more to busy his hands than out of need.

What was his son getting into? What was it that he didn’t trust them enough to share?

The memory of patrol nights with Ladybug—the lies, the necessary deceptions, the secrets that weighed like stones—hit him hard. Marinette had borne the weight of the world and still smiled like nothing was wrong. And Tim… Tim was capable of the same.

The thought chilled him.

He knew he couldn’t force him to talk, just as he had never been able to force Marinette to stop being Ladybug, or himself to stop being Chat Noir. But the idea of his son walking down equally dark paths, alone, without a hand to hold—it twisted his stomach.

Adrien lowered the flame and stepped closer, leaning against the table. “Tim,” he said softly, almost reluctant to break the quiet.

“Mhm…” Not even a blink.

Adrien smiled sadly. Exactly like his mother—he could call her ten times, and if she was focused, she’d only react on the eleventh.

He leaned closer, studying his son’s face in the kitchen’s warm light. Shadows highlighted the resemblance to Marinette: the stubborn curve of his mouth, the determination in his gaze, that unconscious elegance even in carelessness. A perfect reflection—and perhaps a warning. A warning of what, exactly, Adrien didn’t know.

He wanted to say something—ask, offer, promise that he was there—but he held back. He knew pressing would only make Tim build higher walls, because that’s who his son was when people worried about him. Instead, Adrien returned to the pan, stirring in silence, while the smell of garlic and oil blended with the tapping of keys.

A family. A moment of peace. And beneath the surface, the same secrets that had always defined them.

Adrien exhaled slowly. Maybe the only thing he could do was stay, cook, and keep watching, making sure to be the father his son deserved while he was home.

He set the spoon on the edge of the pan and, without realizing it, stood still, simply watching Tim. The warm kitchen light painted soft shadows across his son’s face, highlighting the cheekbones, the fierce concentration, the calculated stillness of every gesture. It was a stillness that didn’t belong to a seventeen-year-old boy.

He had noticed it before—at the gala, in the way Tim weighed each word, in the near-invisible way he observed others—but here, in the domestic calm, the impression cut deeper.

There was something contained in him. Not just adolescence. It was the same kind of secret Adrien had learned to recognize in Marinette, in himself, in other heroes: that silent wall behind the eyes, that certainty that some thoughts must never be shared.

Adrien raked a hand through his hair, as if the motion could clear his mind. He knew he had contributed to that distance himself. Years of absences, of flights without fixed destinations, of late-night calls, of birthdays half-celebrated. Yes, Tim had always smiled when they returned, always said he was fine, that he understood. But how could a child be fine growing up seeing his parents more in photographs than in person?

Guilt coiled cold in his chest.

He remembered the nights when little Tim had stayed awake just to hear his call, that sleepy child’s voice that never complained. He remembered Marinette’s letters with drawings and riddles, the old gifts meant to fill the gaps they left. It had all been love, yes… but also a way of saying sorry without words.

Adrien looked away, pretending he needed to check the flame. The smell of garlic and oil suddenly felt too heavy.

Tim is strong, he told himself, as if the words could soothe him. Tim is fine.

His son would tell them if something was wrong, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?

Adrien remembered Tim had left school without telling them, hadn’t said a word from the beginning. His chest ached.

No.

Their son would never tell them if something was wrong.

Their son was not fine. He knew it, he could see it. He could feel it.

Adrien looked at him again, this time searching not only for Marinette’s features but for any crack in the armor. He saw the tense shoulders, the clenched jaw, the eyes that never stopped moving across the screen. He saw the boy who had once climbed into his lap to hear stories, the one who collected duck facts as if they were treasures. And, for a second, it hurt that he no longer recognized in that face the little one who used to call him “Dad” between bursts of laughter.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to break the silence, lay all the cards on the table: 'What’s worrying you, son? What are you getting into? What are you doing?' But the words stuck in his throat. Because with what right could he demand answers? With what authority could he expect his son to share secrets, when he himself had spent half a life keeping his own? When he and Marinette had built a home of half-truths, borrowed identities, clipped stories.

Adrien swallowed. It wasn’t the first time he thought it, but it hurt the same every time: they had raised a brilliant son, observant, fiercely loyal… and at the same time, they had also taught him—unintentionally—how to stay silent.

We protected him from everything, he told himself, and the irony scraped his conscience. Because yes, they had protected him from everything they could. But in doing so, they had taught him to protect himself from them too.

Tim raised a hand to rub his temple, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but Adrien recognized it: fatigue, too much thinking. The same gesture Marinette made after hours of designing. The same one Adrien made before a fight.

Adrien turned the spoon again, only to keep his hands busy. The sound of oil was a steady murmur, like a clock marking lost time.

He wanted to say something—anything—to build a bridge. 'Do you need help? Do you want to talk?' But he stayed silent, caught between the fear of pushing him away and the fear of losing what little Tim still shared.

So he just stayed there, watching his wife and his son, two reflections of the same heart. And he promised himself, silently, that this time he would not let the ocean of secrets grow larger. That when Tim was ready, he would be there. Without questions, without reproach. Just a father, waiting.

The sizzle of the pan was the only reply.

Adrien pressed his palm against the counter, letting the heat of the kitchen climb up his arms, as if it could anchor him. He moved to toss more vegetables into the pan, followed by a few pieces of meat.

It was impossible not to think of Gabriel.

Every time he looked at Tim, his father’s shadow appeared—clear, unwelcome.

Gabriel Agreste, his father—a villain—the man who could turn love into a waiting room.

The one who spoke more with absence than with words.

The one who filled the house with luxury, but never with laughter.

Adrien remembered the cold hallways of the mansion he grew up in, the way his own footsteps sounded like an offense. He remembered silent dinners, the clock ticking away the seconds like a sentence. He remembered, above all, the certainty that no matter how many times he tried to reach out, his father would always be at an impossible distance. Always far, always behind a wall, always looking away.

