Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Bruce,” Tim said, standing awkwardly in the Batcave like he was about to confess to insider trading. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Bruce didn’t look up from the three active monitors, each displaying some crime stat or satellite feed. “Go ahead.”

Tim hesitated. That— that —was already strange. He never hesitated before a mission report. He always came in with a plan, an agenda, a backup escape route. But this wasn’t a mission. This was personal. And personal still made Tim flinch sometimes.

Since that night in the study, when everything had cracked open between them—words finally spoken, wounds finally acknowledged—Tim had been trying. Bruce had too. They’d stood across from each other like strangers that night, both unsure how to bridge the distance years had carved into the floor between them.

But Bruce had apologized. Not just once, and not in a vague, emotionally evasive terms—but directly. “I failed you. I didn’t show up when I should have. That won’t happen again.”

And Tim had met him there. Quiet, vulnerable, raw. “I want to trust you. But it has to go both ways. I’m willing to try, if you are.”

And Bruce had said, “As many times as it takes.”

So now here Tim was. Taking a step forward. Hoping the ground wouldn’t fall out from under him.

“I’m thinking about… dating someone.”

Bruce turned in his chair slowly, giving Tim his full attention. Not the detective stare. Something quieter. Softer.

Tim shifted awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure how much space he was allowed to take up. “I just… I wanted to tell you. You said I could come to you. About anything. So… I am.”

There. Said it.

Bruce’s expression softened immediately.

Tim looked down, then up again. “This is me trusting you. Just so we’re clear.”

And that— that —hit Bruce like a gut punch.

Bruce stood, slowly. “I appreciate you telling me.”

Tim nodded once. Small. Careful. This wasn’t an ambush or a demand—just a test of that promise they’d made.

“It means a lot,” Bruce added, voice lower now. “That you’d come to me.”

There was something in his eyes Tim hadn’t seen often, at least not directed at him. Gratitude. Not the kind you gave to someone who brought coffee or intel—but the kind you gave to someone who gave you a second chance.

Tim bit his lip. “I know I don’t… always say things. Not right away. I’m still working on that.”

Bruce nodded. “And I’m still learning how to listen when you do.”

It wasn’t perfect. It was never going to be. But there was effort , and for Tim—for someone who’d once curled around rejection like a shield—that effort meant everything.

“I don’t need permission,” Tim said, “but I figured this was… the kind of thing family shares.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said. “It is.”

There was a pause.

Bruce folded his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “Do I know the person?”

Tim huffed out a short laugh, nervous but amused. “Yeah. You do.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly. “How well?”

“…Superboy.”

Bruce blinked. “Kent.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long beat. Tim could see it—the quiet shift in Bruce’s posture, the way calm calculation gave way to protective instinct. He braced himself. Then Bruce muttered, “He flies. He’s invulnerable. He wears crop tops in public.”

Tim groaned, already regretting this. “I knew that was going to be your takeaway.”

“I’m just saying,” Bruce went on, arms still crossed. “You could wait a few more years to start dating. No rush. You're young. There are still missions to run. Projects to finish. Maybe… some more character development.”

Tim gave him a long look—the kind you develop after years of learning how to manage someone else’s moods.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “Has Conner even started to court you properly? With flowers? Letters? Has he started a Kryptonian courting ritual?”

“Bruce—”

“What if I gave you more power at Wayne Enterprises?” Bruce offered suddenly, like a man dangling a shiny object in front of a raccoon. “Or more gadgets. Or… permanent movie-picking privileges.”

Tim squinted at him. “I already pick half the movies.”

“I’ll make it official,” Bruce said. “A binding family vote. No more musicals unless you say so.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You think this is about musicals?”

“I’ll go further. You get the last slice of Alfred’s lemon cake. Every time. ”

Tim looked skeptical. “Even over Damian?”

“I’ll tell him it’s a test of discipline,” Bruce said grimly. “He’ll buy it.”

“Okay, but why are you acting like dating Conner is a nuclear detour from my life plan?”

Bruce shifted. “It’s not that. Conner is… fine. Strong. Polite. Occasionally wears shirts.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s your decision to date or not. I respect that. I’m just… offering options. Like contingencies, you always have contingencies.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Options like—?”

“I’m offering you diplomatic immunity at family game night,” Bruce said seriously. “Unlimited veto power. I’ll even rig the trivia cards in your favor.”

Tim blinked. “That’s corruption.”

“I prefer ‘incentivized bonding,’” Bruce replied. “You’d be a sovereign state within the manor. No one would be allowed to challenge your snack choices. You could call recess during arguments.”

“Okay, but what is this really about Bruce?” Tim interrupts. 

Bruce unfolded his arms, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Because… once you start dating, your time—I just got you back.” 

Tim paused, and some of the teasing drained from his voice. “Bruce…”

Bruce gave a helpless shrug. “You were just a kid with too-big eyes and a camera. And now you’re talking about relationships and love and—and it’s fine. You’re allowed. You should . But I can’t lie and say it doesn’t scare me.”

Tim was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You know I’m still here, right? Still your kid.”

Bruce nodded once, jaw tight. “I know. That’s why I’m trying to be… cool.”

Tim snorted. “This is you being cool ?” Tim stared. “You’re trying to bribe me out of dating.”

“I’m negotiating ,” Bruce corrected stiffly.

“You’re spiraling.”

Bruce didn’t argue.

Tim let out a breath and crossed his arms, adopting his best businesslike smirk. “Okay, fine. If you’re going to be weird about it, how about this—give me your blessing, and I won’t quit Wayne Enterprises.” He looked like he’d just said checkmate . Because, honestly? He had. Bruce hated dealing with the board. Tim had once seen him reroute a League-level alert through Gotham’s emergency channels just to delay a budget call.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

Tim shrugged, cool and casual. “Just a strategic decision. You said I could make my own choices.”

It was a low blow, using Bruce’s own words of trust and autonomy against him—but Tim knew his audience. And Bruce hated running the company.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. “Done. Quit.”

Tim gawked. “What?!”

“If resigning from Wayne Enterprises keeps you from dating, I’m all for it,” Bruce said, completely deadpan. “I’ll take back over. How hard can it be?”

“You’d have to attend board meetings.”

“I’ll wear sunglasses.”

“You’d have to talk to shareholders.”

“I’ll grunt.”

“You’d have to smile at gala events.”

“…Fine. I’ll fake a neurological condition that prevents facial expression.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, hurt creeping into his voice. “So I’m just disposable now? You’d throw me out of the company like that ?”

Bruce blinked, confused. “What? No. Of course not. Wayne Enterprises would absolutely collapse without you. Probably irreparably.”

Tim frowned. “…Wait, really?”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “You’re the only one keeping the infrastructure remotely ethical. Without you, Lucius will retire in disgust, the board will be arrested within a year, and Gotham’s economy will spiral. I give it six months, max.”

Tim stared. “Then why would you say you’d risk that?”

Bruce looked him dead in the eyes. “Because I’m not ready for you to grow up, and I’m willing to take extreme measures to delay it.”

Tim groaned and dropped onto the nearest workbench. “That’s not healthy parenting, Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce said, sitting beside him. “But it’s honest.”

A long silence passed between them.

Tim leaned against Bruce, exasperated but smiling. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

Bruce wrapped an arm around Tim. 

“I do,” he said quietly. “Even if it terrifies me.”

Tim gave him a look both fond and weary. “ That’s parenting, Bruce.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

Then Bruce added, “If it makes you feel better, I’m terrified of the day Damian brings someone home.”

Tim laughed. “You think he’d tell you?”

“…Fair.”

Chapter Text

Bruce and Tim sat in silence for a moment longer. Then:

A polite throat-clearing.

They both turned toward the stairs just in time to see Alfred descending with his usual dignified grace.

“I must say,” Alfred began, “it is a rare time when I find myself questioning which is the more immature—Master Tim’s mock-blackmail or Master Bruce’s wholehearted surrender to it.”

