Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim was five when he noticed the first one.
It followed his parents inside after they returned from their latest dig in Egypt, hovering near one of the sealed boxes they'd lugged home.
It wasn't human — not like the others he would meet. This one was a cat.

Sleek black fur, well-groomed despite the long journey. Bandages trailed behind it like ancient ribbons, fraying at the edges. Bits of gold jewelry clung to its neck and legs — strange, glittering relics it wore as casually as fur.

Tim decided that was a strange thing to bring home. A cat. Especially one dressed like it had walked out of a tomb.
Nothing could live that long... right?
And Jack and Janet — his parents — hadn’t even seen it. They hadn't flinched when it brushed past them or darted ahead.
Then it jumped onto the table. The one with the priceless vase.

Tim’s breath caught. He almost ran to stop it.
But the cat didn’t knock anything over.
It fell right through it.

No sound. No shatter. No weight.

The cat couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t touch anything.

Why?

He turned to ask his parents — but they were already gone, swallowed by the maze of their house.

So Tim stayed. He watched.

The cat drifted around the room like the laws of physics were optional. Eventually, the boxes were unpacked, and he found something — a thick gold necklace, heavy with red and blue inlaid tiles.
The same one the cat wore.
That’s when he figured it out.
A ghost. A spirit. A remnant. Call it what you want — something ancient had hitched a ride home.
The cat was dead.

And Tim could see it.

Soon, it saw him too.

Luckily, the little black cat liked him.
So he did what any five-year-old would do — he researched. Library books. Old documentaries. Stolen pages from his parents’ notes. He learned about the cats of Ancient Egypt, about how they were loved and feared and worshipped.
He read about Bastet. A goddess. A protector. A cat.
So he gave the name to this strange companion.
Bastet.
He didn’t worry about gender — not with ghosts. The cat didn’t mind, anyway. It curled up on the foot of his bed that night like it had always belonged there.

That was the beginning.

Bastet was a constant in the otherwise silent house.
Before it had arrived, the silence had been heavy — not just quiet, but empty. Tim had always been surrounded by artifacts and books and the occasional distracted “Mm-hm” from his parents the few times they were home, but none of it ever really filled the space. Not until Bastet.

It followed him like a shadow stitched to his heels. Quiet. Careful. Present.

During the day, it drifted from room to room, trailing those thin, tattered bandages across the floor. Sometimes it perched in high places — the top of a bookshelf, the back of a chair, the windowsill — places no living cat could reach without knocking something over. But Bastet made no sound. Never broke a thing.

At night, it slept curled at the foot of his bed, or near his pillow, or just outside his door, like it was keeping watch. Maybe it was.

Once, when thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows and Tim bolted upright in bed, Bastet was already beside him. Not jumping in fear — just sitting there. Watching him. Letting him know it was there.

He’d never really had someone just be there before.

It didn’t talk, didn’t meow. He didn’t think ghosts could make sounds like that. But it didn’t need to. It blinked slowly when he was sad. Tapped its paw once against his hand when he seemed lost in his own thoughts too long. Brought him the occasional ghost beetle — an empty exoskeleton that crunched like leaves, if it even crunched at all. He had no idea as to where they could come from, his parents were never ones to display bugs in frames on the walls.

He tried once to give it a name tag. Cut it out of cardboard with a string and looped it through where its necklace had been in life. It sat very still while he did it. Then, when he was finished, it gave him a single, deliberate blink — regal. Pleased. It stayed on for three days before it faded away into nothing, like all things that didn’t belong to its past.

The house was still big, and lonely, and full of corners Tim didn’t like to look into. But Bastet made it feel less haunted. Or maybe it just made the haunting feel... safer.

It was the first ghost. The first piece of history that looked back.

And Tim, still only a kid, never once questioned whether he should be afraid.

He wasn't.

Because Bastet saw him.

And in its quiet, otherworldly way, it chose to stay.

Chapter Text

Over the years, the house gained more guests like Bastet. People. People from across the world. Hundreds of different cultures. And suddenly the house wasn't so empty anymore. Tim wasn't so alone. And these people came and went, some managing to move on and he was happy for them, but others stayed.

The first person he met confused him in the beginning.

They were so very different from him. But not in a bad way, Tim could never say that. They were interesting to say the least. And he couldn't understand them at first either. Not until he got a better handle on his ability that is, and it was his ability, because he couldn't think of anything better to call it. He didn't want to say power because that made him sound like he was some kind of superhero. He was not. There was no better word for it. Not one that a six-year-old could come up with.

It had been a bit more than a year since he met Bastet, since something was brought home with his parents that housed something other. He almost thought it was a fluke, that Bastet was a hallucination caused by his intense longing for company in his massive house.

But there they were. Or rather, there he was.

A person.

The first of many to come.

And one of the first able to move on, with Tim's help of course. His name was Malo, and Tim could not understand a word he said. As it turned out, Malo was French and was attached to a tapestry that Jack and Janet had gotten at an art auction during a visit to France. The piece was beautiful, intricately woven and depicting children playing with cherubs in a forest.

Tim was rather surprised when this man had waltzed in behind his parents, ranting about something in a language he wasn't able to understand. Now that wouldn't have been overly surprising, his parents' assistant spoke other languages, although she was a woman, but maybe she was fired... ("A weak excuse", Tim thought) But then the man had walked through a wall in his distraction. And that cemented it for Tim, this man was like Bastet, and just like Bastet, he couldn't understand him.
At first, he debated trying to learn French by himself, it would be hard but he was sure he could figure it out. However, a few days later, something strange happened. He was sat just listening to Malo rant, as he had not stopped once during this whole ordeal, when he felt a tug somewhere in his centre and for a brief moment, Malo was speaking English.

This… was not something Tim had expected to happen. He was learning French specifically so he could speak to Malo! His parents were happy with him because then they had something new to brag about, their six year old son, already learning a new language. It's the only reason they agreed to help him in the slightest. But now that Malo could speak English, was there even any point?

And finally, Tim spoke back to him.

“You can speak English?” Tim asks, and Malo freezes. It's like he finally noticed Tim was there, like he'd never seen him before.

“A child? What is this child doing here?” Malo looks incredibly confused. And then the feeling is gone. And Malo is speaking in rapid French again. This man, with his long blonde hair and period appropriate attire (or at least Tim assumed it was period appropriate, he didn't know what time Malo actually lived in), looked… concerned. He was looking at him in the way Tim thought a worried parent would look at a lost child.

Tim bites his lip nervously then says.
“You're not the first ghost I've met…”

And Malo pauses. “No?” He asks.

Then Tim continues, “Yeah, it was a cat… Bastet.. it's around here somewhere..”

“Un… chat? Fantôme?” Malo asked, confused.

“Yes. A spectral feline. I tried to pet it once but my hand went straight through.. Bastet was not overly happy..” Tim states, matter-of-factly.

Half smiling and struggling over his words Malo responds “Un… chat mort. A dead cat, oui? Très étrange.”

Tim tilts his head slightly, curiosity leaking into his tone as he speaks slowly. “Not strange. Statistical probability says if people can be ghosts, then animals can too. I just haven’t tested insects yet. Bastet has brought me beetles before but I'm unsure as to if they came with it or if it found them somewhere.”

Malo blinks in surprise then chuckles softly. “Mon dieu… you speak like a scholar, but you are… si petit.”

Tim shrugs. “Brains don’t measure the same as height. Why are you French? That’s inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient… oui. For me also.” Malo smiles wryly.

It takes about a week of Tim's nerves and Malo's inability to speak much English before one of them caves. Malo is talking in French again and Tim can't understand anything he's saying, catching English words every so often but nothing more. Tim finally interrupts Malo's tirade by saying, “Maybe.. this doesn't have to be so difficult.. If you're going to stick around for a while, haunt me I suppose, why don't you help me learn French? I'm already teaching myself, but I could be better with your help. Then I'll be able to understand you probably, and talk to you whenever I like!”

Malo pauses, arching a brow, intrigued. “Teach… you? Le français?”

“Yes. French. Words. Grammar. All of it. I already know English, Latin roots, and I was working on German before Bastet showed up. My parents wanted me to learn. I'm pretty good now if I do say so myself.” Tim says with pride, as though it were obvious what he's asking.

Malo lets out a surprised laugh. “At six years? Incroyable.”

“Knowledge doesn’t wait for birthdays. So—start. What’s the French word for ‘ghost’?” Tim smiles, excited.

Malo places his hand on his chest and enunciates slowly. “Fantôme.”

“Fan… tom.” He repeats slowly. “Okay. Good.” He nods. “What's next?”

Chapter Text

Tim’s sketchbook was already half full. Its spine bent like it was tired from being pulled out too many times. The first pages were awful. Stick figures. Wobbly ovals that were supposed to be heads. A cat that looked more like a potato with ears. But he didn’t rip them out. He couldn’t. That would ruin the data. The mistakes showed where he began, and beginnings were as important as endings.

It all started with Bastet.

Bastet was a ghost, but one day it might not be here anymore. Ghosts didn’t stay, at least not always. Tim had read about memory decay — how the brain could lose details, like a sponge leaking water the longer you held it. He didn’t want Bastet to leak out of his brain. He didn’t want to wake up one morning and forget the angle of its tail when it sat, or the way its eyes glowed like lanterns when it looked at him.

So he drew.

At first, the drawing was only a stick cat with crooked legs. He hated it. It looked nothing like Bastet. So he tried again, this time making the lines thicker, the tail curvier. Then he realized he was doing the wrong method. Practice wasn’t enough — he needed research. Research was what he was best at. So he stole hours on YouTube, Pinterest, and anywhere else that showed how hands or animals or shadows were supposed to look.