He clenched the spoon tighter, as if the memory could break under his grip.

Am I any different from Gabriel Agreste now? The question slid in, sharp and cold.

Yes, he was here. He was cooking, breathing the same air as his son. But was that enough? Was it enough to come back once in a while, to call every night, to send gifts and letters, to avoid repeating the very story he had feared?

The answer struck his chest: No.

It wasn’t.

Because Gabriel had given gifts too. He had filled rooms with clothes, with glittering objects. And still, Adrien had grown up feeling like a mannequin forced to smile on command.

Was it really so different, sending coded postcards from the other side of the world?

Adrien drew a deep breath, garlic and oil mingling with guilt.

He remembered himself as a boy, staring at the door, waiting for a father who almost never came. And now he saw Tim, that sharp-eyed boy who never asked for anything, who smiled politely even when he and Marinette disappeared for months.

The resemblance hit him like an echo.

Tim didn’t wait. He didn’t complain. He didn’t demand.
Exactly like him.

Adrien felt a rough ache beneath his sternum.

All his life he had fled from the idea of becoming his father, and yet here he was: a man who loved desperately, but who had let his son learn to live without him.

He forced himself to look at Tim again, to memorize every gesture: the slightly furrowed brow, the fingers drumming a secret rhythm, the concentration that walled him off from the world. There was pride in watching him, yes—but also a sharp edge of fear.

I promised to be different, he thought. I promised my son would never feel what I felt.

The pan hissed in the silence. Marinette kept sketching; Tim kept typing, lost in his own labyrinth. Adrien watched them, and the question that had haunted him since the distance began returned, stubborn and inevitable: Was he breaking the cycle… or only repeating it with better manners?

He pushed away from the counter and, with a clumsy gesture, set the spoon aside. Slowly, he walked over to the table and laid a hand on the back of Tim’s chair, just a touch, as if to remind himself that human warmth could be a bridge.

“Need anything, champ?” he asked, his voice softer than he intended.

Tim looked up, startled, and Adrien saw in his eyes the same flicker he used to see in the mirror as a boy: a mixture of patience and well-learned loneliness. “No, Dad. I’m fine.”

Adrien smiled, but inside, the phrase weighed like a confession. Because he too had said those words, too many times, when all he had really needed was for someone to insist.

He didn’t answer right away. He stayed there, hand on the back of the chair, feeling the faint vibration of Tim’s fingers on the keyboard. That I’m fine still echoed in his chest, heavy and far too familiar.

A lump rose in his throat. The smell of garlic and oil, the low crackle of the fire, Jagged Stone’s music spinning in the background—all of it seemed to fade away.

Without thinking too much, Adrien leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his son.

Tim blinked, startled, when his father pulled him into a tight hug—one of those that allowed no argument. “Dad—what—?”

Adrien didn’t let him finish. He held on tighter, burying his face against the side of Tim’s head. His hair smelled of soap and the cold Gotham air clinging to clothes. He was taller than Adrien remembered, more solid, but still—still—he fit in his arms.

“I just… needed this,” Adrien murmured into his hair. And before Tim could argue, he began covering his face with quick kisses: on his temple, his cheek, his forehead. Loud, exaggerated kisses, just like when Tim had been little and he used to chase him down the hall.

Marinette looked up from her sketchbook, smiling warmly at the sight of her husband and son.

“Dad,” Tim protested, half laughing, half indignant, trying to wriggle away. “I’m not five anymore!”

“I know,” Adrien said between kisses. “But to me, you’ll always be my baby.” Another kiss on the cheek. “My little detective.” Another on the forehead. “My little miracle.”

“Dad,” Tim repeated, this time with a groan that carried no real weight. “This is… extremely uncomfortable. And unsanitary. You’re cooking.”

Adrien laughed, a warm laugh that filled the kitchen more than any light. “I’m a clean chef,” he declared, planting one last noisy kiss on his nose before loosening his grip.

Tim looked at him, his face slightly red, somewhere between resignation and amusement. There was a spark of embarrassment, yes, but also a smile Adrien recognized: small, involuntary, impossible to hide.

“You’re… weird,” the boy muttered, straightening in his chair as if to recover his composure.

“I’ve always been weird,” Adrien answered, grinning shamelessly.

Tim shook his head, but didn’t pull away when Adrien gave his shoulder one last pat, a silent gesture that said more than words.

“I love you, Tim,” Adrien said, without softening his tone.

For a moment, the typing stopped. Tim looked at him with sharp eyes that always saw too much, and this time his smile was genuine. “I love you too, Dad,” he said quietly.

Adrien felt the knot in his chest loosen, as if at last he had opened a window long shut. The pan still sizzled, but now its sound was only a backdrop to the warm heartbeat of that moment.

His gaze met his wife’s, who was watching with a mix of amusement, affection, and curiosity. He winked at her, and as he returned to the stove, he thought—with a smile he couldn’t hide—that maybe—just maybe—he was breaking the cycle after all.

Maybe he could still be a good father.

A couple of minutes later, Adrien served dinner, forcing his wife and son to set aside their work for a proper family moment.

He placed the plates on the kitchen counter—since they hardly ever used the dining room unless they had guests—with a triumphant flourish. “Et voilà, dinner à la Drake,” he announced with a slight bow. Perfect French rolled off his tongue, making Tim arch a brow for a moment. “And no duck or peppers, so no one complains.” He winked at them both.

Marinette smiled, finally pushing aside her notebook and pencils. “Chef and comedian,” she teased, leaning in to savor the aroma. “Smells amazing, love.”

Tim reluctantly shut his laptop, the click of the lock sounding like a period. “If this isn’t edible, I’m going to laugh so hard,” he joked.