Tim straightened. “Wait—you were listening?”

Alfred raised a brow. “It is my cave.”

Bruce grunted and muttered, “Told you eavesdropping’s a household tradition.”

Alfred stepped smoothly to the workbench. “I only continued listening once I realized you were attempting to weaponize your son’s corporate future in a desperate bid to stall the passage of time.”

Tim snorted. Bruce scowled.

“Don’t you have something to dust?” Bruce grumbled.

“I did,” Alfred replied evenly. “Then I realized the emotional mess accumulating down here might become a health hazard if not properly addressed.”

Tim gave Bruce a smug look. “See? Even Alfred thinks you’re ridiculous.”

Alfred sighed. “Sir, I understand your reluctance. It is difficult to watch them grow. But they do. And if I may be so bold— you survived Dick Grayson’s teenage dating years. You will survive this.”

“Conner can lift a tank.”

“So could Miss Gordon on a bad day,” Alfred said primly.

Bruce looked away. “He’s still my kid.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said, voice softening. “Which is precisely why you raised Master Tim to make good choices—and why you must trust that he will. As for Master Conner… well.” He glanced toward Tim, perfectly composed. “We do, after all, know where the kryptonite is.”

“ Alfred! ” Tim yelped, laughing.

Alfred gave the faintest smile. “I am joking, Master Tim. Mostly.”

He straightened, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his vest. “Now. If there are no more dramatic ultimatums, I suggest the two of you come upstairs for lunch before it gets cold.” 

Bruce and Tim both looked sheepish as they trailed after Alfred toward the stairs.

Alfred paused on the landing, glancing over his shoulder with that trademark serenity that made even vigilantes straighten up like they’d been caught sneaking snacks before dinner.
“Will you be telling your siblings?” he asked, entirely too casual.

Tim looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Alfred’s brow lifted. “Not even Master Dick?”

“Especially not Dick,” Tim said quickly. “He’d go full mom mode. Conner would never make it out alive. He’d ask about his GPA, his five-year plan, his intentions, and whether or not he’s emotionally prepared for long-term commitment.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “He’d serve him a charcuterie board labeled Conversation Snacks and pull out a folder labeled So You're Dating My Sibling: A Grayson Family Primer .”

Tim covered his face. “That sounds horrifyingly plausible.”

“Oh, it happened,” Bruce said. “He did it to Duke’s prom date. There were laminated sections. Charts.”

“Conner would run,” Tim muttered as they continued up the stairs.

“You’d be doing him a kindness,” Alfred said, utterly unbothered.

Bruce added, “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t have Dick handle this for you.”

Tim paused in the study, then gave a small shrug. “We’re still working on… stuff. Me and Dick, I mean.”

Bruce looked over, alert now in a different way.

“We talked a few weeks ago,” Tim said, more quietly. “He apologized—for not stepping in more when things were bad with Damian. For letting things slide. For assuming I was okay just because I always acted like I was.”

Alfred tilted his head, listening with that kind of attention that made you feel safe speaking.

“He said he didn’t know everything, but he knows he hurt me. And that he loves me. That he should’ve been there sooner.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing. Just listened.

Tim gave a weak smile. “I told him I appreciated it. And I’m trying. I really am. But it’s still kinda… fragile. He’s trying to be more present now. Show up. But it felt like too much to throw something like this at him already.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “That sounds like a difficult but meaningful conversation, Master Tim. I’m proud of you both.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to say something—probably several somethings—but instead he reached out and gently squeezed Tim’s shoulder.

Tim blinked, startled, but didn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” he said, awkward but honest. “For listening.”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “Even if I still think you’re too young to be dating an indestructible alien.”

“There it is,” Tim muttered.

Alfred sighed, already heading out of the study. “Lunch is waiting, gentlemen. And possibly your collective emotional maturity.”

Bruce and Tim followed, side by side—still a little awkward, still figuring it out, but with one less thing unspoken between them.

Chapter Text

The manor was quiet.

Too quiet, if you asked Bruce. The kind of hush that followed laughter, not replaced it—like the echo of something still warm in the air. He knew the others were down the hall, tucked into the media room where Dick was no doubt orchestrating a movie night with practiced chaos.
But Bruce had retreated to the study.

For quiet. For contemplation. For hiding.

Bruce sat alone now, tie loosened, fingers absently turning a paperweight on the desk. The fireplace crackled softly. But the warmth didn’t quite reach the tight knot in his chest.

He barely registered the sound of the door opening until Alfred’s footsteps crossed the threshold.

“You didn’t retreat to the Cave,” Alfred observed mildly. “I admit I’m surprised.”

“Figured I’d give the cave a break,” Bruce muttered. “Too many conversations happening there recently.”

Alfred didn’t answer right away. He stepped inside with a small tray already in hand—two steaming mugs, one hot chocolate and the other chamomile tea. He set the hot chocolate gently beside Bruce before settling into the armchair across from him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Alfred said, softly, “He’s growing up.”

Bruce didn’t respond. Just stared at the cup like it had personally betrayed him.

“I know,” he said at last, voice low.

Alfred gave a small nod. “And you’re afraid you’ll lose him.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched.

“It’s not the dating,” he said. “It’s not Conner. It’s just—he’s not ten anymore.”

Alfred’s voice remained calm. “No, he’s not. And that is as it should be.”

Bruce looked down at his hands. “When I brought him in, I thought… he was too smart for his own good. Too guarded. I figured, given time, I could help him through it.”

He exhaled slowly, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “But then things got… complicated. And I kept thinking I’d have more time.”

“You did help.”

“Not enough.”

Alfred gave him a look that, despite its softness, could still slice through guilt like a scalpel.

“You gave him what he needed. You gave him family. Direction. Purpose. And an annual operating budget that could fund a small country.”

Bruce huffed out a reluctant laugh.

Alfred smiled faintly. “I know what it feels like to watch a boy grow into someone you no longer need to protect. It’s terrifying. And it’s the most satisfying thing in the world.”

Bruce looked over at him, tired in a way he rarely admitted. “How did you do it?”

“With you?” Alfred raised a brow. “Very carefully. And with an abundance of tea.”

Bruce snorted.

Alfred’s expression softened. “I made plenty of mistakes, Bruce. I worried constantly. Every time you came home late, every time the news whispered Wayne heir missing, every time I saw the bruises you wouldn’t explain. I never stopped wanting to wrap you in cotton and keep you still.”

Bruce stared down into his mug.

“But you wouldn’t have survived that,” Alfred continued. “You needed to move forward. So I learned how to be the person you could come back to, not the one who kept you from leaving.”

Bruce was quiet.

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” he said again, more to himself this time.

“No parent ever does,” Alfred said gently. “But it happens. And when it does, you’ll be there. Just as I was for you.”

Bruce curled his hands around the warm mug. “…I really did offer to tank the company just to stall his dating life, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Alfred said dryly. “With remarkable enthusiasm. I believe you also tried to bribe him with veto power at family movie night.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m the problem.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I’m relieved we’ve finally reached the diagnosis.”

Bruce gave him a look, but it lacked any real heat. He leaned against the edge of the desk, mug in hand, like it might explain something the rest of the world couldn’t.

“I keep thinking there’ll be a moment when I’m ready,” Bruce said quietly. “To let him, to let all of them grow up. To stop… holding so tight.”

Alfred stepped closer, his voice low but sure. “There won’t be. Not really. Readiness is a myth, Bruce. You just do it anyway. You love them through the fear.”

Bruce looked down at the floor. “He still calls me for backup when a mission goes sideways. Still checks in on patrol routes. Still leaves me his schedule on the kitchen counter. I know it’s not forever, but… it still feels like he’s mine. Just for a little longer.”

Alfred’s voice gentled even further. “He is yours. They all are. But children are not meant to stay—they’re meant to return.”