It was very inefficient at first. But eventually, the lines stopped wobbling. His cats started to look like cats. Bastet started to look like Bastet. Each page got a little closer to the truth. By now, he could flip through and see Bastet becoming sharper, more real, like he was giving the ghost a second body, one that couldn’t disappear if it left him one day.

Drawing was exhausting, but it worked. He had proof now. Bastet was here. Bastet mattered.

And he would never forget.

————————————————————————————————

The first time Malo suggested tapestries, Tim thought it was strange.

“I can barely draw a cat,” he said, in French, which now came out like air, smooth and easy. He didn’t have to think about it. Malo had been patient, teaching him words, correcting him quietly, and soon the sounds just existed in his mouth.

Malo didn’t laugh. He only pulled a bundle of cloth and thread from a high shelf, smooth and worn like it had been used for hundreds of stories. “Drawing is only the beginning,” Malo said. “Tapestry is memory you can touch. It lasts longer. You can carry it.”

Tim looked at the threads. They were tiny, fragile, confusing. “I might break them,” he said.

Malo shook his head. “Yes. You might. But you will learn how not to.”

The first stitches were terrible. Threads tangled. Cloth puckered. Tim’s fingers hurt, and he almost yelled. “I hate this!” he shouted.

Malo only smiled softly. “I once knew someone who made tapestries too,” he said. “A brother, a friend… someone very important to me. It was a long time ago. They left, moved on, and I still miss them. But I remember. Their work, their hands, everything. That is why I teach you — so you can remember too, Tim. And maybe, one day, pass it on.”

Tim stopped yelling. He didn’t know why, but he felt small and serious all at once. He had never thought about ghosts passing knowledge. He had thought about someone leaving and leaving a hole that never went away, but he didn't like to think about it.

Malo guided his hand through a knot. “See? It is supposed to feel hard at first. You are learning.”

Tim’s fingers ached, but slowly, the cloth started to listen. Shapes appeared. A curved line like Bastet’s tail. A shadow that reminded him of the quiet, warm weight of someone who had loved him from afar. Each stitch became more than thread. It became proof. Proof that he could remember, proof that he could keep things alive.

Sometimes Malo hummed as Tim worked. He didn’t know the words. Maybe they were songs from before Tim existed. Maybe they were songs for ghosts. Tim didn’t care. He wove and stitched until his fingers burned, and he felt like something invisible was threading itself into his heart, too — a cord between him and Malo, between him and the person Malo had lost, between him and Bastet.

By the end of the night, Tim realized something important: Malo wasn’t just teaching him a skill. He was teaching him how to hold onto people. How to make them last.

And Tim wanted to be very, very good at that.

————————————————————————————————

Tim didn’t even notice when he started speaking French without thinking.

It happened one evening at the table, while he was sorting threads for his tapestry. Malo asked him a question in French — something about whether he’d finished a section — and Tim answered instantly. No pause, no fumbling, no translating in his head. The words were just there, ready to use, like puzzle pieces he had always known how to fit.

Malo’s eyes softened. “Tu es fluent, petit,” he said.

Tim blinked. He didn’t even know he was fluent. He had thought he was just repeating words. But now… it felt like he belonged somewhere he hadn’t realized existed.

“You sound like me now,” Malo said quietly, almost to himself. “No one would know it isn’t your first language.”

Tim wanted to feel proud, but there was a weird hollow feeling in his chest. Something heavy and warm at the same time. He knew Malo had been waiting for this — not just for him to learn French, but for him to grow. And that made him happy and scared all at once.

He kept talking, naming threads, asking questions about patterns, correcting Malo’s small mistakes without even realizing it. He didn’t notice the way Malo’s hand lingered on his shoulder sometimes, the way his smile carried a little sadness.

“You are clever,” Malo said one evening, after Tim corrected the shading on a tiny cat in the tapestry. “Clever, yes… but clever is not enough to hold memory. You must also care.”

Tim frowned. “I do care. I want Bastet to stay. And you.”

Malo didn’t answer right away. He only hummed the same quiet tune he always did, the one that felt older than the room, older than Tim himself. Tim thought about the brother or friend Malo had lost. Maybe Malo missed them like he wanted Bastet to stay. Maybe that was why he taught Tim so patiently.

Tim’s mind was spinning, but he kept weaving. Words came easier in French now than English, his thoughts quicker, sharper. He could name everything in the room — the threads, the shadows, even the memories — and still feel like he had only begun to understand.

And still, there was that quiet ache. Every word, every stitch, every glance from Malo reminded him that some people — some ghosts — left. And when they are, you could only hold them in your hands, in your mind, and in what you made.

Tim didn’t like that part.

But he kept working anyway.

————————————————————————————————

The more Tim learned, the more Malo let him do on his own. Not just stitches, but patterns, hidden knots, ways to make the threads curve so shadows looked real. Malo explained small tricks, the ones he had learned from that person he missed so much — his brother, friend, or someone more, long gone — who had taught him the same things. Tim listened, absorbed every word, repeating it in his head like a spell.

“Everything you make,” Malo said one night, guiding Tim’s hand over the cloth, “is part of memory. Even the mistakes. Even the knots you don’t like. Nothing disappears. That is what makes it strong.”

Tim frowned. He had never thought about mistakes like that. He wanted them gone. But the way Malo said it… it felt bigger than just fabric.

Sometimes Tim caught Malo looking at him in the quiet moments. Not correcting, not saying anything — just looking. The look was warm, proud, but also… sad. Like he was remembering someone he could never hug again. Tim’s stomach felt funny, tight and heavy at the same time.

One evening, after putting away the threads, Malo rested a hand lightly on Tim’s shoulder. “You will carry this forward, oui? Even when I am not here to remind you.”

Tim froze. A spool of thread rolled off the table, bouncing against his foot. He crouched to grab it, trying not to look at Malo. “Why wouldn’t you be here?” he asked, trying to sound normal, but his voice wobbled.

Malo didn’t answer right away. When Tim looked up, Malo was smiling — soft, quiet, a little like the sun after rain. But it was a smile that hurt. “Nothing stays forever, Tim. You know that better than most.”

Tim shoved the spool back into the box and muttered something about finishing the tapestry tomorrow. He didn’t look at Malo.

That night, lying in bed, Tim stared at the ceiling, shadows moving with the streetlight outside. His sketchbook was under his pillow, the tapestry frame leaning against the wall, Bastet at his feet. He touched the cover of the book, the rough fabric, and whispered Bastet’s name into the dark.

He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready.

But he could feel it coming anyway.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few weeks since that day. The day Malo decided he was ready to move on and Tim was upset. Understandably so. Malo wasn’t actually gone yet, but Tim was allowed to be upset at him!

The house felt strange now — like someone had turned the warmth down just a little. Malo still drifted through the rooms, patient and kind, but quieter than before. Bastet spent most of its time perched near the window, tail flicking like the pendulum of a clock Tim didn’t want to see reach the hour.

There’s a soft thudding and a door slamming from below him. Tim’s parents are home. He straightens up, brushing the dust from his trousers, and makes his way downstairs. He walks carefully — slowly, deliberately, in the way he imagines a very polite young man might walk — so as not to gain their ire.

“Timothy?”

“Yes, Mother.”

His mother doesn’t look up from the phone pressed to her ear. His father is already crossing the foyer, hauling a crate stamped with the Drake seal. Another expedition’s spoils. Tim keeps away from both them and the box.

“Unpack this Timothy. Your mother and I need to rest. Be careful, even a simple piece of parchment from this box is worth more than you.” Jack bites out.

Tim nods and Jack and Janet disappear round a corner.

He pries open the crate just enough to see inside. Wrapped in linen and straw are dozens of artifacts: bronze tools, shards of painted pottery, something that looks like a comb made for a queen. But what catches his eye is a tiny glimmer — a bead, cracked in half but still shining faintly under the lamp.

Unloved and unnoticed.

Like him.

He reaches for it. The air hums.

“Oh,” says a voice behind him — smooth, low, threaded with confusion. “Where am I?”

Tim jumps, nearly drops the bead, then squints into the dim. A figure stands there, translucent and shimmering like heat over desert sand. She’s dressed in white linen, pleated and folded like water. Gold beads gleam in her hair — except for one missing near her temple.

You’re… not supposed to be here,” Tim says automatically, because that’s what you’re meant to tell burglars or spirits.

“Neither are you, little one.”

Her name, she explains later, is Tiya, Khekeret-nisut (Lady-in-waiting) to the Great Wife of Pharaoh Amenhotep. Or at least she was — until the day she died and part of her necklace was lost to time. The bead, she says, was a gift from her mistress, meant to bring beauty and protection. She’s been following it ever since, like a thread through centuries.

“So you’re sort of… historically attached,” he says.

“I am loyal.”

“To the bead?”

“To the memory of who gave it.”

That answer sits heavy in his chest.

Malo appears at the door sometime during the conversation, arms crossed, expression soft with something between amusement and sorrow.

“You attract spirits like dust, mon petit,” he murmurs.

“I didn’t mean to!” Tim says. “She’s just— she was in the box.”

“And now she is in the house,” Malo says simply.

Bastet slinks into view, tail flicking once before it hops onto the table beside the bead. Tiya gasps.

“The goddess’ cat!”

“It’s not really a cat,” Tim whispers. “It’s just Bastet. It doesn’t talk.”

“It listens,” Malo adds.

Over the next few days, Tim learns that Tiya is both regal and restless. She insists on teaching him proper posture, proper speech, proper gratitude toward the dead. She calls him little prince when he behaves, small barbarian when he doesn’t.

He loves every minute of it.

At breakfast, he practices her language, stumbling over the sounds until she laughs — a sound like tiny bells.