Adrien pouted. “You’ll have to admit I’m an excellent cook… after the third bite.”

The scent of browned butter, fresh herbs, and white wine filled the kitchen like an irresistible invitation. Marinette poured water with lemon slices while Adrien sat across from Tim, wearing the unmistakable look of a father slipping into gentle interrogation mode.

Tim, meanwhile, seemed more interested in inspecting the food on the counter with suspicion. Poulet rôti with herbes de Provence, ratatouille, and freshly baked baguette were set out, and he couldn’t help but wonder where his father had even gotten a baguette—since he hadn’t seen him baking or preparing bread at all.

Tim leaned closer, expression halfway between curiosity and distrust. “This looks like a French cooking commercial.” His father rarely made French food. It wasn’t something they often ate at home.

“Exactly,” Adrien said, sitting down. “And I’m the Michelin-starred chef sponsoring it. Bon appétit.”

The first bite earned a small hum of approval from Marinette that made Adrien smile. Tim, for his part, tried the chicken cautiously before giving a small, almost reluctant nod of approval.

“So, Detective Drake,” Adrien began with studied casualness, and Tim nearly groaned because he recognized that look in his father’s eyes. “Tell us about your adventures.”

Tim looked up, one eyebrow raised. “What exactly do you want to know?” he asked.

“Mhm.” Adrien pretended to think it over for a moment. “How about your girlfriend? You’re still dating that Stephanie girl, right? She’s very sweet. And pretty.”

“You can’t say that about her if you’ve never even met her.” There was a pause. Tim narrowed his eyes at his father. “What were you doing, Dad?”

Adrien laughed. “Me?” He asked, feigning innocence. “Nothing! Your mother, on the other hand…”

Tim turned to his mother.

She at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “I just wanted to know what kind of girl my son was dating.” She didn’t look at either man as she spoke, though a faint blush colored her cheek.

“First,” Tim told his parents, “Steph and I aren’t dating anymore. We’re just friends.”

“Aww,” Adrien groaned. “I liked Steph. She seemed fun.”

“And second,” Tim continued, ignoring his father and fixing his gaze on his mother, “what did we say about privacy, Mom? You can’t keep spying on me or investigating my friends!”

“Big words coming from someone who got caught digging through my emails and bank account two weeks ago,” Adrien muttered, smirking at his son.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Tim complained, a little embarrassed—because yes, he had been caught. But in his defense, an alert had popped up on his phone about strange bank transfers from his father’s account, and he’d worried. Turned out it had just been his dad spending money on things he shouldn’t, trying to set up a romantic surprise for his mother.

“Sorry, but I’m too scared of your mother to get on her bad side,” Adrien replied with mock solemnity.

"Anyway," Marinette cut in, glancing at Tim with a conspiratorial smile. "What have you been doing in your free time? Any strange walks around Gotham, any mysterious discoveries? Don’t tell me your life is just keyboards, work, and coffee."

Tim shrugged, cutting a piece of ratatouille. "Most of my days aren’t that interesting." He lied. "I try to look into unsolved cases, meet up with some friends when I can… I also go out and take photos sometimes, as you already know. Streets, buildings, animals, weird people. Gotham never disappoints."

"Photos," Adrien repeated, leaning toward him a little. "Of what kind? Architecture? People? Ducks again?" He teased.

"Depends," Tim said, still eating. "The city changes its face every night. Sometimes it’s the light, sometimes the shadows. There are things no one sees unless they go out and look."

Adrien felt the familiar sting of pride and worry, tangled together. An observer down to the bone.

Tim glanced at his father. "And yes. Ducks. There are always new ones, but I don’t know where they come from."

"Migration," Marinette reminded him. "Ducks migrate."

"Yeah, I know. I’ve been an expert since I was seven, you don’t have to tell me." Tim nodded. "That’s why I put trackers on them…"

"Ah, so that’s what the trackers were for," Adrien muttered.

"And the ducks came back," Tim went on. "And I know they didn’t lay eggs because I looked and didn’t find any anywhere, so I don’t understand where the ducklings came from."

"Maybe you didn’t look well enough?" Marinette suggested.

"I did," Tim grumbled. "I checked the ground under thick vegetation, tree hollows, every suitable spot. I even went and asked Pamela Isley if she knew anything, since ducks usually nest in her domains, but she told me she didn’t know a thing."

Tim frowned. "I really looked. There was nothing." It still seemed outrageous to him not to be able to solve the duck case. He’d started searching when he was seven and still hadn’t found the eggs. And it wounded his pride that something so simple remained the only unresolved case of his entire life.

"You’ll find it someday, sweetheart." Marinette squeezed his shoulder gently, her voice tender.

"Anyway, Tim," Adrien spoke up again. "Do you ever go with someone, or do you always wander Gotham alone?"

"Alone," Tim answered, and then, as if anticipating the unspoken question, added, "It’s easier that way. Nobody gets impatient when I stay still for twenty minutes waiting for the right light."

Adrien nodded, feigning neutrality, though his mind filled with images of his son walking Gotham’s streets at night. "You’ve always had a good eye for that," he said at last. "You should show us more of your work."

Tim shrugged again, but this time the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Maybe."

The conversation drifted toward lighter anecdotes. Marinette shared the story of an eccentric client who once asked them to find a lost treasure that clearly didn’t exist while they were traveling for archaeology.

"A French collector insisted there was a chest hidden in an old Marseille warehouse with Da Vinci’s blueprints inside," Marinette told them with a mix of laughter and resignation. "When we finally opened it, there were only molds of stale bread and a very grumpy mouse."

Tim raised an eyebrow, amused. "Classic client, mistaking rumors for clues."

"At least the mouse was polite," Adrien added, helping himself to more ratatouille. "It bowed before running off."

Marinette shot him a look of complicity. "You ran faster than it did."