Bruce looked up.

“When he gets hurt, he’ll come home,” Alfred continued. “When he’s unsure, he’ll come home. When he’s proud, when he’s tired, when he’s in love… he’ll come home. You don’t lose them, Bruce. You become the place they land.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded—once, slowly.

“I suppose that’s something.”

Alfred gave a soft smile. “It’s everything.”

He stepped back toward the door. “Now, I suggest you finish that hot chocolate. Master Grayson has the popcorn ready and the videos cued up—tonight’s nostalgia is fully weaponized.”

Bruce gave a weary groan. “He’s going to play home videos again, isn’t he?”

“From the vault,” Alfred confirmed. “Including the one where you try to explain your ‘no capes at the dinner table’ rule while Master Jason is actively choking on a breadstick.”

Bruce sighed. “…I’m not ready for that either.”

Alfred paused in the doorway. “No one ever is. But we still press play.”

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson had always trusted his instincts when it came to his siblings. He liked to think it was a skill honed from years of being the oldest, of navigating the sharp edges of Bruce Wayne’s parenting style while keeping an eye on the shifting moods in the Manor. Reading the room had been survival; adapting to it, an art.

But when it came to Tim, that sixth sense had dulled for a while—lost somewhere between grief, guilt, and the way they both kept missing each other in the dark.

Since Bruce's return from the timestream, though, Dick had been working to get it back. It started slowly—tentative check-ins, texts left on read, missed connections that stung more than either of them admitted. But over time, they’d carved out a rhythm again. Tuesday mornings. Coffee before Tim’s day started at Wayne Enterprises. A sacred thirty-minute window built out of intention and stubborn affection, where no one had to wear the cowl. Just Dick and Tim.

And it wasn’t perfect.

Dick had said the wrong thing more than once. He’d stumbled. But he was learning to own that.

He remembered one morning, weeks back—when the weather had turned just cold enough that their hands hovered over coffee cups for warmth instead of caffeine—Tim had surprised him by staying longer than usual. They’d talked. Really talked.

Dick had admitted that he’d gotten so caught up in the whirlwind of Bruce being gone, Damian being thrown into the field, and trying to keep the family from splintering, that he hadn’t made space for Tim. He’d focused too much on what Tim seemed to be—the strategist, the contingency plan, the one who didn’t need anything. He’d treated Tim like the solution, not a person.

“I know I hurt you,” Dick had said that day. “I’m not even sure I fully understand how. I probably missed more than I caught. But I want to understand. I want to do better.”

Tim had been quiet for a long beat. Then, soft and without looking up, he’d said, “I know you tried your best, Dick. I know that.”

And quieter still, “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve stayed. Helped you more.”

That had nearly broken him.

Because the idea that Tim—who’d been seventeen, exhausted, and grieving—was the one holding guilt for walking away when no one had asked him to stay, when no one had made him feel wanted…

It stuck with Dick.

So now, every Tuesday, he made sure to be early. To be present. To make space, and not fill it with his own voice unless invited.

He wasn’t trying to fix everything overnight. But he was showing up.

And for Tim—for all of them—that mattered more than he’d ever realized.

Today, like always, Dick arrived early. It was part habit, part instinct. He didn’t want Tim showing up first and having too much time alone with the thought: What if no one comes?

Tim was five minutes late—on purpose, Dick suspected, so he wouldn’t feel needy for being early. When he walked in, he looked tired but not haggard. Distant but not closed off. Progress.

"Hey," Dick greeted, standing to give him a hug.

Tim allowed it and squeezed back.

They settled in, drinks already ordered thanks to Dick’s advance planning. Tim’s caffeine monstrosity and Dick’s sugar monstrosity. They exchanged updates—Tim mentioned a merger, Dick countered with a Nightwing case involving a dolphin smuggler.

There was laughter. Real, unguarded laughter—and not the brittle kind Tim sometimes used when he was trying to convince the room he was fine. This was different.

There was a cadence to it, something old and warm that stirred memory—like how he and Tim would go on late-night post-patrol diner runs when everything felt a little lighter for a while.

But underneath that sound—beneath the rhythm of their usual banter—Dick could feel something else simmering.

A shift.

Tim’s shoulders weren’t quite as tight. His smile came a beat easier. Something had changed.

Dick let the moment sit for a breath before he tested the waters.

“You know,” he said casually, nursing the last sip of his lukewarm sugar drink, “I’m getting this vibe from you lately.”

Tim blinked. “A vibe?”

Dick leaned back, expression light but searching. “Yeah. Something new. Different energy.” He tapped his temple. “Sixth sense is kicking in again.”

Tim stiffened, barely perceptible—but Dick caught it. His fingers tensed slightly around his cup.

“It’s nothing,” Tim said too quickly, eyes darting to the side. “Just—work stuff. Nothing major.”

Dick smiled gently, not calling him out. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t press. Just wanted to check in.”

Tim was quiet for a beat. 

“I do want to tell you,” he said. “Just not yet.”

Dick nodded, his voice warm. “Whenever you’re ready, Baby Bird.”

And Tim didn’t flinch at the nickname this time. Didn’t even hesitate. He just gave a small smile, like he was holding onto something good and wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“So,” Dick said after a while, tone light. “How’s everything with the others?”

Tim hummed, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. “Me and Jason have figured out how to work together without drawing blood. Mostly.”

Dick smiled. “That’s something.”

“Steph and I… we’ve been honest. About the ways we let each other down. We’re not perfect, but we’re trying.”

“And Cass?”

“Cass is Cass. She's always steady. I think if we weren’t brought together by vigilantism, we’d still end up as weird twin soulmates who communicate in eyebrow raises.”

Dick laughed. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Tim hesitated before continuing. “Damian’s... complicated.”

Dick nodded, not interrupting.

“I get it,” Tim said slowly. “The League, the way he was raised. I understand the differences. But it still hurts. Being called an interloper. Feeling like I’m not supposed to be there.”

“I know,” Dick said gently. “I’ve been trying to push back on that more.”

“You and Babs and everyone else, yeah. It helps. But I can still feel it.”

“He’s jealous,” Dick said.

Tim blinked. “Of what? My insomnia? My pale body? The fact that I’ve almost died twelve times this year?”

Dick snorted. “No. He’s jealous of how good you were. As Robin. As a detective. As Bruce’s partner. You cast a big shadow.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” Dick said, firmly. “He’d never say it out loud, but it’s there.”

Tim considered it. “Jason would make a joke about the shadow height.”

“True,” Dick said, grinning.

They let the silence sit for a bit.

Then, casually, almost like a throwaway line, Tim said, “You wanna come to WE for a day?”

Dick tilted his head. “Like… shadow you at work?”

“Yeah. See what I actually do all day. Not just assume I’m brooding in corner offices and avoiding my inbox.”

“Sold,” Dick said. “I’d love that.”

Tim smiled. It was soft. Real.

“Bruce has started taking some things off my plate lately,” Tim added, like it was nothing. “Now that he knows I dropped out of high school.”

Dick blinked. The words hit like a punch to the gut.

“What?” he said, a little too sharp.

Tim didn’t flinch. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he said simply. “And I kind of ghosted my senior year during the whole Bruce-is-lost-in-time, the-family-is-fracturing, and I’m-running-multiple-ops-without-sleep era.”

Dick tried to school his face, to keep the panic from showing—but his brain was already racing. How had he missed this? How had no one caught it? How long had Tim been carrying this alone?

He forced his voice into something calm, something supportive. “Are you… planning to go back?”

Tim looked at him—saw everything he was trying to hide—and, mercifully, let it go. He didn’t call him out. Just gave a faint smile and said, “Actually, I could use your help. Graduating high school is on the agenda.”

Dick exhaled, some of the tightness in his chest loosening. He reached across the table and tapped the edge of Tim’s coffee cup with his own.

“Then you’ve got it, Baby Bird.”