At night, he draws her as best he can: the drape of her dress, the careful tilt of her head, the missing bead that still glows faintly in his palm.

Malo watches from the doorway, half-smiling.

“She reminds me of someone,” he says one evening. “He used to weave tapestries, long ago. He was clumsy with words but precise with thread. We built things together — beauty, silence, memory.”

“You miss him,” Tim says.

“Oui. Every day.”

“You could tell her about him.”

“Non. Some stories are for the living to remember.”

Tiya hums softly, arranging invisible linens on the shelf. “Then we will remember him together,” she says, and Malo’s silence is his gratitude.

By the end of the week, Tim’s sketchbook holds page after page of her: the lines of her collar, the faint shimmer of gold he can’t quite capture with pencils. He presses the cracked bead between two sheets and ties it shut with string — a promise, he tells himself, that she won’t be forgotten.

That night, Tiya appears beside his bed. Her voice is softer now, less like a queen’s servant and more like someone tired from carrying too many centuries.

“You make memory with your hands,” she says. “That is sacred work.”

“That’s what Malo said about his tapestries.”

“Then he understands.”

She brushes the air above his hair — not quite a touch, but close enough that he feels it.

“Sleep, little prince. I will guard the bead.”

And when he drifts off, Bastet curls beside the closed sketchbook, its golden eyes half-open — watching, listening, remembering.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a month since Tiya’s arrival.
By then, Tim had grown used to hearing two kinds of silence in the house — the dead kind, which hummed faintly with voices only he could hear, and the living kind, which stretched across empty rooms like dust sheets.

His parents had left again. Some museum project, some dig, some “important work” that always seemed to matter more than him.
They’d be gone for weeks, maybe months.

Breakfast that morning was just toast and jam — burned toast, because he couldn’t reach the settings properly.

“You mustn’t eat ashes, little prince,” Tiya said gently from across the table.

“It’s not ashes, it’s carbonized carbohydrates.”

“It is still ashes.”

He grinned in spite of himself, scraping the black off with a knife.

She watched him with that same careful gaze she always had — regal and maternal and heartbreakingly untouchable. She couldn’t move the knife, couldn’t butter the toast, couldn’t even pat his head when he got it right. But she could talk him through it.

“Patience,” she said. “That is the first rule of care. Everything burns when you rush.”

Tiya had made it her mission to teach him how to care for himself — the kind of care she used to offer to others in life.

Each morning, she stood in the kitchen’s doorway like a general commanding a very small army of one.

“First, you prepare the space,” she said. “Clean table, clear mind.”
“Then, you gather what you need.”
“And then you whisper thanks. To the hands, to the water, to the food.”

Tim obeyed, reciting her steps like a spell.

It wasn’t about actual cooking — the toaster, the microwave, the stove were all forbidden territory for her. But her voice filled in the gaps, shaping the routine into something almost like being taken care of.

He started keeping a notebook labeled “Tiya’s Instructions.”
One: Do not run with knives.
Two: Never let the pot boil over, even if it takes longer.
Three: Talk kindly to yourself, even when you fail.

“You’re like… my manual,” Tim said once, smiling shyly.

“I am not a manual,” she said with gentle offense. “I am a lady of the inner court.”

“You’re my inner court, then.”

That made her laugh — soft and surprised, like she hadn’t expected to remember how.

Sometimes, Tim tried to remember the last time his mother had made him breakfast. He couldn’t.
Janet had been a blur of phone calls, lipstick, and flight schedules for as long as he could recall. His father, Jack, was quieter — the kind of presence that filled a room only when you’d rather he didn’t.

They weren’t cruel, just absent.
And absence, Tim was learning, hurt in a very specific way — the kind that left you hungry even when you’d eaten.

Tiya noticed.

“You look for her each morning,” she said one day. “And each morning you pretend you’re not.”

“She’s busy,” he said automatically. “She’s an archeologist...”

“You are a scientist.”

“Yeah, but— she’s important.”

“And you are not?”

He didn’t answer. He focused on cutting his apple into perfectly even slices.

“When I lived,” she said softly, “there was a boy in the palace. His mother was gone often too. I taught him to braid his hair so he would not need to wait for her.”

“Did she come back?”

“Sometimes.”

“Mine will too.”

The words were confident. The pause after wasn’t.

When the loneliness got too thick, Tim showed Tiya pieces of his world — the computer, the phone, the small TV in his room.

She was fascinated.
And infuriated.

“You tell me this glowing square holds all knowledge?”

“Yep.”

“And yet it shows you… dancing cats?”

“Mostly, yeah.”

He giggled when she scolded the internet like it was a lazy scribe.

He taught her about microwaves, light switches, airplanes, and chocolate bars.
She told him about incense, sun gods, and how to fold linen without creasing it.

When he asked what she missed most, she said,

“Touch. To hold a child’s hand. To braid her hair. To know when she was tired by the way she leaned into me.”

She paused then, looking at him — the boy who leaned toward voices instead of people.

“You should not have to grow up without arms around you,” she whispered.

He didn’t know what to say, so he just said,

“You’re here, though.”

“For now,” she said. “For as long as you remember me.”

That night, when he climbed into bed, the house was very quiet again.
He could hear Bastet’s faint purring under the window and Malo humming somewhere distant — a song that was almost ready to fade.

He rolled onto his side and whispered into the dim,

“Goodnight, Tiya.”

From across the room came her gentle voice,

“Goodnight, little prince. You have eaten. You are safe. You are loved.”

The lamp flickered once — a soft, golden blink.

Tim smiled, eyes heavy, and murmured back,

“You’re loved too.”

And for a heartbeat — just a heartbeat — the air beside him felt warm.

Chapter Text

The manor filled with ghosts. Slowly and over time. They came and they went. Stagnant but so full of life. He captured every one of them as they were, beautiful in life, beautiful in death. His friends, his family. Those who cared and whom he cared for. They taught him things he should have been taught by his own parents. How to cook, how to clean, how to take care of himself and those around him, how to be ‘man of the house’ or the perfect heir, a perfect mask. How to be himself, perfect as he is. And throughout all of that, though many moved on, the most important ones stayed. Bastet, Tiya, Malo, and… someone new.

Tim was seven now, seven years old. And there was a little girl and a little boy holding hands in the entryway. About the same age as him. They looked clean, but dirty in a way that was expected of a child.

His parents hadn't even called for him this time. He'd heard the slam of the door, but by the time he got down the car was gone again. Probably to a party or gala of some sort. One they don't need their son for. One so important they didn't even stop to say hello to him. Not a goodbye, good morning, goodnight, or how are you. Or maybe it wasn't important at all. They just didn't want to see him. Or maybe they forgot he was even there at all.

The children were twins, Alys and Rhys. Twins from Aberfan, Wales who had died in 1966. They were only seven years old.

They didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, fingers laced together so tightly it was like they were holding each other to this world by sheer will. Their eyes were startlingly blue — the kind of blue that didn’t belong to the living — and when they blinked, Tim could almost hear the faint rush of earth shifting, heavy and soft.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Tim said quietly.

It wasn’t an accusation. Just surprise. But the girl smiled — a small, crooked thing, brave and trembling all at once.

“Neither are you,” she said.

“I’m alive,” Tim replied, defensively.

“So were we,” Rhys said.

That silenced him.

He didn’t ask right away how they died; he didn’t have to. He could feel it — the weight, the stillness, the quiet ache of something that had ended too soon. The house seemed to know, too. The air grew heavier, the light through the windows dull and grey like a raincloud.

But the twins weren’t sad ghosts. Not really. They were children. Curious, bright, and full of questions that burst out one after another like bubbles.

“Do you live here all by yourself?”
“Where’s your mam?”
“Why is that cat glowing?”
“Is that lady wearing bedsheets?”

Tiya appeared at that, offended but dignified.

“This ‘lady’ is the spirit of the inner court of Pharaoh Amenhotep.”

Alys giggled. “That’s a funny word.”

“Pharaoh?”

“No. Amenhotep. It sounds like a sneeze.”

Even Tiya couldn’t quite hide her smile at that.

They brought life into the manor in a way that surprised everyone — even the ghosts. Alys and Rhys darted through rooms like whispers of laughter, tugging at curtains, hiding under tables they couldn’t actually touch, trying to spook Tim and failing spectacularly.

Malo called them les esprits farceurs — mischief spirits. Bastet tolerated them, though its tail twitched whenever they passed through it.

Tim liked them immediately. It was strange, having someone his own age, even if they were dead. It made him feel less like a misplaced adult and more like a kid again. They played make-believe, shared stories, and invented ghost games: “Haunt the Hallway,” “Guess Who’s Dead,” and “Phantom Tag,” which mostly involved Tim running through the manor while the twins phased through walls to cheat.

Sometimes, though, they’d grow quiet — at odd moments, like when the rain fell too hard or when a truck passed outside with a low rumble.

“It sounds like the mountain,” Rhys said once, voice small.

“The one that fell?” Tim asked softly.

“Aye. It was black. Like coal and rain and thunder, all mixed together.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No,” Alys said. “It was quick. But it was dark for a long time.”

Tim didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t. He just sat with them in the silence, which felt like respect — not the kind adults give to graves, but the kind one child gives another who remembers something terrible.

Days turned into weeks, and the twins made themselves at home. Tiya adored them, mothering them almost as fiercely as she did Tim. Malo taught them Welsh words he’d picked up centuries ago — badly, but with enthusiasm. Bastet even let Alys pretend to “pet” it, though her hand passed right through.

And Tim… he felt something he hadn’t in a long time.

Belonging.

He wasn’t the only one anymore. The manor wasn’t just full of ghosts — it was full of friends.