Adrien put on a face of mock indignation. "I only wanted to clear the way for it!"

Tim laughed at the thought of his father running. Adrien caught it instantly. There you are, he thought, feeling pride swell in his chest.

Between sips of lemon water, Adrien pretended to inspect the bread before asking, as if in passing: "And in your photos, Tim, do you run into a lot of curious people? Gotham tends to be full of characters, you know, like that vigilante Batman you used to love so much when you were little."

Tim froze for a second, his fork halfway to his mouth, before moving again with the same meticulous calm as always. Not a hint of nerves in his voice. "Batman isn’t as mysterious as when I was a kid," he said with a shrug. "Now everyone in Gotham has a story about him. He’s… part of the landscape, I guess."

Adrien and Marinette exchanged a look. Marinette’s eyes sharpened as she sipped from her glass of water, while her husband braced himself to probe a little further.

After all, it wasn’t normal for Tim to let go of something that easily. Especially not something he’d once put so much effort into investigating.

Adrien rested his elbow on the table, feigning laziness. "Still, there’s something about him that fascinates you, isn’t there? Back then we couldn’t even bring it up without you spouting conspiracy theories and trying to unmask him."

"It was a hobby," Tim replied, cutting another piece of chicken. "I got over it. And I figured out his identity a while ago. He’s not that impressive after all."

Marinette studied him with the keen look she reserved for evaluating a design. "Really?" she hummed. "Because that doesn’t sound like something one just leaves behind so easily, especially considering the time, effort, and punishments you faced sneaking out at night to chase him."

Tim shrugged. "I guess I grew up, Mom." He smiled. "Maybe I just got bored of investigating once I found out who he was."

Adrien smiled, but his eyes never left his son. "Mhm. Makes sense." They didn’t believe him.

Adrien broke a piece of baguette, dipped it in the sauce, and spoke with deliberate lightness.

"And those nighttime walks for photos… do you run into any of those ‘landscape characters’? Vigilantes, bats, whatever they are?"

"I’ve seen Nightwing from a distance once or twice," Tim replied a little too quickly. Then he added, as if catching himself: "But it’s Gotham. There’s always someone jumping across rooftops. Not exactly a big achievement."

Adrien raised an eyebrow. "Nightwing, huh? Did he at least wave at you?"

"No," Tim said, with a flicker of dry amusement. "I think he was too busy not falling off a building."

Marinette laughed, but her eyes stayed on her son, searching for cracks. "And yet you come home calm, without a scratch. You must choose your streets well."

Tim took a sip of water, every move measured. "I’m careful. Always. So I’ve never been hurt." He lied.

Adrien set down the bread, rested his arms on the table, and leaned in slightly, his voice almost casual. "Gotham at night isn’t a game, son. I know we’ve always told you that, but if you ever need us to go with you, or if you need to talk, you just have to say so. You don’t have to carry everything alone."

Tim swallowed, looked at his father, and for a fraction of a second Adrien swore he saw something in his eyes: a flicker of guilt. Then the mask slid back into place.

"I know," Tim answered. "But there really isn’t anything to carry, Dad. Just… you know, the usual."

Adrien smiled, but the gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Well, then at least show us those photos soon. I want to see the city the way you see it."

"Maybe," Tim said, just as before: one short, impossible-to-grasp word.

Marinette broke the silence with a lighthearted joke about the “Michelin-star chef,” and the conversation drifted to travel humor and absurd client stories. But Adrien kept watching his son between bites, noting every nuance.

Tim’s laughter sounded genuine, but there was a rhythm behind his words, a precise measure, as if each phrase first passed through an invisible filter. Adrien recognized that pattern; he had used it all his life whenever he needed no one to know who he really was.

It worried him to realize something was happening with his son—and that he didn’t know what. A shared look with his wife told him she felt the same.

Chapter Text

Tim had snuck out of the house.

He wasn’t supposed to. He should have been asleep—or at most, curled up in bed with some electronic device in hand while his parents slept. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had slipped out to patrol.

Gotham’s night greeted him as always: cold, damp, carrying that metallic, rusty scent that seemed to seep into everything. From atop a building in Burnside, Tim adjusted the visor of his mask, scanning the map projected in his HUD. The city’s murmur was a constant chaos: engines, distant sirens, scattered shouts. Gotham never slept—and neither did he.

“Red Robin to team.” His voice was steady in the communicator. “North zone clear, but there’s movement near Dock 13. Suspicious shipment arrived this afternoon.”

The response came immediately, dripping with the usual sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be with your parents? Ever sleep, Timbo?” Jason asked.

“No names,” Batman reminded them.

Tim rolled his eyes, though he smiled. “My parents are asleep,” he replied. “And it’s boring to stay home without patrolling.”

The wind whipped his cape as Tim leapt to the next building, the retractable grapnel whistling behind him. Gotham’s dampness soaked through his clothes beneath the suit, but the cold was almost comforting; a reminder that he was here, where he felt he belonged.

“Sure, boring,” a warm, teasing female voice cut in. It was Barbara, Oracle’s tone crisp over the channel. “Because a normal night of rest is a completely alien concept to you.”

“I need the air,” Tim replied, adjusting the frequency on his visor. “And there’s movement at Dock 13. Anyone else getting a read on it?”

“Checking now,” Barbara said, rapid typing audible. “No shipments registered for that time. Possible smuggling.”

“Say it outright: another Penguin party,” Jason said. “Or some idiot who thinks Gotham is a vacation city.”

“Red Hood,” Bruce’s voice came, sharp and commanding, “approach the dock from the south. Red Robin, keep visual, but don’t go in alone.”

Tim rolled his eyes again, this time with an audible sigh. “Copy. Maintaining visual.”