“I really did miss that,” he said quietly. “When you used to call me that.”

Dick’s throat tightened. “Yeah?”

Tim nodded. “It made me feel like I belonged.”

“You still do,” Dick said. “Always.”

Chapter Text

Jason hadn’t expected Tim to crash at his safe house. Not really. But when patrol ended and Jason caught sight of the massive bags under Tim’s eyes, he just jerked his head toward a building and muttered, “You’re staying here tonight. You look like shit.”

Tim was too tired to argue.

He curled up on the couch in full gear, cape haphazardly thrown over the back, boots half-off. Jason set an energy bar and bottle of water within arm’s reach, then turned off most of the lights and left him to sleep.

Now, hours later, Jason sat in the dim kitchen thinking too much. His eyes kept drifting toward the couch — to Tim’s breathing, the way his boots dangled halfway off.

He hadn’t forgotten their last real conversation in a similar safehouse. It had stuck with him—soured in his gut, nagged at him when he tried to sleep.

“I know it was the Pit rage,” Tim had said, his voice too even, too understanding. “You weren’t yourself.”

But Jason had stopped him there.

“No,” he’d said. “That might explain some things, but it doesn’t excuse them. I hurt you. And that’s on me.”

Tim had looked away, uncomfortable. Like he’d wanted to minimize it, to smooth the edges of what happened between them.

Jason hadn’t let him.

“You flinch,” he said plainly. “When we’re alone, even now, I can see you fighting it. Don’t pretend it’s not there.”

Tim had winced—subtle, but Jason had caught it. “I don’t want to make you feel worse.”

Jason had stared at him, exasperated. “Jesus, Tim. This isn’t about me. You need to care about yourself.”

And then, just as casually, Tim had said, “I’m not as important.”

Jason remembered the way that had knocked the wind out of him. 

“We’re having this conversation,” Jason said, then locking eyes with Tim, “but we’re having it with Alfred there.”

He didn’t push him that day. But the decision was already made — the next time they talked, it wasn’t going to be in a dark drafty apartment.

Tim still looked wary when they sat down in the manor’s sunroom, Alfred perched like a sentinel with tea service and that familiar look of calm vigilance. Jason took a breath. Then another.

“I don’t remember everything Talia told me,” he began. “But I know things got twisted. She made it sound like Bruce replaced me with you overnight. Like you were some…easy swap.”

Jason huffed a humorless laugh. “Truth is, I wanted to believe her. Made it easier to stay angry. Made it easier to see you as the problem instead of looking at Bruce… or myself.”

He shook his head. “That’s on me. She planted the seed, sure, but I’m the one who let it grow. I’m the one who acted on it.”

Tim didn’t respond.

“I now know most of what actually happened. You reached Bruce when no one else could — not even Alfred. And Bruce put another kid in that role. That still pisses me off.”

Tim’s shoulders tensed, a flicker of something crossing his face. Alfred’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, steady and warm. Jason kept going.

“I also know what I did to you wasn’t just Pit rage. I was angry. Confused. And I let it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”

There was a long pause.

Jason looked him in the eye. “I get it if you don’t want to be around me.”

Tim looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t quite form the words. Alfred gently set down his teacup with a soft clink.

“You do not have to rush to forgive, Master Tim,” Alfred said. “Or to understand. But you are allowed to feel.”

Tim finally spoke, voice tight. “What am I supposed to do with those feelings? The anger? It’s not useful.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jason said, surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to turn every emotion into a tool.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. “If I let it out, it’s just going to be me screaming into an empty room.”

Jason opened his mouth, but Alfred beat him to it. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“You are not in an empty room.”

Tim’s breath hitched. He didn’t speak, not at first. Then—

“Why’d you have to hurt me?”

The words came cracked and choked, years of restraint bleeding out all at once.

Jason stayed very still. He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t.”

Tim sobbed once. Then again. Alfred pulled Tim into a hug, Jason joining a moment later, arms tentative but solid. Tim sobbed against their shoulders until he couldn’t anymore.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Alfred stayed close, one hand resting lightly on Tim’s back, the other offering a clean handkerchief.

“I want you as my big brother,” Tim murmured thickly. “I want… I want my Robin to like me. To be there.”

Jason exhaled shakily. “Then I’m gonna be.”

They made a plan. Weekly check-ins. Ground rules. Boundaries.

“I know trust gets earned,” Jason said. “You don’t have to forget what I did. You shouldn’t. But I’m not walking away.”

“And neither am I,” Tim agreed.

The sunroom felt heavier, Tim’s words lingering. Alfred had guided Tim upstairs, then returned to find Jason in the kitchen.

“That was not easy,” Alfred said softly. “But it was necessary.”

Jason gave a dry huff of a laugh. “Necessary doesn’t mean it feels good.”

Alfred’s expression gentled. “No. It rarely does. How are you faring?”

Jason stared at his tea, then admitted, “Like hell. Worse than I thought.”

Alfred nodded, as though that answer had been expected. He folded his hands neatly before him. “You are not alone in that, Master Jason. It is not only you who must earn Tim’s trust again.”

Jason frowned, giving him a questioning look.

Alfred met his eyes without wavering.

“Bruce was not the only one who leaned too heavily on a child. I did as well. And I must earn his trust back, same as you.”

Jason sat with that, the words heavy but strangely grounding. 

“And you are also allowed to feel,” Alfred added gently. “You don’t have to carry it all like a punishment.”

Jason’s throat tightened. “Thanks.”

Alfred opened his arms in a quiet invitation, giving Jason the choice to bridge the gap between them.

Jason let out a soft, rueful laugh, still surprised at how much bigger he was than Alfred, then squeezed his grandfather tightly.

“And I expect you at brunch next week,” Alfred said briskly, turning toward the sink. “Don’t worry—I’ll wrangle Master Bruce.”

Jason chuckled. “Thanks for that too.”

The memory faded as the sound of rustling fabric pulled him back to the present. Tim shuffled into the kitchen, now in sweats and looking a little less dead on his feet. 

“You sleep?” Jason asked.

Tim grunted. “Define sleep.”

Jason snorted. “Want food?”

Tim flopped onto a barstool, rubbing his eyes. “Toast. And coffee with an extra shot.”

Jason froze mid-step, staring at him. “You mean sludge with a side of bread?”

Tim gave a tired, crooked smile. “I said toast. That makes it breakfast.”

Jason muttered something under his breath but started pulling things from the fridge anyway. “Unbelievable. You’re getting eggs. With spinach. Try and stop me.”

Tim huffed a laugh but didn’t argue. He just slouched against the counter, watching Jason move around the kitchen. For the first time in a long while, his face looked lighter—like he could let himself just be.

Jason grabbed a pan, the sizzle filling the quiet, steady space between them. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. They were building again.

Together.

Chapter Text

Jason was doing his weekly manor visit. A deal with Alfred—minimum once a week. Lately he’d been trying for twice, though he wasn’t about to admit it. Didn’t mean he had to hang out with Bruce. That wasn’t happening. Old habits stuck; he usually timed his visits for when the house was empty. But today his luck ran out.

Because his big brother was here.

Which meant Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment had been partially demolished by some rogue and, as always, Dick came crawling back to Gotham in search of hot showers and Alfred’s laundry service.

Jason also noticed something else. Dick had been over more ever since Tim started half-living at the manor while finishing his senior year. Which was how Jason found himself in the same room as Dick.

Their first run as brothers hadn’t exactly been smooth, but these days they were building something better. Still, Jason couldn’t deny the shift. Making peace with Tim had bled into other corners of his life, softening edges he thought were set in stone. It had opened a door here, too—he and Dick talking again without it devolving into shouting matches or cold silences. Jason had to admit it felt good. Having his big brother again—really having him—was something he hadn’t realized how much he missed until it was back.

So when Dick spotted him, he immediately abandoned whatever thing he’d been pretending to do and latched on—whether to spend time with Jason or just to annoy him, Jason couldn’t tell. Probably both.