They didn’t care that he was too quiet or too grown-up for his age. They didn’t mind that his parents forgot him. They just stayed.

One evening, as the sunset painted the rooms in red-gold light, Alys sat on the windowsill, legs swinging idly through the air.

“Do you think we’ll move on one day?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Tim said. “But I hope not yet.”

“Me neither,” Rhys said. “We like it here. It’s warm.”

Tiya smiled faintly at that, her translucent form haloed by the setting sun.

Tiya smiled faintly at that, her translucent form haloed by the setting sun.

“Then stay,” she said. “Stay until you are ready.”

And for the first time since he could remember, Tim wasn’t afraid of being left behind.

Chapter Text

The halls were emptied now, colder. And Tim knew. He knew. He was gone. Without even saying goodbye.

It was so very loud, but so very quiet. Like everyone knew. Knew he had left. Moved on and left Tim behind.

The air felt heavier somehow, like the manor itself was holding its breath. The faint hum that always followed Malo — that soft ripple of energy that made the walls seem warmer, kinder — was gone. Tim hadn’t realized how used to it he’d become until it vanished.

Tiya tried to distract him at first. She spoke more than usual, her voice echoing gently down the corridors. She asked about his drawings, his studies, even reminded him to eat. Alys and Rhys played louder than ever, their laughter bouncing off the stone floors, but even they could feel it. Rhys had whispered, “It’s too quiet,” and Alys had shushed him, eyes darting to where Malo’s tapestry still hung.

Tim didn’t cry at first. He told himself Malo was happy now, that moving on was what everyone wanted. That’s what ghosts did — they stayed until they were ready to leave. But the logic didn’t help. Logic never did when hearts were involved.

At night, he sat in the study, sketchbook open, pencil unmoving. He tried to draw Malo one last time — from memory — but the lines wouldn’t come together right. His hand shook. The face was wrong. The smile was wrong. Everything was wrong.

When he finally spoke, his voice cracked the stillness.
“Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

No one answered.

Tiya lingered in the doorway, her form faint in the lamplight. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “goodbyes hurt more than silence.”

Tim didn’t know if that made it better or worse. But it stayed with him.

The next morning, the manor seemed different. Quieter, yes — but not dead. Just... waiting. The ghosts spoke less, but they stayed near. They watched him more carefully, unsure if the boy who kept them all together might unravel too.

Tim didn’t. He wouldn’t. But the halls were colder now.

And he missed Malo every single day.

—————————————————————————————

The days stretched longer after that. The manor’s clocks ticked louder, as if they too were marking the empty spaces Malo used to fill. The twins didn’t understand time the same way — to them, everything was “before” or “after.”

“Before the man left,” Alys said one morning, her tiny hands folded neatly in her lap.
“After,” Rhys corrected. “It’s after now.”

Tim just nodded. He wasn’t sure which was worse — before or after. Both felt wrong.

Tiya spent her mornings near him, her voice threading through the silence. She taught him things he’d missed when Malo was there — small things, quiet things. How to mend a button. How to measure flour properly. How to fold a blanket so it looked like someone cared. She couldn’t touch anything, of course, but Tim didn’t need her to. Her words were steady enough.

Sometimes, she’d stop mid-lesson to ask him about his parents. Tim would shrug, or say they were away, or pretend he didn’t care. But Tiya always saw through it.

“You don’t deserve such silence from them, my dear,” she’d whisper.

And Tim would mutter, “They don’t deserve anything.”

She never scolded him for saying it.

At night, when the house settled and the air grew heavy with its usual hum, Tim would sit beneath the tapestry Malo had left unfinished. The threads hung loose, the pattern incomplete — but somehow, that made it feel more real.

He began sketching again, not just Malo this time. All of them. The manor, the twins, Tiya’s faint silhouette caught in a candle’s flicker. He filled page after page until his wrist ached.
He wanted to remember this. All of it. Even the pain.

One night, Rhys found him drawing in the dim light.

“You’re making him again,” the boy said. “You’ll draw him back.”

Tim smiled weakly. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Rhys frowned. “Maybe it does. If you make him real enough.”

Tim didn’t argue. He wanted to believe that.

The twins sat beside him, watching the lines take shape. Tiya’s voice drifted from the hall, humming a lullaby too old for any of them to know.

And for a moment, the house didn’t feel so empty.

—————————————————————————————

Weeks slipped by in the slow rhythm of rain and routine. The manor’s silence had softened now — not quite warm, but no longer sharp enough to cut. Tim had learned to live with the echo Malo left behind.

He still talked to him sometimes, in whispers.
When he painted, or fixed a stitch on the tapestry, or read by the window, he’d murmur things like, “You’d like this, Malo,” or, “You’d tell me to fix that line.” The ghosts never teased him for it. Even the twins seemed to understand.

Tiya said grief was another kind of love — one that stayed behind to keep the heart from forgetting. Tim liked that. It made the ache feel less lonely.

Then, suddenly, it was his eighth birthday.

He woke to the sound of the manor creaking, like it was stretching in greeting. Alys and Rhys had arranged pebbles in the shape of a cake on the hallway floor. Tiya had sung to him in the old Egyptian tongue — soft and lilting, like sunlight breaking through dust.

Malo would’ve teased him for getting taller. He would’ve made it an event — balloons from nowhere, laughter echoing off the walls, some ridiculous lesson disguised as a party game.

But even without him, the day was good. Quiet. Honest.

Tim spent the afternoon sketching by the window, the light pooling around him like melted gold. He drew the tapestry again, this time finished — colours vivid, lines steady. Malo smiled from the threads. Not gone. Just changed.

When the sun dipped low, he heard it — the sudden rumble of a car outside, tires crunching over the gravel drive. Then came the familiar thud of boxes hitting the floor. His parents were home.

By the time he reached the stairs, they were already gone again, the sound of the engine fading into the distance. All that remained were the boxes — dusty, sealed, and smelling faintly of old earth. Another dig. Another collection.

He sighed.

Then came a noise that didn’t belong.

A loud, boisterous shout — bright and full of energy — echoing from the study. It wasn’t Alys. It wasn’t Rhys. It wasn’t Tiya.

Tim froze. His heart skipped once, twice.

Then he ran toward the sound.

Chapter Text

The shout echoed again, bouncing off the high walls and through the hallways. It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong in quiet places — bright, alive, and utterly impossible to ignore.

Tim slowed when he reached the study door. One of the boxes from the new dig had fallen over, its contents spilling out across the floor — shards of pottery, scraps of cloth, a single gleaming brooch catching the dying light.

And beside it, someone stood.

A woman. Or the ghost of one.

She was tall, radiant in a way that didn’t feel fragile. Her hair was dark and braided back with a soldier’s precision, though a few strands had escaped, curling around her face. Her armor was faintly transparent — the kind that shimmered with the suggestion of bronze and battle — and her eyes were bright, sharp, and so, so alive.

When she saw him, she smiled, wide and sure.
“Ah! You can see me! Excellent! I thought I was doomed to haunt empty walls again.”

Tim blinked. “You’re— uh—”

“Dead? Yes,” she said cheerfully. “Also a warrior. Also quite confused about what century this is.” She glanced around the room, her brow furrowing at the electric light. “You’ve got captured lightning in your walls, boy. Remarkable.”

Tim stared, then smiled despite himself. “You’re new.”

“That I am.” She looked down at the brooch on the floor — gold, shaped like a constellation. Her expression softened. “Astraea,” she said quietly. “That was my name. I think…” Her voice trailed off, then brightened again. “Yes. Astraea. Daughter of the stars and servant of Athena, or so I used to tell people.”

She crouched beside the brooch, reaching for it — but her hand passed through. Her face flickered, just slightly. “Ah. Right. Ghost.”

Tim picked it up carefully, holding it in both hands. “Is this yours?”

Astraea’s eyes lit up. “It was given to me,” she said, and for a moment, her voice lost its usual confidence. “By… someone. Someone important.” She didn’t say the name. Not yet.

The room went quiet again — not the heavy kind of silence, but something softer. New.

Then she grinned again, straightening. “Well! I should like to know where I’ve ended up and who you are, little one.”

Tim nodded, smiling a little. “I’m Tim. And… welcome home, I guess.”

The manor reacted before anyone else did.

Lights flickered, the air grew warmer, and the faint hum that always followed new arrivals shimmered through the halls. Tiya appeared first, her form taking shape near the study doorway, her expression cautious but kind. Alys and Rhys peeked out from behind her, wide-eyed and whispering excitedly.

“She’s tall,” Rhys said.

“She’s shiny,” Alys whispered back.

“She’s new,” Tiya said softly, though there was a trace of a smile behind her words.

Astraea turned, startled at first, then visibly delighted. “Ah! You’re not alone! Wonderful!” she said, placing a hand over her heart in a grand, old-fashioned greeting. “I am Astraea of— well, formerly of Athens, I think. And you are?”

“I am Tiya,” the Egyptian ghost replied, dipping her head with graceful formality. “Lady-in-waiting to the house of Pharaoh, long ago. It is… rare to meet another spirit so—” she hesitated, searching for the word, “—energetic.”

Astraea laughed, the sound ringing like metal striking marble. “I’ve been waiting centuries for company. Energy is all I have left.”

The twins giggled at that, the tension breaking instantly. They darted closer, circling her like curious cats.

“Were you a soldier?” Alys asked.

“A warrior,” Astraea corrected gently. “A soldier fights for orders. A warrior fights for what they love.”

Tim watched her carefully, already sketching her face in his mind — the lines of confidence, the fire behind her eyes. She felt different from the others. Not softer or kinder, but alive in a way that made the air itself stand straighter.

Tiya stepped closer, studying the brooch in Tim’s hand. “This must be what binds her here,” she murmured. “A fine piece. You said it was given to you?”