“Report any heavy movement,” added Dick, Nightwing, his tone always a touch too cheerful for the hour. “And Tim, watch your right flank. You’re projecting more than usual.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it under control,” Tim replied, sliding through a skylight onto a lower ledge. The shadows of containers stretched like steel teeth beneath the yellow glare of the floodlights. “Shouldn’t you be in Bludhaven, Nightwing?”

“Always so territorial,” Dick responded, a barely contained laugh in his voice. “Gotham misses me sometimes, what can I say?”

“If by ‘misses’ you mean the gargoyles are bored without seeing you do flips, sure,” Jason muttered. The distant roar of his bike could be heard in the background.

“Focus,” Bruce interrupted. His voice cut through the channel like a steel blade. “Red Robin, visual report.”

Tim crouched on the ledge, the visor filtering the floodlights’ glare. He slowly swept the drone from his belt; the small device rose silently, sending a clear image to his HUD.

“Four unmarked trucks. Sealed containers. Guards with automatic weapons. Movement in the main warehouse: at least six, maybe eight inside. Doesn’t look like Penguin’s crew. Too organized.”

“Too organized,” Jason repeated, the mocking tone softened. “Sounds like Black Mask.”

Barbara typed something quickly, the clicks mingling with a confirmation beep. “No records of those trucks in transit or customs. High-level smuggling, likely.”

“Red Hood,” Bruce ordered, “secure the southern perimeter. Nightwing, west. Red Robin, keep eyes on the center. Do not approach closer than twenty meters until we have identification.”

“Received,” Dick said.

“Copy,” Tim murmured, adjusting the grapnel to the next ledge.

He leapt. The damp air hit his face, the grapnel snapping taut with a dull click. He landed silently on a rusted crane overlooking the dock. From here, the city looked like an endless chessboard, all the pieces moving.

“Thermal cam on,” he reported, adjusting the visor. Red and orange silhouettes danced in the dark. “Eight inside, four outside. Two with assault rifles, the others with pistols.”

“Any insignias? Gang colors?” Dick asked.

“None visible.” Tim zoomed in. “But… there are crates stamped with LexCorp seals.”

The channel went quiet for a beat.

“Great,” Jason muttered. “Because what this city needs is a little gift from Luthor.”

Barbara typed again. “No LexCorp shipments recorded to Gotham in recent weeks. If those seals are real, it’s stolen material.”

“Red Robin,” Bruce’s voice returned, firm but lower, “don’t expose yourself. Confirm shipment numbers and hold position.”

Tim gritted his teeth. He knew what was coming: the part where he had to stay put while the others closed in.

“Understood,” he said, though his body was already shifting for a better angle.

A whisper in his ear, this time just for him, came from Barbara. “Tim, I know you hate holding visual, but if there’s LexCorp tech, this could be serious. Keep your head clear.”

“I always do,” Tim whispered, barely moving his lips.

“Debatable,” Jason interjected on the general channel, because of course he was listening.

Tim couldn’t help a half-smile. “Red Hood, shouldn’t you be handling the southern perimeter?”

“Already there, birdie. And I’ve got three guys who don’t know I’m on them.”

Tim took a deep breath, letting the icy wind clear his mind. From this height, he could see the distant city lights, life continuing, unaware that a network of vigilantes kept it safe. His parents slept at home, convinced he was just a kid with a camera and too much curiosity.

For a moment, he thought of his father: the warmth of the kitchen, the sudden hug a few hours ago. Guilt weighed like lead in his chest.

But he didn’t stop.

“Red Robin,” Bruce’s voice cut through again, relentless, “report any changes.”

Tim adjusted his visor, eyes fixed on the containers. “Movement,” he said calmly. “Something big’s coming.” He frowned as he spotted a woman stepping out of her car. “Is that… Talia?”

Why was Talia Al Ghul, Damian’s mother, here?

“My Mother is there?” Robin asked, and Damian knew the boy would be there soon too.

The female figure moved through the dock’s shadows with the same lethal calm Tim remembered from every League report. The dark green cloak brushed the wet asphalt like a whisper, the hood barely tilted to hide her face.

Visual confirmed. No doubt: Talia Al Ghul.

“Red Robin to all,” he whispered, modulating the channel to avoid any echo. “Confirming Talia’s presence. Repeat: Talia Al Ghul at Dock 13.”

The silence that followed was brief, electric.

“Exact position,” Bruce demanded, voice low and controlled.

“East entrance, next to the LexCorp containers. Two guards flanking her. Controlled movement.”

A faint click interrupted the frequency. Damian. “Father, I’m on my way.”

“No,” Batman’s command came like a blast. “Stay in the cave.”

“It’s my mother,” Damian’s voice was a contained edge.

“Robin, listen to Batman,” Dick spoke. “Remember, you’re sick. No patrol today.”

“But it’s my mother!” Damian protested.

Tim frowned. “The dock is hot. This isn’t a courtesy visit,” he warned.

“Great. Extended family night. Anyone else feel like this ends in a sword fight?” Jason mocked.

Barbara interjected, firm despite the typing avalanche. “Plotting escape routes for Talia. No matches with League movements in the last 48 hours. This isn’t official.”

Tim refined the visor zoom. Talia spoke to a burly man in a dark suit, his face hidden under a cap. He gestured toward the LexCorp containers. She merely nodded, expressionless, each tilt of her head calculated.

“Negotiation,” he muttered, though everyone heard. “Doesn’t look like a handoff. Possible info exchange or clandestine purchase.”

“Red Hood, hold your aim, do not fire,” Bruce ordered.

“As if I’m a rookie,” Jason replied, though the metallic click of his weapon slipped into the transmission.

A soft ping on Tim’s HUD indicated lateral movement. Three more guards exited the warehouse. Automatic rifles, tight patrol pattern. A cloaked woman moved alongside them, veering toward Talia.