They exchanged pleasantries, a little reminiscing, until Dick casually dropped,
“Tim’s been doing well. Started back at school a few weeks ago—kind of juggling both worlds, you know how he is.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. Had breakfast with him a few days ago. The gremlin tried to pass sludge and bread off as a meal.”

Dick laughed, instantly picturing it. “Ah yes, his classic: coffee, with a side of coffee and toast.”

Jason smirked. “Barely toast. More like warm bread that lost a knife fight with butter.”

The joking tapered off, and Dick tilted his head, voice softening. “But… I’ve noticed something. These past few weeks—he looks different. Lighter, almost. Happier.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly. “Yeah. I’ve seen it too. Don’t know what changed, but… whatever it is, it’s his to share. I’m not prying.”

Dick gave a small nod, thoughtful. “Right. Respect his privacy. I get that.” He paused, then added, “Still—feels good that he’s started coming to us more. Hard not to want to ask when you finally see some light breaking through. I’m finding the balance between respecting his space and wanting to check in.”

Jason tilted his head, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Look at you, learning boundaries. Personal growth. What’s next, not stealing my leather jacket when I’m not looking?”

“Please,” Dick scoffed. “I wore it better.”

Still, the weight between them eased, conversation finding its rhythm again. Jason tilted his head toward Dick,“You wanna take a shot at guessing what the gremlin’s planning?”

Dick’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh, absolutely.”

Two hours later, their guesses had spiraled from Red Robin missions, to Wayne Enterprises boardroom plots, to the kind of teen-genius nonsense only Tim Drake could cook up.

“Calling it now,” Jason said. “He’s staging a coup. Taking over the League of Assassins again—and rolling out some terrifying new uniform while he’s at it.”

Dick grinned. “Or—hear me out—he’s creating a League–Court of Owls hybrid. League of Owls. Deadly as ever, but now with mandatory feather accessories.”

Jason groaned. “That’s terrifying.”

“Or,” Dick continued cheerfully, “he’s buying out Queen Industries just to gift it to Bruce for Father’s Day.”

Jason actually barked a laugh at that one. “That’s messed up enough it might be true.”

They were still chuckling when the front door clicked. Tim wandered in, school bag slung on one shoulder, tie half-loosened, hair an uncombed disaster.

Both brothers greeted him like nothing was unusual. Dick thought he was playing it casual, hiding his curiosity well, “So… how’s school? How’s work? How’s… everything else?” His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, fishing for a thread to pull.

Tim raised a brow. “Everything else?”

Dick lifted his hands innocently. “Just… interested in your day, that’s all.”

Jason snorted. “This is him trying to respect your privacy, by the way.”

The two of them were watching him far too closely, like they were waiting for something specific but couldn’t quite name it. Tim sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to escape without giving them something.

He dropped his bag by the couch, straightened, and said flatly, “Fine. I’ll save you both the trouble. I started dating Conner.”

Silence.

Both older brothers froze like someone had hit pause on reality. Then, almost in sync, they pasted on strained smiles.

“That’s… great!” Dick said, voice an octave too high.

“Super,” Jason muttered, though his eyes were already narrowing.

Tim raised a brow. “You two are ridiculous. I’m seventeen. This isn’t shocking.”

Jason and Dick exchanged a look that screamed when the hell did he grow up?

Recovering fast, Dick blurted, “Okay… but dating? Seriously? At your age?”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. For a month. Calm down.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “A month. A month! And you didn’t think we should… I don’t know… be informed sooner?”

Tim gave him a flat look. “I told you when I was ready. That’s how this works.”

Dick shook his head, flustered. “I can’t even—he’s seventeen! Seventeen! You’re… you’re actually out there with someone!”

Tim blinked, unbothered. “Yes. It’s called dating. Apparently it’s a thing people my age do.”

Dick grabbed his arm. “No, don’t! We need to discuss—no, process! Seriously, you’re too young to be handling all this emotion!”

Tim raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Really? I think I’m handling it just fine.”

Jason had gone suspiciously quiet. Tim glanced at him—and caught the glow of a phone screen.

“Are you… texting Bizarro about how to stop a Kryptonian?” Tim asked.

Jason’s pause was a beat too long. “…No.”

Tim groaned, exasperated. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey,” Jason shot back, “you drop news like that, you can’t expect me not to do a little research.”

Tim let out a breath and looked at them seriously. “Look—I don’t need permission to date. I just wanted to include you guys. To trust you with this part of my life.”

That landed. Both brothers sobered, touched despite themselves.

“Thanks for telling us,” Dick said gently.

Jason gave a sharp nod. “Means a lot, kid.”

Of course, it didn’t last long before they circled back.

“But,” Jason said with mock severity, “if Boy of Steel hurts you—”

“—he’s toast,” Dick finished. 

Tim rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he secretly loved how much they cared.

Jason glanced at Dick. “Look at us—almost passing for decent older brothers.”

Dick smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’m perfect.”

Tim rolled his eyes again, laughing despite himself. “You guys are ridiculous. But… thanks. Really.”

Later, Tim escaped upstairs with his bag, muttering something about homework and actual responsibilities. Jason and Dick were left in the living room, both staring after him like men who had just survived a car crash.

“You know,” Dick said finally, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this old in my life.”

Jason ran a hand over his face. “Kid’s seventeen. Feels like he was thirteen last week.”

From the doorway, Alfred cleared his throat. “Master Richard. Master Jason.”

Both men straightened instinctively.

Alfred arched one brow. “If you are quite finished behaving like hens whose chick has left the nest, I could use assistance setting the table.”

Jason scowled. “We weren’t—”

“You were,” Alfred interrupted smoothly. “Both of you, quite dreadfully. I could hear the clucking from the kitchen.”

Dick flushed, caught. “We’re just… concerned.”

Alfred’s expression softened, though his voice stayed brisk. “As is your right. But if Master Tim has chosen to trust you with his private affairs, then I suggest you honor that trust by not making a spectacle of yourselves.”

Jason muttered, “Didn’t make a spectacle.”

Alfred gave him a long look. “You attempted to text Master Bizarro for tactical advice. I would call that spectacle-adjacent.”

Dick let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at Jason, who groaned and rubbed at the back of his neck.

Alfred, satisfied, turned toward the dining room. “Rest assured, gentlemen—Master Tim is capable of navigating his own choices. What he requires from you is not surveillance or sabotage, but care. You may find the latter far more difficult.”

Jason opened his mouth to respond, but Dick cut in, thoughtful. “He’s right. I… I forget sometimes that being a brother isn’t about managing him or predicting every step. It’s just… showing up. Being steady, reliable.”

Jason gave him a sidelong look. “Wow. Look at you, all serious and broody.”

Dick grinned faintly. “Better than getting it wrong. I want him to know he can count on me, even if I don’t always get it perfect.”

Alfred didn’t miss it. “And,” he added dryly, “if you truly must threaten young Mister Kent, I recommend subtlety. Subtlety, you may recall, is a skill neither of you have mastered.”

With that, he swept away, leaving the brothers in his wake.

Jason shook his head, muttering, “I hate it when he’s right.”

Dick stayed silent for a moment, looking toward the stairs where Tim had disappeared. Then he exhaled, quieter, almost to himself. “Yeah… but he is. Tim doesn’t need us breathing down his neck—he just needs us to be the kind of brothers he can rely on.”

Jason snorted. “Wow. Deep tonight, Dick.”

Dick grinned, not denying it. “Some lessons come from Alfred. Some from watching your little brother grow up too fast.”

Chapter Text

The house was quiet in the late hours, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the grandfather clock down the hall. Alfred preferred it this way — the hour when the manor finally settled and the ghosts could be sorted properly, one by one.