Astraea nodded. Her smile faltered just for a moment. “Yes. By… my husband.” The word came out too quickly, too rehearsed. She looked away before anyone could ask more.

Tim didn’t press. He just set the brooch on the mantelpiece, beside the objects that belonged to the others. “Then it stays here,” he said. “So you don’t forget.”

Astraea’s eyes softened. “You’re a kind boy, Tim.”

“Not kind,” he said quietly. “Just used to ghosts.”

She laughed again, a sound bright enough to chase away the manor’s gloom. “Then you and I shall get along perfectly.”

Astraea was restless from the start. She wasn’t built for stillness — not in life, and not now. Within days, she’d taken to pacing the halls, ghostly boots striking soundless steps on the old floors.

Tim found her one afternoon in the courtyard, watching the wind move through the grass like it was something alive.

“You watch the world like you’re waiting for it to attack you,” she said suddenly, glancing at him.

He blinked. “I don’t.”

“You do. Shoulders tense. Eyes everywhere.” She smiled softly. “That’s good. You notice. But you don’t know what to do if something does come at you.”

Tim frowned. “Nothing comes at me.”

Astraea turned fully, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Not yet.”

That was how the lessons began.

She couldn’t touch him — her hands passed through air like mist — but her words painted pictures sharper than blades. “Balance first,” she’d say. “You can’t fight if you can’t stand.” She showed him how to move his feet, how to breathe before reacting. Sometimes she’d stand beside him, correcting his stance with words alone.

He listened. He always did.

Tiya watched from the window, smiling faintly. It was good to see him moving again — to see that spark returning after weeks of quiet mourning.

“You fight like someone who’s protecting something,” Astraea said one evening, when the sky was purple and gold.

“I’m protecting everyone here,” Tim replied. “You, Tiya, Alys, Rhys…”

She tilted her head. “Then you understand.”

There was a pause then — long and thoughtful. Astraea’s expression shifted, the fierce confidence softening into something more human.

“I used to protect someone, too,” she said quietly.

Tim looked up, waiting.

“She was brilliant. Braver than I ever was. Cassiopeia. Her name meant she whose voice carries through the stars.” Astraea laughed softly, though her voice trembled. “We fought together once. Side by side. She carved her own name into the world, and I— I told everyone she was my brother. It was easier that way. Safer.”

Tim’s stomach twisted. “But she wasn’t?”

“No.” Astraea’s eyes gleamed with a strange mix of pride and sorrow. “She was my wife. My heart. The world wasn’t kind to women who held swords, let alone women who loved each other.”

She looked away then, up at the fading sky. “I thought I could live with silence. That if I just waited long enough, the world would change.”

“Did it?” Tim asked.

Astraea smiled. “I think… it’s trying.”

They stood together in the quiet for a while — warrior and boy, both learning what it meant to survive things that weren’t meant to break them.

Finally, Astraea looked at him again. “You’ll be ready, one day. For whatever comes.”

Tim nodded, eyes steady. “And you’ll be here to teach me.”

Astraea smiled sadly. “For as long as I can.”

Tiya lingered at the edge of the courtyard, half-shadowed by the doorway. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, not really. But the air itself carried voices here, soft and heavy with meaning.

She’d heard the name Cassiopeia. Heard the tremor in Astraea’s voice when she said wife. And she’d heard Tim’s quiet, unwavering acceptance — no hesitation, no judgment, only that thoughtful silence he always held for the truths that mattered most.

The boy was changing. Slowly, beautifully.

Tiya smiled to herself. Astraea had come to teach him to defend, but she’d given him something deeper — a new kind of courage, one that didn’t come from strength or skill, but from understanding.

As Astraea showed Tim how to move his feet again, the light from the window stretched across the courtyard, catching in the faint shimmer of her armor. It almost looked solid — like, for a heartbeat, she was whole again.

Tiya whispered something in her native tongue — a blessing, quiet and fond. “Guard him well, starborn warrior.”

Then she faded back into the house, where Alys and Rhys were waiting for another story before bed, and the old manor settled into its usual rhythm — alive with ghosts, love, and the small, steady heartbeat of a boy who had learned, once again, that he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

His parents were home. One of the few days in months that they came and stayed. And it wasn't even for him.

The annual Wayne gala.

Of course, why would they come back for any other reason?

They arrived in a flurry of motion — coats tossed over chairs, half-packed bags dropped in the entryway, voices already raised before the door had even shut.

“Jack, do not tell me you lost the tickets again—”

“I didn’t lose them! They’re in my other jacket!”

Tim stood at the top of the stairs, watching the chaos unfold below. There was something strange about the sound of them — alive, sharp, real. The house hadn’t heard their noise in so long it felt foreign.

The ghosts were quiet. They always were when his parents came home. Even Astraea, fierce and unafraid, softened her glow until she was almost invisible. Tiya drifted near Tim’s shoulder like a shadow, her expression unreadable.

He started down the steps. Slowly, quietly.

“Timothy!” Janet’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “Good, you’re here. Come along, we have fittings this afternoon. We can’t have you looking rumpled in front of the Waynes.”

He froze. “Hello, Mother.”

She didn’t respond — already too focused on a tablet full of seating charts. Jack brushed past him with a distracted pat on the head, muttering about donors. Neither looked him in the eye.

The boy swallowed hard and followed orders.

That afternoon, he stood on a little pedestal in front of a tailor’s mirror. His reflection looked uncomfortable — stiff shoulders, pale face, the beginnings of a frown. The man measuring him smiled kindly, but Janet’s voice filled every corner of the room.

“Posture, Timothy. Don’t slouch. And please, do try to smile.”

He did. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Astraea appeared behind him in the mirror’s reflection, visible only to him — a faint outline of gold light and warmth.

“You look like a prince,” she murmured.

“I don’t feel like one.”

Her smile was gentle. “Most real princes don’t.”

Later, in his room, the ghosts gathered as he buttoned his shirt and straightened his tie. Tiya guided him with soft words, explaining how to fix the knot. The twins bickered over which shoes looked better, their laughter bouncing off the walls.

Bastet curled in the corner, tail flicking lazily, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

“You’ll be wonderful,” Tiya said softly. “Hold your head high.”

Tim glanced at his reflection again. The boy staring back looked older — not in years, but in how much he’d learned to carry. He didn’t look like the child who used to hide when the door slammed.

He looked… prepared.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

He didn’t sound convinced, but that was okay. Tiya smiled, proud all the same.

Tim turns to her “Will you come with me? I don't want to be alone.” his eyes pleading.

Tiya graciously agrees, and he carefully collects her bead, stringing it onto a piece of strong string and tying it around his neck, tucking it under his shirt for safety.

By the time the sun set, the house glowed with movement. Janet’s perfume hung thick in the air, and Jack’s laughter echoed down the hall.

Tim waited by the car, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. The rest of the ghosts stayed behind, faint outlines in the doorway.

“Good luck!” Alys called, waving both hands.

“Bring us something shiny!” Rhys added.

Astraea saluted him, smirking. “Be brave, little soldier.”

Bastet wound around his ankles rubbing against him lovingly, marking him as belonging to it. Like the touch alone could protect him. Maybe it could. Tim could certainly wish.

Tim grinned, small but real. “Always.”

The car gleamed under the porch light — polished black, smelling faintly of oil and leather. The driver held the door open, nodding as Janet swept past, her gown catching the last rays of sunset like gold threads burning in the dark. Jack followed, already on the phone, his laughter echoing down the gravel drive. Janet’s hand — cold and perfumed — rested briefly on his shoulder.

“Come along, Timothy. Don’t dawdle.”

He climbed in, the leather seat swallowing him whole, Tiya following behind. The whole car smelled new, perfectly preserved, unloved. Like another museum piece the Drakes were passively interested in. Like him. Or how he was before. Not any more.

Never again.

The door shut with a soft, heavy thud that swallowed the manor’s warmth whole.

Through the tinted glass, he could still see them — the ghosts, all of them, gathered on the front steps like a family waving him off. Bastet’s eyes glowed faintly in the shadows; Astraea stood tall and proud beside the twins, their faint light dancing like fireflies in the dusk.

The car started to move. Slowly.

He pressed his palm to the window, watching as the manor grew smaller, the soft golden light of its windows flickering through the trees until it was gone entirely. The road curved away, the night swallowing the house and the ghosts and the only home that had ever really felt like one.

Janet was talking about seating arrangements. Jack was answering texts. Their voices blurred into the hum of the engine.

Tim sat silently opposite them, Tiya sat comfortingly beside him, their reflection faint in the glass — a child in a suit too fine for him, hair combed perfectly, eyes a little too old for his face.

He leaned his forehead against the window and whispered, almost too softly to hear, glancing at Tiya.
“I’ll be brave.”

Outside, the streetlights flickered by like stars falling in a line — and ahead, the bright lights of Gotham waited, loud and gleaming and full of strangers.

Chapter Text

Dick was concerned.

There was a strange child at the Wayne gala this year, he seemed to be talking to a wall while his mother gripped his wrist tight. He recognised the parents, Jack and Janet Drake, but the child was new to him. It must have been Timothy. Timothy? That was his name right? Dick wasn't too sure but that felt right. Perhaps he should go over and introduce himself, distract the small child from… the wall…

Dick looks over to Bruce for permission but the man is already lost to bad champagne and his Brucie persona. That wasn't to say Dick didn't have his own persona, because he did. Richie Wayne. What a drag…

So Dick made the executive decision to go talk to the kid anyway.

Tim, for his part, has been holding it together pretty well. He doesn't think he looks too suspicious talking to Tiya, but the practically bruising grip his mother has on his wrist says otherwise… Maybe he should tone it down a bit. He glances at Tiya apologetically.