“Extra company,” he reported. “Three more, heavy armament, western perimeter. And a woman.”

“Nightwing, intercept,” Batman said.

“On it,” Dick replied, his voice carrying that trained lightness reserved for imminent danger.

Tim shifted a meter along the crane, cape folded, breathing controlled. Fine drizzle began to fall, making the floodlights sparkle with cold flashes. Through the headset, he could hear the restrained heartbeat of the Bat-Family: Bruce calculating, Barbara filtering data, Jason muttering an unfinished joke. And, in the background, Damian’s expectant silence.

A subtle shift in Talia’s posture tensed him. She turned to the woman, who seemed to speak briefly. Talia then raised her hand, a minimal gesture. Two of her men opened one of the LexCorp containers.

The interior flashed with a blue glow.

Tim zoomed in, his heart skipping. Experimental energy tech—the same portable reactors LexCorp kept locked for weapons projects.

“High-tech material confirmed,” he said, voice low. “Mini fusion reactors. This is big.”

“All eyes open,” Batman dictated. “No contact until I signal.”

Tim frowned at the woman. She was definitely small, slender. The cloak moved in the wind. She pulled back her hood as if it bothered her, turning just enough to reveal her profile.

Tim froze.

“Mom?” The words slipped out, his stomach dropping. Why was his mother here? Why was she here with Talia?

“Red?” Dick asked.

Tim’s heart leapt to his throat.

No. It couldn’t be.

The HUD blinked, marking the woman’s silhouette with a red box. The profile, the jawline, the gesture of brushing a stray lock of hair aside… unmistakable. Janet Drake. His mother.

No. Impossible.

“Repeat, Red Robin,” Batman demanded, voice sharp, controlled.

“That’s my mom,” Tim said, feeling the urge to descend immediately. “My—my mother is there,” he whispered. “Visual confirmed. Janet Drake. With Talia Al Ghul.”

The channel fell into a heavy silence, so dense Tim swore he could hear the static from his own respirator.

His stomach knotted, the HUD vibrating with red silhouettes in motion, but everything else faded into background noise. There she was—Janet Drake—or at least, the woman he knew as his mother—standing next to Talia al Ghul as if they were old acquaintances. Chatting. Like they belonged in the same world.

“That’s not possible,” Barbara murmured, the frantic tapping of her keys audible. “There are no records of Janet Drake with ties to the League, LexCorp, or any criminal activity.”

There was a pause.

“Tim,” Barbara’s voice came first, soft but urgent. “It could be a double. Or someone with surgery. I need you to focus. Can you verify biometrics?”

Tim was already doing it. The visor’s sensors traced her face, cross-referencing every record he had of his mother. The result appeared in the corner of the screen: MATCH 97.8%.

“She’s not a double,” he muttered. The confirmation sent ice through his veins.

“Red Robin,” Bruce’s voice cut in, edged with steel, “hold position. Do not break cover.”

“She’s my mom,” Tim repeated, quieter this time, as if saying it could somehow alter reality.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Wow, kid. Thought only Damian had issues with Mom at work.”

“Red Hood,” Batman’s voice sliced through the channel, sharp with warning.

“I’m just stating the obvious, B. If Mrs. Drake is at an exchange with Talia and LexCorp, this is new territory.” Jason clicked his tongue over the comm. “Well… that raises the stakes.”

“Shut up, Hood,” Dick hissed. “Tim, listen to Batman. Breathe. Tell us—what’s she doing exactly?”

Tim refocused, every muscle tense. His mother—his mother—was speaking to Talia with the calm of someone at a business meeting. He saw her smile lightly, as if she weren’t standing beside an illegal shipment of LexCorp tech.

“They’re talking. Seems… cordial.” He ground his teeth. Damn it. What was his mother doing here?

Barbara spoke again, low, almost gently. “Tim, stay calm. She could have been dragged into this or blackmailed. Don’t jump to conclusions yet.”

“She looks far too comfortable to be blackmailed,” Tim snapped, teeth clenched. “She’s not a victim. She—” his voice cracked slightly, “she knows what she’s doing.”

If his mother was here, was his father too? Was his father involved in this as well? What the hell was happening?

“Red Robin.” Bruce’s voice was stone, but underneath, something more lingered—contained tension. “Do not move. Maintain visual.”

“She’s my mom!” Tim’s voice rose before he could stop it. He swallowed, closing his eyes for a second under the mask. He lowered his personal comm channel. “Sorry. Copy that. Maintaining visual.”

His heart pounded so hard his fingers trembled, though he kept them steady on the edge of the crane. In his visor, Janet tilted her head as Talia pointed toward the containers’ interiors. The blue glow reflected on both their faces, so calm, so… complicit.

Damian broke into the frequency, voice a furious whisper. “Why would my mother be talking to yours, Drake?”

“I don’t know,” Tim whispered. “Do you think I would be like this now if I knew?” He spat. “I don’t know why my mom is here.”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Bruce replied, unflinching. “Red Hood, keep eyes on the guards. Nightwing, west position. Red Robin, do not approach. I repeat, do not engage.”

“Father,” Damian insisted, “this involves my mother. You can’t expect—”

“You stay in the cave, Robin,” Batman cut him off. “That’s an order.”

Tim swallowed. His hands shook inside the gloves, imperceptible to anyone else but him. In his mind, images of the kitchen hours ago—the smell of garlic, his father laughing, his mother smiling as she danced with him after drinking wine—intertwined with the impossible sight before his eyes.

Barbara spoke again, quick. “I’m cross-referencing Janet Drake’s financial movements again. Still nothing unusual. Tim, could you get a bit closer to capture audio? Only if you can do it unseen.”

“Negative,” Bruce interrupted immediately. “Too risky. We wait for movement.”

“B, if those are fusion cells, we don’t have time to—” Jason started.