He set his cup of tea aside and turned to the open binder before him — the family’s medical files, neatly labeled and color-coded. A habit born of necessity and, perhaps, worry. Each year, he made a habit of reviewing them: vaccination records, allergies, injuries old and new. Not because he doubted their competence, but because he knew precisely how prone they all were to omitting inconvenient truths. He kept both physical and digital copies — experience had taught him that firewalls could be breached, drives corrupted, and sometimes the only reliable safeguard was paper and ink under lock and key.

Master Richard’s file was a testament to stubborn denial — his lactose allergy mysteriously vanished after his sixteenth birthday, reappearing only after a particularly disastrous encounter with cheesecake. Jason’s file was riddled with redactions, most of them his own doing. Master Damian’s was pristine, of course.

It was when Alfred reached Timothy Drake-Wayne that his hand faltered.

The folder was thin. Far thinner than it ought to have been.

He frowned, flipping through the sparse contents: a vaccination list, half a page of minor illnesses, and a single printed record from a few years back. No ongoing prescriptions. No notations of common allergies, though Alfred faintly recalled an incident involving shrimp and a rash. That, too, was missing.

Then he saw it — an addendum in Tim’s meticulous handwriting, quietly tucked between pages.

Status post splenectomy – see attached.

There was no attachment.

For a long moment, Alfred simply stared at the words. Then he read them again. And again.

His tea went cold beside him.

No spleen. No record. No mention. No warning.

He turned to the next page, searching for context, for anything — a hospital, a date, a physician. Instead, there was a brief medication list scrawled in shorthand, the kind one might keep for self-reference. Antibiotics, immune supplements. Nothing else.

Alfred’s throat tightened. He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled against his lips.

How long had it been this way? How many times had he brewed Tim’s tea, scolded him for working too late, handed him soup after patrol — and not known that the boy’s immune system was fighting with half its defenses?

For all his careful neutrality, for all the distance he had told himself was prudence — he had failed.

He had let a child shoulder the weight of saving his son. Alfred remembered thinking that perhaps—perhaps—this young man could anchor Bruce again, the way no one else could. He should have seen the cruelty of that. He should have seen the child beneath the mission. Instead, he treated Tim less like a grandson and more like a solution. A salve for Bruce’s wounds. And in doing so, he neglected the boy’s own.

And now, staring at this incomplete record, Alfred felt the weight of every missed sign — every empty plate, every fever brushed aside, every quiet apology Tim had offered for simply existing under the same roof.

He had been proud of his composure once. Now, it felt like cowardice.

He closed the file. Sat in silence. And, just for a moment, considered pulling on the old skills he’d buried — the ones MI6 had trained into his bones. He could find answers in minutes. Medical networks, hospital archives, even private records. But that would not fix the wound between them. It would only deepen it.

So instead, Alfred did what he should have done long ago.

He went to the source.

Tim looked up from his laptop when Alfred entered the study. “Hey Alfred. Need something?”

“Yes,” Alfred said mildly, holding up the folder. “I need you.”

Tim blinked. “Uh… what?”

Alfred set the file down on the desk, opening it with practiced care. “I was reviewing medical records. I found a few… omissions.”

Tim froze. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ indeed,” Alfred said gently, though his voice carried an unmistakable edge. “Would you care to explain the missing spleen, Master Tim?”

Tim groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not a big deal, Alfred. It was months ago. I’ve recovered. I’m fine.”

Alfred’s gaze softened, but his tone did not. “You most certainly are not fine. You lost a vital organ mere months ago, your immune system is compromised, and your medication schedule—if this record is to be believed—is erratic at best. And it appears no one, least of all your attending physician, has been keeping adequate documentation.”

Tim shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of Alfred’s calm disapproval. “I’ve been managing. It’s not like it slows me down.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed. “That, I fear, is precisely what worries me, my boy.”

“I can handle it,” Tim said quietly.

“I have no doubt of that,” Alfred replied. “But you should not have had to.”

Tim’s shoulders dropped. “I didn’t tell anyone because… I didn’t want to make it a thing. Everyone already has enough to worry about.”

Alfred drew in a slow breath, then seated himself across from the boy. “My dear boy,” he said softly, “you are not an obligation. Nor an afterthought. And caring for you is never a burden.”

Tim looked down. “I didn’t think— I mean, I know you care. I just…”

Alfred reached across the table, resting a hand atop Tim’s. “You and I both express care through action. Through service. I mend, you plan — both of us thinking it will spare others from worry. But affection, Master Timothy, is not something to be earned by usefulness. It is something freely given.”

Tim’s eyes flicked up to his. “You mean like… you making me snacks when I forget to eat or trying to replace my coffee with tea?”

“Precisely.” Alfred smiled faintly, a teasing warmth in his voice. “And you, for instance, setting up that system to track pantry inventory. You claimed it was to ‘reduce inefficiency.’ I suspect it was to keep me from overworking myself.”

That earned a tiny, reluctant laugh.

Alfred allowed it to linger before continuing, voice gentler now. “Let us see to this together. Your medications, your diet. You have gone far too long managing alone.”

Tim hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But… only if you let me help organize your files after.”

Alfred’s eyes twinkled. “A fair exchange, I think.”

He closed the folder and stood, setting a hand on Tim’s shoulder — steady, reassuring. “Now then. No more secrets, hm?”

Tim smiled faintly. “You first.”

Alfred chuckled. “Touché, my boy. Touché.”

And for the first time in far too long, the quiet between them was comfortable — not born of distance, but of trust.

Later, Alfred was gathering his notes when another question struck him. He paused, looking up from the neat stack of papers.

“Master Timothy,” he said mildly, “where, pray tell, did you have your splenectomy performed? I see no record from any of the local hospitals—or any domestic ones at all.”

Tim froze halfway to the door. “Uh. How did you even check that?”

Alfred adjusted his cuffs, expression unreadable. “One acquires certain skills during one’s formative years. Some habits prove… persistent.”

Tim blinked. “Right. Okay. Well, I—uh—lost it while tracking Bruce a few months ago. It’s probably still in Ra’s hideout somewhere.”

Silence.

Alfred stared at him for a long, measured moment. Then, very quietly, he said, “Oh.”

Tim hesitated. “You good?”

Alfred’s face was perfectly calm, almost serene. “Quite,” he said, in the tone of a man who was absolutely not quite.

Tim frowned, uncertain, but decided against pressing. “Okay, then.” He left the room, muttering something about data syncing.

Alfred waited until the sound of footsteps faded. Then he rose, straightened his vest, and walked directly to the Cave.

Bruce was at the console when he arrived, but even he looked up at the sound of Alfred’s approach.

“Alfred?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said smoothly, hands folded behind his back. “Should you happen to cross paths with any senior member of the al Ghul family in the foreseeable future…” His tone remained calm, clipped, and absolutely lethal. “Do extend to them my deepest regards. And a reminder that I am not, nor have I ever been, bound by your moral code.”

Bruce paused, then slowly said, “Understood.”

Alfred inclined his head, every inch the composed English butler. “Splendid.” He turned on his heel and ascended the stairs, calm as ever.

Chapter Text

Cass met Tim on a Gotham rooftop — one of the few places that ever felt peaceful when she was there. She’d only been back from Hong Kong a week, and in typical Cass fashion, hadn’t announced her return—she just appeared, like she’d never left.

Tim sat cross-legged on the edge of the roof, a thermos of coffee warming his hands. Cass moved through some stretches a few feet away, each motion so precise it almost stilled the air around her. They’d fallen into this rhythm years ago—his quiet thinking, her quiet moving—two kinds of focus that never collided.

Where others might have filled the silence with words or competition, Tim and Cass never had to. He respected her discipline, the way she could speak whole sentences through a shift of weight or a glance. She respected his patience, the way he listened without trying to fix or fight.

After a while, Cass nudged him lightly with her foot, a silent cue that said your turn.

Tim exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You always know when I need to talk.”

Cass tilted her head, the ghost of a grin crossing her face. “Always.”