Dick weaves through the crowd, slipping between glittering gowns and half-empty champagne flutes until he reaches the small boy. Up close, the kid looks even younger, tiny in his neat little suit, shoulders pulled tight like he’s bracing for impact. Janet’s fingers are digging into his wrist so hard Dick can see the skin whitening beneath them.

“Hey there,” Dick says gently, crouching slightly so he’s at eye level. “You doing okay?”

Tim startles a little. He hadn’t expected anyone from the sea of glittering strangers to actually address him. He looks up, bright blue eyes wide, sharp, assessing in a way that reminds Dick uncomfortably of himself at that age.

Tim recognises him immediately.

The boy from the circus, where he got his first hug. Only hug.

He remembers the screams. The lights. The ringmaster shouting for everyone to stay back.
He remembers clinging to the railing and watching the little boy, this boy, cry in someone’s arms before Bruce Wayne stepped forward and took control of the chaos.

But Tim doesn’t say any of that.
He just says, quietly:

“Yes.”

Dick tilts his head.
“You sure? Your mom’s kinda… gripping on pretty tight there…”

Janet shoots him a look, one of those sharp, brittle society smiles that doesn't touch the eyes, but she releases Tim’s arm. She mutters something about donors and wanders off without a backward glance.

Dick watches her go, eyebrows lifting.
He turns back to Tim. “I’m Richard. Richie Grayson-Wayne.”

“It’s Tim,” the boy answers. “Timothy Drake.” Then, after a beat, very proper and very polite, “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Richard.”

Dick chokes back a laugh. “Just Dick is fine, promise.”

Tim nods. He stands straighter, trying to look older, trying to look like the kind of child who fits into a room like this. Tiya floats just behind him, hands clasped in worry.

Dick glances at the wall Tim had been talking to earlier.
“You got a… imaginary friend with you?” he asks lightly, not mocking, just curious.

Tim’s ears go pink. “No. Not imaginary.”

“Ah.” Dick grins. “Secret friend. Got it.”

Tim huffs the tiniest breath of laughter.
Score one for Richie Wayne.

“Wanna walk with me?” Dick asks, gesturing toward the quieter side of the ballroom where the noise doesn’t echo quite so harshly. “Galas get boring real fast. We can talk about, I dunno… anything not related to stocks or art auctions.”

Tim looks up at him like he’s been offered a miracle. “Yes. Please.”

Dick smiles and leads him away from the crowd. Tiya trails behind, visibly relieved not to see Janet’s talons gripping the boy.

They wander to a display of old photographs from previous Wayne galas. Tim studies them with intense focus, hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid to touch anything.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Tim asks softly.

Dick nods. “Pretty much every year since I was nine.”

“Nine is when…” Tim starts, stops, swallows.
Dick waits.
Tim finishes quietly, “When your parents…”

Dick’s breath catches.
Ah. That’s why the kid looked familiar.
Not from some donor dinner.
Not from a charity event.

He’d seen those bright blue eyes staring through the bars of the circus railing the night everything went wrong.

“…Yeah,” Dick says gently. “Yeah. When that happened.”

Tim nods, not pitying, not awkward—just understanding. “I was there.”

Dick blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I… I saw you,” Tim admits, cheeks heating. “You were very brave.”

Dick laughs weakly. “Pretty sure I was mostly in shock.”

“But you still stood up,” Tim murmurs. “I remember.”

And something in Dick’s chest aches.

This tiny kid remembers that night.
And no one ever noticed him.

They end up sitting on the edge of a decorative fountain—just far away enough from the crowd that nobody bothers them.

Dick talks about gymnastics training at the manor (which he definitely shouldn't be doing in the manor), about Alfred’s tea obsession, about the time he accidentally kicked Bruce in the face during practice. Tim actually giggles at that one.

Tim talks about… nothing personal.
Nothing about home.
Nothing about parents.

Just things he’s learned. History facts. Fencing terms. Art techniques.
A child-genius patchwork of knowledge with nothing warm holding it together.

Dick notices.
It hurts.

At one point, when the music swells, Tim flinches—just a twitch, but enough that Tiya hovers closer.

“You okay?” Dick asks quietly.

Tim nods. Too fast. “Yes. Mother doesn’t like when I… react.”

Dick’s heart drops straight to his shoes.
He glances across the room—Janet sipping champagne with a bored expression, Jack talking to donors like Tim doesn’t exist.

He forces a smile, gentle and warm, and nudges Tim’s shoulder.

“You’re allowed to react around me, okay? No pressure.”

Tim stares at him.
Long.
Like no one has ever said that to him before.

Dick didn’t mean to get attached.

He really didn’t.
He’d planned to talk to the kid for a few minutes, make sure he wasn’t too overwhelmed, then go back to pretending to be Richie Wayne, Gotham’s resident rich himbo.

But the longer he sat with Tim, the more he saw.

The way the kid’s eyes darted to every raised voice.
How he tensed whenever someone walked behind him.
The bruising, ghostly ring forming around his wrist from where his mother’s nails had dug into him.
The unnatural quietness of him—like speaking too loud might get him hit.

And Dick felt something old and familiar stirring.
The part of him that remembered being small and hurt and angry and alone.
The part Bruce had saved.

The part that desperately wanted to save someone else.

He watched Tim’s parents from across the room.
Janet was laughing at something that didn’t sound funny.
Jack was already on his fourth drink.

Dick’s jaw tightened.

Tiya hovered protectively beside Tim, visible only to the boy—but Dick could feel something, a strange sense of watchfulness, like the air itself approved of him being here. Tim kept glancing her way, relaxing when he saw her, and Dick couldn’t help but smile at how grounded the kid became in those moments.

His smile didn’t last.

Because Janet’s eyes finally snapped to where they were sitting.

She froze.
Narrowed her gaze.
Said something sharp to Jack.

And then Bruce saw it too.

One second Bruce was laughing airy Brucie Wayne laughter with a cluster of donors, and the next second his eyes locked on Dick—and then on Tim—and something in his posture changed instantly. Brucie fell away. Batman surfaced beneath the skin.

He started moving.

“Uh-oh,” Dick muttered.

Tim noticed Bruce striding toward them and immediately tried to straighten his posture, shoulders snapping up like he’d been yanked by strings. Tiya shimmered anxiously beside him.

Bruce reached them just as Janet and Jack did.

“There you are,” Janet snapped, grabbing Tim’s wrist again—right over the same bruised spot. “Honestly, Timothy, how many times must we tell you not to wander off?”

Tim winced but didn’t make a sound.

Dick stood quickly. “Hey—it’s okay. He wasn’t wandering. I came to talk to him. He’s—”

But Jack stepped between them.
A clear barrier.
A warning.

“Thank you, Richard,” Jack said with a stiff smile. “But we’ll take it from here.”

Bruce looked from Dick to Tim. Dick saw it—the shock. The concern. The recognition. Bruce had taught Dick to read microexpressions, and right now Bruce Wayne was three seconds from full Batman mode.

“Jack,” Bruce said quietly, “your son looks frightened.”

“We’re leaving,” Janet snapped.

Bruce tried again, voice firmer. “At least let him—”

“NOW, Timothy.” Her nails tightened. Hard.

Tim sucked in a small, sharp breath.

And Bruce—Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, secretly Gotham’s Dark Knight—took one step forward, that low dangerous shift in his stance—

—but Janet yanked Tim away before he could say another word.

The boy stumbled, catching himself, eyes darting back toward Dick and Bruce in a silent plea neither of them could answer. Tiya moved with him, her form flickering with distress.

And then the Drakes were gone.
Just like that.
Swept out the front doors, child in tow, as if he were luggage.

Dick stood frozen, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked.

“Bruce—” he started.

Bruce didn’t let him finish. He placed a steadying hand on Dick’s shoulder and guided him away from prying eyes, toward a quiet corner behind a decorative pillar.

“Tell me,” Bruce said quietly. “Everything.”

So Dick did.

He told him about the bruising grip.
The way Tim flinched at raised voices.
How he talked like a child who had been trained, not raised.
How he’d tried to hide pain behind perfect posture.
How he remembered the circus night with heartbreaking clarity.
How excited he’d been that someone actually wanted to talk to him.

Bruce listened without interrupting, expression unreadable but every muscle in his jaw winding tighter and tighter.

“He’s not okay, Bruce,” Dick finished, voice cracking. “They don’t look at him. They don’t talk to him. They just… drag him around. Like he’s an accessory.”

For a moment, Bruce said nothing.

Then:

“We keep an eye on him,” Bruce said, voice low, dangerous, resolute. “From tonight onward.”

Dick nodded, staring at the doors Tim had disappeared through.

“He’s just a kid, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“And he looked so—”

“I know.”

Dick swallowed hard.
“Can we help him?”

Bruce’s eyes darkened.
“We will.”

Chapter Text

Tim hadn't noticed it before. Jack and Janet had left boxes in the entryway. He didn't notice until he was thrown into the side of one of them by his mo…
Janet.
Not his mother. Janet.

It hurt. Thrown roughly into a wooden crate full of “precious artifacts”, far more important than him. More important than he will ever be. He was so tired… so tired he couldn't even bring himself to feel afraid of his parents, of what they might do. But they just left. Without a word. Threw him away like he was nothing, hurt him. And left him behind.

Tiya watched on in horror, unable to help her child, her poor darling boy as he stood, helping himself up with the box he'd been thrown into. Watching as the adults in his life just left, like it didn't matter, walked away to get on a new plane, uncaring of what happens to their son.

And someone new. Someone horrified but silent. Watching on as a child they could never have is hurt and left like nothing. Stood in the shadows of the room, hidden but ready to step in.. if it were possible.