“We wait,” Batman repeated, each syllable an order.

Tim barely heard them. On the dock, his mother tilted her head, a gesture of agreement, while Talia pointed to one of the containers. A guard offered her a folder; she accepted it naturally, flipping through it as if signing contracts at a clandestine exchange were part of her daily routine.

The light rain soaked his cape. Tim felt the cold biting through him, but he couldn’t look away.

What are you doing, Mom? he thought, feeling the image he had of her shatter bit by bit.

His communicator crackled. Barbara, this time on his private channel only. “Tim, listen to me. Whatever’s happening, it’s not your fault. Keep your head.”

Tim swallowed. “How…? How do they know each other?” he murmured, more to himself than to the channel.

“Red Robin,” Bruce interrupted again, voice deep, leaving no room for argument, “observe. Nothing more.”

But Tim couldn’t look away. The woman who had dined with him hours earlier, laughing about eccentric clients, was here in Gotham like any other shadow, talking to one of the most dangerous people he knew.

And she was smiling.

Smiling.

The icy air scratched his throat as he inhaled. His mind spun at a brutal speed, every hypothesis collapsing instantly. He had hidden so much of himself from his parents, woven so many lies to protect them from Gotham… and now he realized he might never have had the full truth about them.

“This makes no sense,” he murmured.

“Welcome to Gotham, little brother,” Jason said bitterly.

Damian interrupted, voice tenser than usual. “Father, if my mother and Drake's mother are in the same place, this is deliberate. The League doesn’t make friends randomly.”

“We’ll find out,” Batman replied, dryly.

Tim closed his eyes for a second, rain drumming on his cape. For the first time in a long while, he felt the ground beneath him wasn’t entirely real.

“Mom…” he whispered, barely audible, watching her laugh softly at something Talia said. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions yet,” Barbara said firmly. “Just watch. Collect data. You’re Red Robin. You’re the best at this.”

Oracle’s words anchored him slightly, but the vertigo remained, cruel, as he watched Janet Drake laugh lightly at a comment from Talia al Ghul, like old friends.

He edged closer, unseen, until he could hear them speak clearly, making sure to transmit the audio to the others.

“How sweet, Talia,” Janet hissed. “But you can’t expect me to stand by when I know you’ve been around the places my son is.”

“Contrary to what you think, Janet,” Talia replied, mocking, “I wasn’t there to watch your brat. My son also lives in this city.”

“Your son?” Janet asked.

“My Damian.” Talia’s tone softened, almost affectionate, something rarely seen in her. “He currently lives with my beloved. I took advantage of my visit to ensure his well-being.”

Janet looked surprised. “Damian… Wait, Wayne? Really?” She almost seemed horrified. “You had a child with that man?”

“I did.” Talia shot her a sharp glance. “And mind your tone. My beloved is, undoubtedly, far better than the pathetic, gullible husband waiting for you at home.”

“Don’t call my husband pathetic, Talia. You have no right.” Janet warned. Yet she didn’t deny that her husband was gullible. Tim wondered if his mother was hiding all this from his father too. “Anyway, are you sure this is the right shipment?”

“It is,” Talia confirmed.

Janet frowned, gesturing toward the cargo. “Doesn’t seem suitable for our purpose.” She flipped through the folder again. “No kryptonite there.”

“I didn’t know Superman was one of your enemies.”

“He isn’t,” Janet replied. “But I need something just in case. Call it a contingency plan. You never know.” She sighed. “This isn’t enough, Talia. I need… something that could stop even the impossible.”

Talia smirked. “Always plans within plans, Janet. Just like in our childhood, when you insisted on being reckless and meddling in my affairs.”

Janet chuckled. “If it were the same, you’d be trying to actively destroy or threaten me right now.”

“I don’t destroy my allies.”

“Natalie wouldn’t think the same.” Janet reminded her. Tim couldn’t help but wonder who Natalie was. “Nor your father.”

“So Talia is doing this behind her father’s back?” Jason whistled. “This just keeps getting worse.”

Oracle spoke again. “Red, move back two meters. You’re in her line of sight.”

Tim ducked behind the crane structure, heart in his throat. Too late. Talia’s gaze had been direct, surgical. Not only had she seen him—she had recognized him.

“How’s your firstborn?” Talia asked suddenly.

“Shit.” Tim cursed. “Talia noticed me.” He prayed the woman wouldn’t tell his mother, or reveal his identity.

“Asleep at home,” Janet replied. “Keep away from him, Talia. My family has nothing to do with this, especially my son. He is untouchable. Remember that.” She warned, glaring at her. Then she sighed. “They don’t even know I’m here.”

“Mhm.” Talia hummed. “How… interesting.”

Tim’s heart hammered against his ribs. The audio still transmitted to the others, but he could barely focus. Hearing his mother speak with such firmness—as if she were someone else, as if he didn’t know her—was tearing him apart.

“What’s interesting?” Janet asked.

“Like apple never falls far from the tree.” Tim saw Talia smile as if sharing a secret with the darkness. Janet, meanwhile, kept flipping through the folder, oblivious to the silent hunt unfolding above her. "Don't you believe it?"

“Tim, get out of there.” Nightwing hissed urgently.

“Not yet.” Tim said, though the words tasted like lead in his mouth.

Talia leaned toward Janet, her words clear through Tim’s directional mic. “Always so protective, Janet. But your son… he’s brilliant. Reminds me of someone.”

Janet looked up, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare. He’s not part of this. He… my son will not repeat his father’s story, or mine.”

Tim swallowed. His father’s story? Her story? A thrill of adrenaline ran through his hands. What did his mother mean by that? What were they hiding?

Jason broke the silence with an incredulous laugh. “Damn, Timmy. Your family collects secrets like B collects batarangs.”

“Silence.” Batman cut the line, steel in his voice.