Cass settled beside him, knees pulled up, arms resting loosely around them. For a while, they watched the city lights flicker across glass and steel.

Tim broke the quiet first. “So… updates from the home front.” His tone was half dry, half fond. “Things are… better. I’ve been working through stuff with everyone. Bruce and I talked—really talked—for the first time in years it feels like. Dick and Jason, we’re… getting there, definitely making progress. They are still disasters, but functional ones. And Alfred’s—” he paused, a small smile breaking through “—Alfred’s terrifying in new and exciting ways.”

Cass’s eyes softened. “Better?”

“Mostly,” Tim said. “One awkward conversation at a time.”

She nodded, accepting that as enough. Cass never pushed for more than he offered.

Silence settled again, light and easy. Then, with the faintest hint of amusement, Cass asked, “Happy?”

Tim blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so. More than before.”

Cass nodded once, as if she’d already known the answer.

Tim hesitated, then said, “You knew, didn’t you? About me and Conner.”

Cass’s lips twitched. “Your body told me.”

Tim groaned. “Please don’t elaborate.”

“Did not need to,” Cass said simply. “Love moves different.”

Tim stared at her, then broke into a helpless grin. “You’re terrifying.”

Cass shrugged, then smiled faintly. “I’m observant. And honest.”

Tim huffed a laugh. “Bruce, Dick, and Jason are still trying to process that I’m capable of romance without a chaperone.”

Cass’s mouth twitched. “They panic?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. I think Alfred aged ten years just watching it happen.”

Cass tilted her head. “Should I threaten him too?”

Tim grinned. “You planning to?”

Her smile sharpened. “No need. I am the threat.”

Tim laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah. Poor Conner.”

The laughter faded into quiet again—comfortable, steady, and real.

Cass studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable but kind. Then, softly: “Fixed?”

Tim smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Not exactly. Some things aren’t supposed to be fixed. Just… managed better.”

Cass hummed in quiet agreement.

“Steph and I—” He hesitated, exhaling through his nose. “That one’s been rough. She avoided me for a while after I found out she was alive. Our first attempt at talking… didn’t go well.”

Cass tilted her head, prompting without words.

“I called her reckless and irresponsible,” Tim said quietly. “She said I didn’t care and that I never believed in her. Which isn’t true, obviously. But it hurt. For both of us.”

Cass considered that, gaze steady. “You both feel deep. It cuts deep.”

“Yeah.” He smiled a little, sad and tired. “I get why she didn’t tell me right away. But she didn’t tell me at all. I just—found out. And I don’t think she realized how much that broke something.”

Cass said nothing for a long moment, then reached out, a gloved hand resting briefly on his shoulder. “She will see. You will try. That is enough.”

Tim nodded. “I hope so.”

Silence settled again, heavier this time but not suffocating. The city below carried on—sirens, laughter, wind.

After a beat, Tim’s voice was softer. “Then there’s Damian.”

Cass made a small noise of understanding.

“I’m not even sure how to start with him,” Tim admitted. “Part of me still gets angry just thinking about it. Then I remember he’s twelve. A former assassin, sure, but still twelve.” He huffed a small, humorless laugh. “Sometimes it feels ridiculous being mad at a kid. But other times… yeah, it still hurts.”

Cass nodded slowly. “He listens more now.”

“I’ve noticed,” Tim said. “He’s trying. We all are, I guess. I think—” he hesitated, frowning slightly “—I’m learning that I was more upset with the adults than with him. Bruce, Dick, everyone. They let it happen. They let me fall through the cracks. Damian’s actions hurt, but… their silence hurt worse.”

Cass didn’t argue. “You see him clearer now.”

“I’m trying to.”

Cass’s mouth curved in a small, approving smile. “That is growing.”

Tim looked at her then, and for a fleeting moment, the edge of the rooftop felt like solid ground.

Chapter Text

Tim hesitated outside Stephanie’s apartment door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Civvies, no mask, no pretense. He’d told himself this was the right call—talking out of costume meant they couldn’t hide behind the mission. It also meant they had to be honest.

The door opened before he could knock again. Stephanie stood there in an oversized Gotham U sweatshirt, hair up, expression wary but not cold.

“Tim.”

“Hey,” he said. “Can we talk? Properly this time. No masks. No rooftop dramatics.”

She studied him for a long beat, then stepped aside. “Sure. Come in before the neighbors decide you’re breaking in.”

He managed a small smile and walked in. The apartment was warm, a little messy, lived in. It suited her.

For a moment, neither said anything. Then Tim exhaled, shifting awkwardly. “I don’t really know where to start. But—” he looked up at her, voice softening “—I’m really glad you’re not dead. I missed you. And I felt… guilty. When you died. Because I wasn’t there.”

Stephanie’s face softened, though her shoulders stayed tense. “I’m happy to see you too, Tim. I missed you.” She swallowed. “But your guilt? It’s… not the story you think it is.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Steph, you died. I—I thought you died because I didn’t—”

“Stop.” Her voice wavered, not sharp this time, just tired. “This is what I mean. You always jump to what you should’ve done. Or what you failed to do. But none of this was about you not saving me.”

Tim’s mouth opened, then shut. He didn’t have a rebuttal ready. That alone was rare.

Stephanie exhaled shakily. “I left because I didn’t know who I was. Or if I deserved the mask. I thought if I got stronger — if I figured myself out — maybe I could come back as someone you’d… respect or fully rely on.” Her eyes flicked up to his. “Someone you wouldn’t have to worry about.”

Tim winced. “Steph, I never—”

“You did,” she said gently. “Not because you thought I was bad at this. Because you cared. Because you were scared.” She hesitated. “But when you’re scared for me, you look at me like I’m already halfway to broken. And I didn’t know how to carry that. Not then.”

Tim closed his eyes, the truth landing harder than any accusation. She wasn’t blaming him. She was explaining herself.

“And I didn’t tell you,” Stephanie continued, voice thickening, “because I thought you’d— I don’t know. Hate me for leaving. Or blame me for making you grieve. Or think I was selfish. And I couldn’t face that. Not from you.”

“Steph,” Tim said softly, pained. “I didn’t want you to think none of it mattered. That you didn’t matter.”

“I know,” she murmured. “And I should’ve trusted that. But I didn’t trust myself. That’s the truth of it.”

They stood there in the quiet weight of everything unsaid, and for the first time since she’d come back, neither of them looked away.

Tim rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit he hadn’t outgrown. “I… don’t know how to start fixing this. Or even where to put the pieces.”

Stephanie huffed a tiny, broken laugh. “Good. Because if you’d come in here with a flowchart, I’d have thrown you off my balcony.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “I just— I’m glad you’re alive. I’m really, really glad you’re alive. And I missed you so much it felt like—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “…Like something was carved out.”

Stephanie’s expression softened, the way it always did when she saw him fight himself. “Tim. Listen to me. Your guilt… it’s not wrong, exactly. It’s just pointed in the wrong direction.”

He blinked. “How… is that supposed to make sense?”

“It wasn’t your job to keep me alive,” she said gently. “And my not telling you wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It was because I didn’t trust me.”

He swallowed. “Then why did it feel like I wasn’t enough to tell?”

She winced but didn’t pull back. “Because I was ashamed. Because I thought if I saw your face, the disappointment would be… louder than anything I could fix. You’ve always known what you’re doing, Tim. I never did. Not really.”

He looked up sharply. “Steph— that’s not true.”

She gave a tiny shrug. “Felt true. And that’s why I hid. Not to hurt you. To avoid hurting myself.”

Tim sat with that. It wasn’t what he’d expected — and somehow, that made it hurt less.

After a long moment, he said, “Okay. Then… we’re clearly terrible at this. How do we talk about any of it without misfiring every five seconds?”

Stephanie groaned dramatically. “We get Cass to interpret.”

Tim snorted. “She would knock us both out before we finished our first sentence.”