Tim felt empty. Uncaring. He was so happy before. Dick was there, he was talking to him, he.. did he care? Did he look like he cared? He gave Tim the same look Tiya did, Astraea did, Alys and Rhys did, despite being children…

The same look Malo did…
With so much care..

And then he had to go..

Tim stands silently for a while, feeling stabs of pain run through his arm and legs, where he'd slammed into the box he was holding himself up on.

Tiya’s voice trembled. “Sweetheart… sit down, please, you’re hurt-”

But Tim didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t cry.

He just stared ahead, hollow and shaking.

A cold breath drifted across the back of his neck.

Not a draft.

Not Tiya.

Something else.

Someone else.

Tim turned slowly.

A figure stood partially behind the staircase, still as carved stone yet entirely alive in the shadows. Their presence was so quiet, so deliberately controlled, that even the ghosts hadn’t noticed them enter.

They were young, maybe late twenties or early thirties, but their eyes were impossibly old. Dark. Focused. Watching him with a kind of sharp, horrified tenderness that made no sense coming from a stranger.

They wore some kind of strange uniform… dark fabric layered tightly to the body, reinforced at the arms and chest, marked with symbols Tim didn’t recognize. Not armour exactly, but something meant for movement, meant for danger. The hood draped their face just enough that Tim couldn’t read their expression fully. But they looked… Arabic.. maybe. And kind.

Around their waist hung a small silver rod, no longer than a pencil. Ordinary-looking at first glance… but somehow not. Tim couldn’t explain why, but it felt like the object was important. Heavy in a way objects shouldn’t be.

Tiya gasped. “Another spirit?”

“No,” the stranger murmured, stepping forward into the light with slow, deliberate caution. “Not quite.”

Their voice was soft, low, a little rough. Arabic accent woven gently through the consonants.

Tim stared. The stranger stared back.

Neither moved.

Then the stranger knelt, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal, and lowered their head.

“I am sorry,” they said quietly. “I did not mean to watch. But… what they did to you… I could not look away.”

Tim swallowed. “Wh-who are you?”

The stranger hesitated. Their lips parted, closed, then finally.

“My name is Mordeth,” they said. “At least… that is the name I was given.”

Tiya floated closer, protective yet curious. “Your anchor, your object, it’s that rod, isn’t it?”

Mordeth rested a hand over it without thinking. A flicker of old grief crossed their eyes. “Yes.”

Tim’s voice came out small. “Are you… like Tiya?”

A faint smile touched their lips. “Not exactly. Tiya is gentle. I am… not made of the same things she is.”

Before anyone could ask what that meant, Mordeth’s expression shifted, softening, warming with purpose.

“You are alone in this house,” they murmured. “Hurt. Unprotected.” Their gaze darkened, almost feral with protective instinct. “I will not allow that.”

Tiya blinked in surprise. “You, want to help him?”

“I will help him,” Mordeth corrected. “He deserves to be strong. To be safe. To never fear hands that should have loved him.”

They studied Tim with the intensity of someone evaluating a weapon and a child at once.

“If you allow it,” Mordeth said gently, “I can teach you. Languages. Discipline. Balance. How to fight. How to survive.”

Tim’s breath caught. “Fight?”

“Not to harm,” they corrected softly, “but to protect yourself. To never be helpless again.”

For the first time since Janet shoved him, Tim felt something that wasn’t pain or numbness.

He felt want.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “I… I want that.”

Tiya floated beside him, her hand hovering near his hair like she desperately wished she could stroke it. She studied Mordeth for a long moment, long enough to understand the shadow in their eyes, the weight of the life they lived before death.

And then she nodded.

“Teach him,” Tiya said quietly. “But gently. He’s just a child.”

Mordeth bowed their head in solemn agreement.

“I will help him become whatever he needs to be.”

And for the first time in hours, Tim looked up—truly looked—and felt something new settle in his chest.

Not fear.
Not joy.

Strength.
Small, fragile, new.

But real.

Tim leaned a little more of his weight onto the crate, then winced sharply. Mordeth’s head snapped toward the movement, the way a trained guardian reacts to danger: instantly, intensely, without hesitation.

“You’re injured,” Mordeth said quietly.

Tim stiffened. “I-I’m fine.”

Mordeth stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as if afraid he might flinch. “You are not fine.”

They knelt again, this time closer, one knee touching the floorboards. Their eyes scanned him carefully, never touching him, but following every line of tension, every part of him held stiffly, every bruise beginning to blossom under the skin.

“Your arm,” Mordeth murmured, gaze narrowing. “And your leg… you’re favoring it.”

Tim’s voice wavered. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”

That sentence cut through the room like a blade.

Tiya’s face crumpled. “Oh, darling…”

Mordeth inhaled slowly, an attempt at control. Their hands clenched around nothing, an instinctive desire to help physically, to steady him, to lift him away from pain… but ghosts could not do that.

“Sit,” they said softly. “Here. Lean against the crate.”

Tim obeyed, not because he was commanded to, but because the tone made him feel… safe. Like Mordeth was not someone who would ever hurt him.

Mordeth studied him again. Their expression was unreadable, but their next words were low and fierce:

“If I could touch this world,” they said, “I would break those who harmed you.”

Tim blinked, startled.

Tiya startled too, but she did not correct Mordeth. She understood.

“Thank you,” Tim whispered.

Mordeth did not reply. Instead, they simply sat there with him, silent, vigilant, until his breath steadied.

Astraea appeared first in a shimmer of gold, pacing like a storm.

“I heard shouting, is he hurt? Who touched him? I swear by every star in the sky-”

“Mordeth is helping,” Tiya soothed quickly.

Astraea’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the newcomer. “And who is this? Another warrior?”

Mordeth rose to their feet, posture straightening, not defensive, but ready.

“Not your enemy,” they replied calmly.

Astraea circled, evaluating. “You move like one of us. But I don’t recognize your armor.”

“It is not from your time,” Mordeth said simply.

Astraea huffed but nodded. “Very well. If you protect the boy, you are welcome.”

Alys and Rhys peeked around a corner, their eyes wide.

“Are they scary?” Alys whispered.

“No,” Rhys countered thoughtfully. “They look sad.”

Mordeth blinked at that, surprised.

Tiya floated down to join Tim, her presence warm. “There, my darling. You’ll be okay. We’re all here.”

Tim managed a small smile.

For the first time since the gala, the manor felt like home again.

A day later, after Tim had eaten, after he’d washed up, after he’d rested. Mordeth appeared again in his doorway.

“It is not wise to train while injured,” they began. “But today… I can show you only the beginning. Something gentle.”

Tim nodded eagerly.

Mordeth motioned him to the center of his room.

“First lesson,” they said. “Breath.”

“Breathing?” Tim asked, confused.

“Yes.” Mordeth knelt, demonstrating. “Your breath is your center. Your balance. If your emotions are wild, your body will fail you.”

Tim copied the position. Mordeth guided him verbally:

“Shoulders down. Spine long. In through the nose… hold… out slowly.”

Tim followed, shaky at first.

Mordeth watched him with surprising softness. “Good.”

They adjusted him with words alone, patient and precise.

“Again. Slower.”

Tim tried again.

Astraea peeked in, smiling proudly. “Look at you! First breathing, next we’ll put a sword in your hand-”

“No swords,” Tiya snapped.

Astraea sighed dramatically. “Fine, no swords. For now.”

Mordeth continued calmly. “Second lesson. Awareness.”

They gestured to the room.

“Tell me, what sounds do you hear? What movements? What changes in the air?”

Tim concentrated.

“…Alys whispering outside the door. Rhys breathing funny. Astraea tapping her foot- stop laughing! I can hear you!”

Astraea grinned. “Already better than most recruits.”

Mordeth gave the faintest smile. “You see? You learn quickly.”

Tim glowed with quiet pride.

——————

It happened later that evening.

Alys was sitting cross-legged on the floor while Rhys braided her hair. Mordeth stood nearby, sharpening their senses, silent as always.

Alys tilted her head. “Mordeth is a long name.”

Rhys nodded. “Yeah… it’s too serious.”

Astraea chimed in, “Agreed. Sounds like someone who never smiles.”

“I do smile,” Mordeth muttered.

Tiya floated beside them, thoughtful. “Perhaps something softer? They’re part of the family now.”

Alys brightened. “What about Dee?”

Rhys corrected, “No, Dee Dee! Double letters sound friendlier.”

Astraea laughed. “Dee Dee. Yes. That suits them.”

All eyes turned to Mordeth.

The assassin ghost, the warrior trained for silence and death, stared at them as if no one had ever given them a nickname in their life.

“…Dee Dee?” they repeated, stunned.

Tim grinned shyly. “I like it.”

Mordeth blinked slowly.

Then, with the smallest, rarest smile—

“…Then I accept it.”

Alys cheered. Rhys cheered louder. Astraea clapped them on the back, passing straight through them but enthusiastically anyway.

And Tiya said warmly, “Welcome home, Dee Dee.”

For the first time since their death, since their life, Mordeth, now Dee Dee, felt something crack open in their chest:

Belonging.

Chapter Text

Tim woke up with a feeling he couldn’t name. It tugged in the center of his chest—bright, quiet, hopeful.

It was his birthday. He was nine.

No footsteps downstairs.
No voices.
No parents.

Of course.

But he wasn’t alone.

When he stepped into the hall, the manor lights flickered cheerfully, and suddenly Alys and Rhys burst through the wall like firecrackers, both of them screaming:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIM!!”

Astraea whooped behind them, punching her spear-hand shape in the air—she didn’t have the real spear anymore but the gesture was just as dramatic.

Tiya floated forward with a warm smile, hands clasped delicately. “My little darling boy… happy birthday.”