On the dock, Talia tilted her head with that lethal grace Tim had seen many times before. Something Damian had undoubtedly copied growing up, having watched her do it.

“Your firstborn walks shadows you do not suspect, Janet.”

Janet clenched her jaw. “My son is a child.” She stated. But something seemed to cross her mind. “He wouldn’t… Batman wouldn’t be stupid enough to recruit a child.”

“My beloved is many things, but not stupid,” Talia spat. “And we both know that if your son is anything like you, there would be nothing to stop him should he choose the path of shadows.”

Tim felt his stomach twist into knots. His mother knew Batman’s identity. She knew Bruce was Batman. Talia had practically confirmed it.

The rain intensified, drumming against him insistently. “Tim, I need clean audio of the exchange. Then you move,” Oracle instructed.

“Tt. Focus, Drake. This is intel, not a confrontation,” Damian intervened.

“Breathe, brother. Three, two, one. Focus.” Dick prompted. Tim inhaled, letting Dick’s voice mark the rhythm. His breathing stabilized, but rage churned under his skin.

Below, Janet signed a final document, slid the folder back to the guard, and said clearly as a bell, “The plan proceeds as agreed. I won’t fail this time.”

The words hit him like a gunshot. This time. How many times before had there been? How long had his mother been working on this?

Talia nodded with a small smile. “Until next time, 'ukht.”

The choice of the last word—'ukht. Sister.—made Tim’s blood run cold. He didn’t know if it was metaphorical, a code, or something much worse. Surely he wasn’t related by blood to Talia Al Ghul, right? He would know, wouldn’t he?

“Red Robin, final report.” Batman demanded.

Tim barely managed his voice. “Transaction complete. Reactors secured. Both leaving via the east exit. Conf—… confirm audio package integrity.”

“Received.” Oracle said. “Saving encrypted copy.”

His mother’s figure disappeared into the rain alongside Talia, as if they were both part of the same legend. Tim felt the ground tilt beneath him. He wanted to leap down to stop his mother, but Dick’s voice stopped him.

“Tim, get out of there. Now.” Dick sounded agitated.

“On my way,” he responded, though the words tasted like ash.

Retracting the grapple and ascending to the highest rooftop, the city stretched before him, indifferent. Behind the mask, his hands shook.

Bruce’s voice came through the private channel, grave as always, but… softer? “Red Robin. Do not draw conclusions without proof. Return to the cave.”

Tim didn’t answer. A thousand questions, and not a single answer.

The rain wrapped around him like an icy cloak as the final image burned into his mind: Janet Drake—his mother—smiling beside Talia al Ghul, as if they had always belonged on the same side of the night.

When he reaches the cave an hour later, he’s exhausted, soaked, and trying to act as if it doesn’t affect him.

"Tim…” Dick is the first to speak, looking at him with concern.

But Tim cuts him off, turning to face Bruce. “File confirmed secure. I need to review it later. I’m heading home.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Rain still drips from his cape, forming small puddles on the cave floor. No one responds immediately, as if everyone there is carefully measuring which word could break him.

Bruce finally nods, slowly, his eyes carrying a worried glint, though he looks as if he doesn’t know what to do in this situation. “Alright. Rest.” That’s what he settles on saying.

Tim doesn’t answer. He removes his mask with an automatic motion, sets it on the worktable, and spins on his heels. Every fiber of his body wants to collapse right there, but he doesn’t allow it. Not a longer blink than normal, not a tremor. Control. Always control.

As he walks toward the elevator, Oracle’s voice crackles through his still-active private comm, reminding him he didn’t take off the suit before leaving the cave. “Tim, you need to talk about this.”

“When I have proof. Not before.” The reply comes out like steel in his throat.

He’ll take the suit off when he’s home, in his own room.

The elevator descends. His reflection in the fogged metal returns the image of a seventeen-year-old boy with eyes far too tired for his age. His own voice echoes in his head, persistent: How can you investigate her like a criminal when it’s your mother?

The elevator opens to the mansion. Everything is silent, save for the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the foyer. Tim ascends the stairs in measured steps, repeating each one like a mantra: Don’t think. Don’t feel. Review the file. Cross-check the data.

He moves quickly through the mansion, slipping in through his bedroom window and hastily shedding his suit. The door is locked, so he isn’t afraid anyone will walk in on him changing.

The dampness of the cape soaks the carpet, but he doesn’t bother removing it. He collapses in front of the desk after putting on a pair of sweat shorts, too full of doubts to shower right then, and powers on the screens, pulling up the dock file.

There it is.

Janet Drake’s face, magnified, frozen in the red box of the viewer. The HUD reads 97.8%. Tim forces his eyes not to blink, staring straight at it.

Every second of video is a fresh dagger. His mother accepting a folder. His mother smiling alongside Talia. His mother saying, “My son will not repeat my story.” His mother, there, right there. Exactly where she shouldn’t be.

He feels his fingers tremble over the keyboard, but forces them to move, typing lines of code. He checks the biometric scan once, twice, five times. The same results, unyielding.

“It can’t be,” he whispers, and the sound of his own voice in the empty room feels alien.

He clenches his jaw. He breathes deeply, as Dick taught him, but the air feels poisoned.

He creates a new encrypted file, titling it simply: J.D.

The coldness of the gesture shatters him more than any tear could. Because he’s not saving memories of his mother: he’s opening a case.

He sits still, staring at the newly created folder, while the emptiness in his chest beats like a second heart.

His world is breaking, but he doesn’t have time to process it. Instead, he just needs to fix it—fix it before everything falls apart.

Tim tells himself, not for the first time when it comes to a case important to him, that he won’t rest until he finds the truth and sets everything right. It’s the only thing he can do.

It’s the only thing Tim knows how to do: solve things when they don’t fit together. Just like his mother taught him.