“Exactly. And her stare, Tim. I can’t emotionally survive that today.”

They both cracked — small, real laughs that eased something tight in the room.

“Alright,” Steph said, wiping her eyes even though she wasn’t crying. “Let’s start positive. We both missed each other. We both want the friendship to work. Right?”

“Definitely,” Tim said without hesitation.

“Great. Now the hard part.”

Tim nodded. “I understand — or I think I understand — why you didn’t tell me. Everyone has things they need to face alone. I can’t fault you for that.” He inhaled. “But I can… be hurt.”

“You can,” she said softly. “And… you should know I’m sorry. Yelling at you before? Saying you didn’t care? That wasn’t fair.”

Tim nodded once. “Thanks. And I’m sorry too. For all the times I tried to protect you instead of trusting you. I didn’t see how it came off.”

She smiled sadly. “I know you meant well. But sometimes ‘meant well’ feels like ‘doesn’t believe in me.’”

“I get that now,” he said quietly. “I didn’t then.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then nudged his foot with hers. “Progress.”

Tim almost relaxed. Almost. Then Steph asked, hesitantly, “Did it… really mess you up? When I died?”

Tim’s breath caught. He stared at the floor. “I didn’t know how to grieve you. Or Kon. Or my dad. Or Bruce. Everything was… falling apart. And I kept thinking it was my fault for not being enough for any of you.” He cleared his throat. “I’m starting to see that’s not true.”

Steph exhaled slowly.

“And during the search for Bruce,” Tim added quietly, “I kept thinking— you would’ve been there. Right behind me. No questions asked.”

Her eyes softened painfully.

“When you came back and didn’t… I guess I blamed you a little. For not being there when everything else felt like it was gone.”

They fell silent, sitting in the heavy truth — but this time, neither looked away.

Then Stephanie lifted her head. “Okay. That is officially too much emotional processing for one night.” She clapped her hands together. “Pizza?”

Tim let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. Pizza.”

“And weekly check-ins,” she added firmly. “Like you and Dick. Only with fewer crying hugs and more carbs.”

“Deal.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, finally comfortable. “I’m dating Conner, by the way.”

Steph raised an eyebrow. “Ahhh, that’s why we didn’t work.”

Tim blinked at her. “What?”

She grinned. “Conner will follow you to the ends of the earth and through any absolutely deranged plan you cook up. Me? I’d not last ten minutes before telling you it’s stupid and then dragging you home.”

Tim opened his mouth — then closed it, laughing. “Yeah… that tracks.”

She nudged his knee. “We’re good, Tim. Or we will be. That’s the point.”

Tim nodded, the tension finally loosening from his shoulders. “Yeah. We will be.”

Chapter Text

Damian stood rigid in the training room doorway, posture too formal for someone who claimed not to be nervous.

Tim noticed. He always did.

“You don’t usually hover,” Tim said, finishing the wrap around his wrist. “So whatever this is, you can just say it.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I have come to apologize.”

Tim paused. Not surprised — but not ready either.

“For what,” Tim asked calmly, “specifically?”

Damian stiffened. “For attempting to kill you.”

“Good start,” Tim said. “Keep going.”

Damian scowled. “You are making this deliberately uncomfortable.”

“Yes,” Tim replied. “Because this isn’t a formality.”

That landed.

Damian exhaled sharply. “I perceived you as an obstacle. I acted accordingly.”

“And?” Tim prompted.

“And I was wrong,” Damian said, clipped. “You were not a threat.”

Tim tilted his head. “That’s part of it. But it’s not the part that hurt.”

Damian looked at him, genuinely confused.

“What hurt,” Tim said, choosing his words carefully, “was that no one stopped you. Not really. They corrected you after the fact, explained it away, let it keep happening.” He met Damian’s eyes. “That told me something.”

Damian’s voice dropped. “That I was allowed to harm you.”

“That you were a kid who didn’t know better,” Tim said, firm but not unkind. “And the adults let you carry that instead of helping you unlearn it.”

Damian bristled. “I am not—”

“A child?” Tim interrupted gently. “You are. And that’s not an insult.”

Damian went very still.

“You were raised to believe mistakes are a weakness,” Tim continued. “Which can only be corrected with punishment. But that’s not how this family is supposed to work.”

Damian’s fists clenched. “Then what am I meant to do?”

“Learn,” Tim said. “Repair. And yeah — apologize. But not like you’re submitting to judgment.”

Damian frowned. “Then how?”

Tim took a breath. This was the hard part.

“You don’t get a clean slate,” Tim said honestly. “What you did mattered. It hurt. I don’t just forget it.”

Damian flinched.

“But I’m not holding it over your head either,” Tim added. “Because you were trying to survive with the tools you were given.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I do not know how to mend this,” Damian admitted, frustration bleeding through. “If there is no punishment, then what balances the scale?”

Tim gave a small, tired smile. “There isn’t a scale.”

Damian stared at him. “That makes no sense.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “It didn’t to me either, at first.”

He gestured between them. “Repair looks like consistency. You don’t threaten me. You don’t test me. You talk. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Damian scoffed. “Talking is inefficient.”

“Hurting people is more inefficient,” Tim replied. “Trust me. I’ve done the math.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Damian’s mouth.

“And if I fail?” Damian asked quietly.

“Then you own it,” Tim said. “You say ‘I messed up.’ You don’t spiral or double down. And we try again.”

Damian’s voice tightened. “You make this sound… allowed.”

“It is,” Tim said. “You’re allowed to be a kid who’s learning.”

Damian looked away.

“I was trying to prove I belonged,” he said finally. “And you were already accepted.”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t feel accepted. Not really.” He exhaled, slow. “For a long time, I thought I was disposable. Replaceable. And when you came in and everyone… let it happen—” His mouth tightened. “That kind of confirmed it.”

Damian went still.

Tim continued, quieter now. “From the outside, it probably looked like belonging. Like I had it figured out.”

He paused. “But I stayed because I kept choosing people over myself. And most of the time, that meant pretending I was fine—as long as I was useful.”

He met Damian’s eyes. No accusation. Just honesty.

Damian didn’t answer right away.

His jaw tightened, then loosened. He looked down at his hands, at the familiar scars there—proof of effort, of worth earned the only way he’d ever been taught.

“Mother taught me that usefulness was survival,” Damian said finally. His voice was steady, but not hard. “That love followed competency.” A pause. “I believed that if I removed competition—if I pushed you out—it would prove I belonged.”

The words settled between them, heavy and unadorned. Damian did not defend them. He did not excuse them. He simply let them exist.

Inside, something shifted—uncomfortable, slow, and irreversible.

He had assumed Tim’s place in the family was proof of certainty. Stability. Acceptance. He had never considered that staying could be its own kind of cost—that choosing others over oneself might look like strength from the outside, while eroding someone quietly from within.

They had both been measuring worth the same way. They had just learned it from different hands.

Damian had fought to be indispensable. Tim had endured to avoid being expendable.

And only now did Damian understand that neither path had ever been safe.

The realization did not absolve him.

But it did give him something new to build from.

Damian sat with that for a moment, letting the unfamiliar weight of it settle. This was not absolution. Not forgiveness granted cleanly and without cost. It was something harder—being seen, and still expected to do better.

He lifted his gaze at last, searching Tim’s face with careful intent. “You will not hold this against me.”

Tim didn’t answer immediately. He picked at the new wrappings. 

“I won’t forget,” Tim said finally. “But I won’t weaponize it.”

Something in Damian’s posture loosened—not relief, exactly, but the absence of bracing for a blow that never came.

He turned away, signaling the end with practiced sharpness. “This conversation is over.”

“Sure,” Tim said easily. “But it still counts.”

Damian paused at the door. Just a fraction of a second. Then he left without another word.

Tim watched him go. 

Time didn’t erase damage—but it did give you room to mend, if you kept showing up.