And perched on the banister like a stone statue suddenly come alive was Bastet—sleek, gold-patterned, luminous. Its tail curled in a regal greeting.

Tim grinned so wide his face hurt. “You remembered!”

Astraea scoffed. “Of course we remembered. Ghosts don’t forget what matters.”

“Unlike some people,” Alys muttered pointedly, and Rhys elbowed her, though he nodded in agreement.

Then Mordeth—still adjusting to the nickname Dee Dee—approached from further down the hall. They stood tall, serious as always, but their voice was softer than usual:

“Nine years,” they said. “A warrior’s number. Precision. Foundation.”
They inclined their head. “Happy birthday.”

Tim beamed. “Thank you, Dee Dee.”

The assassin ghost blinked, still not entirely used to being called something gentle, and then nodded again.

The ghosts had prepared as best they could. They couldn’t touch objects, couldn’t bake a cake, couldn’t hang decorations—but they could fill the manor with their presence until it felt warm and full and alive.

Astraea told dramatic heroic stories from her battles.
Alys and Rhys put on a silly play they’d invented, reenacting the day they first found Tim.
Tiya made a speech that nearly made him cry.
Bastet purred in a way Tim had learned meant approval.

And at the end, Dee Dee demonstrated a set of martial arts movements so beautiful and precise that Tim clapped his hands in delight.

He wished he could trap this moment in a jar and keep it forever.

That night, after the “party,” Tim curled onto the sofa with a blanket and flicked on the TV. Tiya hovered behind him like a halo, her hand hovering near his hair as if she wished she could ruffle it.

The news anchor was excitedly narrating grainy footage from Gotham Central Park.

“There it is again—Robin’s legendary quadruple somersault! Experts still say it isn’t humanly—”

Tim sat bolt upright.
“Wait… I’ve seen that move.”

Astraea drifted forward. “Where?”

“At the circus.” Tim whispered. “Dick… Dick Grayson. He did that exact thing at the Haly’s show.”

The room went silent.

Tim’s eyes went huge.
“And—and Batman caught him the same way Bruce carries him—oh my gosh.”

He put the pieces together at lightning speed.

“Bruce Wayne is Batman. Dick is Robin.”

Astraea’s jaw dropped. Alys squealed. Rhys gasped.
Tiya put a hand over her mouth, eyes shining with pride.
Bastet flicked its tail like finally, someone noticed.

Dee Dee just nodded, unsurprised. “Their movements make it obvious. Same foundation. Same discipline.”

Tim stared at the screen, heart pounding.

“My neighbors…” he whispered. “Batman and Robin are my neighbors.”

A grin spread across his face, unstoppable.

Three days later, Tim stood at the front door of the manor, bundled in all-black clothes, black beanie, black jacket, black sneakers. A camera hung around his neck—the one Jack and Janet gave him last year after mixing up his birthday by a full month.

He’d fallen in love with it instantly.

And he’d fallen in love with the idea of photographing Gotham’s heroes.

He reached for the door—

“Timothy Jackson Drake.”

He froze.

Tiya floated right beside him, hands on her hips.

Behind her, Astraea crossed her arms. Alys and Rhys stared in shock. Bastet perched on the banister, tail swishing. Dee Dee stood in the shadows, unreadable but alert.

Tim gave a tiny wave. “Hi.”

“You’re sneaking out,” Astraea accused.

“No I’m—okay, yes I am,” Tim admitted.

“Absolutely not,” Tiya said firmly. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful,” Tim promised.

Dee Dee stepped forward. “You will not stop him.”

“What?” Tiya turned sharply.

Dee Dee’s voice was calm. “He is determined. He will go alone if we forbid him.”
They knelt to Tim’s height. “So we prepare him. We keep him alive.”

Tim swallowed. “You… you’re not mad?”

“No,” Dee Dee said simply. “You’re growing. That cannot be stopped.”

Astraea sighed, resigned. “Fine. If he must go, he needs training.”

And so the ghosts formed a circle.

Dee Dee taught him how to move silently, explaining how every shift of weight mattered.

“Run on the balls of your feet. Keep your breath steady. Do not panic.”

Astraea taught him how to roll when he landed from a jump, even if he couldn’t go high yet.

“Momentum is your friend! You carry it, or it crushes you.”

Alys and Rhys practiced hiding with him, turning it into a giggling game of shadow tag.

“You blend into the dark,” Rhys said, “not fight against it.”

Bastet watched carefully from atop a shelf, letting out approving chirps or sharp disapproving hisses depending on his technique.

Tiya remained hovering beside him the entire time, worried but trying not to smother him.

“You come home safe,” she whispered. “My sweet boy. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Tim whispered back.

After an hour, Dee Dee stepped back.

“You’re ready,” they decided. “Not to fight. Not to chase. But to observe. To photograph.”

Tim nodded fiercely.

And then…

He opened the front door.

Cold Gotham air brushed against his face.

Tiya whispered, “Be careful.”

Astraea grinned. “Have fun, little warrior.”

Alys and Rhys waved wildly.
Bastet blinked slowly.

Just as he put his hand on the door handle, Dee Dee’s unknown metal rod rolled out of the shadows. Tim looked up at them in confusion. They just nodded in response, so he picked it up, tucking it up his sleeve.

And with that, Tim stepped into the night.

The door swung shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Tim could barely sit still.

He had waited three whole days for this, three days of planning routes on a hand-drawn map of Gotham, memorizing alleyways, rooftops, and fire escapes, figuring out exactly where Batman and Robin usually passed on their night patrols. Three days of Dee Dee hovering anxiously behind him, offering advice like an overcaffeinated stage whisper:

“Left foot first on roof edges, less likely to slip.”
“No, not that fire escape; it rattles like a dying mule.”
“If you fall, tuck your chin!”

Tim took it all in, every warning, every trick. He wasn’t going to mess this up.

Tonight he wore his “stealth outfit,” which was just head-to-toe black clothes and a slightly oversized hoodie. His camera, the beloved mis-birthday gift from Jack and Janet, hung from his neck, the strap wrapped twice around so it wouldn’t bounce too much as he ran.

Dee Dee drifted beside him as he climbed up the metal ladder to the roof of his house. “You’re shaking,” they noted, soft but alert.

“I’m excited,” Tim whispered back. “And nervous. But excited.”

The air changed as soon as he reached the top. Rooftops felt like a different world, a place he wasn’t meant to be, but belonged anyway.

He crossed the neighboring roofs one by one, just like Dee Dee had drilled him over the past few days. Short steps. Controlled breaths. Land on the balls of your feet. Keep low on flat surfaces. Don’t silhouette yourself on a roof edge.

He was getting good at it, surprisingly good for a nine-year-old.

“Stop,” Dee Dee said suddenly.

Tim froze.

Something moved across Gotham’s skyline, a fast blur of black and gold and green.

Robin.

Tim scrambled to the nearest ledge and leaned forward as far as he dared. His heart soared.

Robin vaulted off a billboard, flipped twice in the air, then, no way, turned the double into a quadruple somersault before catching a dangling cable and swinging down to Batman’s side.

“That’s the one from the news clip!” Tim whispered, lifting his camera with trembling hands. “The exact flip! It’s him!”

Click.
Click-click-click.

Dee Dee drifted close to him, smiling faintly. “You should steady your elbows. You’ll get cleaner shots.”

Tim obeyed without question, bracing himself against the railing and taking burst after burst of photos. Robin laughed at something Batman said, Tim couldn’t hear it, but the body language spoke volumes.

They weren’t just partners.
They were family.

And somehow… they lived just nextdoor to him.

The patrol moved on, disappearing across the rooftops in a sweep of shadows and cape. Tim followed from a distance, careful not to get too close. He didn’t want to disrupt anything, he just wanted to see. To learn. To admire.

An hour passed with him trailing them, weaving along fire escapes, ducking behind vents, observing how Batman scanned every alley and how Robin checked rooftops with bright, curious energy.

Tim found himself whispering constant commentary to Dee Dee:

“They’re so fast.”
“That grappling hook’s range has to be at least twenty meters.”
“He looks smaller in person. Robin, I mean. But stronger too.”

Dee Dee listened patiently, occasionally offering tips on quieter landings or safer observation angles.

Eventually, Tim saw something new, something he hadn’t expected.

Batman and Robin were responding to crimes slowly. Or maybe… not slowly. Just normally. And the police were so much slower.

But Tim realized something:
He could get to a payphone faster than they could cross the city.

A carjacking.
A mugging.
A loud argument that was way too close to a drug drop.

Tim reported each one, voice steady, pretending to be an adult or a witness or “just someone who heard something weird.”

And then he watched, camera poised, as Batman and Robin left just in time every single time. As the GCPD got there just as they finished up.

“Your heart rate is ridiculous,” Dee Dee murmured.

“I’m helping them,” Tim whispered, barely able to breathe from the thrill. “I’m actually helping them.”

At one point, Robin landed on a rooftop just three buildings away. Tim flattened instantly, breathing into his sleeve, eyes wide. Robin scanned the area, posture tight and alert.

For a second, Tim thought Robin had spotted him.

But then the young hero moved on.

Tim let out a breathless laugh. “I thought I was caught.”

“You might have been,” Dee Dee said. “But you’re learning quickly.”

They sounded proud.

Tim felt his chest warm.

As the sky began to lighten with the earliest hint of dawn, he finally turned back toward home, feet aching but spirit blazing. He’d done it.

He’d had his first unofficial night in Gotham’s skies.

And it was everything he dreamed of.

Tim stepped through his front door, camera full of photos, heart full of adrenaline, and Dee Dee drifting behind him like a silent promise:
This was only the beginning.