Archive of Our Own

Something bad is coming. Tim can’t say how he knows this for a fact, nor why, nor what reason he has to think so. But he knows it as surely as one knows their childhood phone number, or the chorus to a song they’ve sung a thousand times.

Or maybe a better description would be a nursing home cat that smells when a patient is near death, because…well, there isn’t much difference, is there? The only dissimilarity is that cats can’t summon the dead at will. Only Tim can accomplish something so unnatural. After a lifetime of tug-of-war with his abilities, Tim can finally say that he’s grown used to this side of himself, more or less. He’s made peace with his burden of accessing a part of existence that no sane person would ever want to access.

It’s the only reason he doesn’t write this feeling off as the usual anxiety. He’s been in this too long to miss it.

He’s known since he woke up this morning, his chest tight with painful certainty. At first, he wasn’t sure what it meant— why he felt like he was already grieving despite all of his loved ones being alive and well, as far as he knew. Tim ignored it the best he could, amounting the sensation to general anxiety mixed with excessive caffeine consumption mixed with whatever other vices Tim has left.

It was only when the feeling swelled tenfold the closer he got in proximity to Bruce that Tim understood what his curse was trying to tell him.

Bruce is going to die today.

Tim sticks to Bruce when he can and monitors him on the manor’s security cameras when he can’t. He also witnesses the indignity of a forty-year-old man sneaking into the pantry at five in the morning to ransack Alfred’s secret Triscuit stash. He’d save the footage for future blackmail purposes if he weren’t so damn terrified.

Tim wracks his brain for what could be the final nail in Bruce’s coffin. All of their A-list villains are locked up in Arkham. There is no heavy construction going on at the top of Wayne Tower, waiting to drop eleven tons of concrete onto an unsuspecting bachelor. There are no hereditary terminal illnesses in the Wayne family that Tim knows of. According to Bruce’s last check-up with Leslie, he’s a picture of health.

Tim doesn’t know what’s worse: knowing what is to come, or not knowing how it will happen. Not knowing means he can’t prepare a plan to stop it. Not knowing means he can’t find a way to save him.

“Did you stop liking crepes?”

Tim picks his head up, shaking out of his faraway stare. He meets Bruce’s curious gaze across the breakfast table. “What?”

Bruce gestures with his fork. Tim’s crepes sit cold on his plate, untouched. “They’ve been your favorite for the past six years. Did something change?”

“No, no, I—I like crepes,” Tim says. He picks up his fork and takes a bite. It might as well be a forkful of cement, but he gets it down. “Sorry. Just got a little…” He gestures to his temple.

“Lost in your head,” Bruce finishes with a knowing smile. “I get it. Just try not to get lost while your breakfast is getting cold.”

Tim smiles back faintly. He drinks his orange juice to rid his throat of the lump stuck in it, putting off further questioning.

This won’t last, his instincts badger him. It strikes Tim just how good these easy mornings are, eating breakfast with his dad and siblings, watching Bruce fuss over Damian for getting syrup on his shirt. It’s more than most people get. It’s everything.

Will there be an empty chair at the head of the table this time tomorrow morning?

A lightbulb strikes. “Bruce,” Tim speaks up suddenly, “there’s a new smoothie place at the mall I wanted to try today. Want to come with?”

Bruce gives Tim a strange look. “I have work today. You’re the one who kept bothering me about shirking my Wayne Enterprises responsibilities.”

“Right.” He did do that, huh? “How about lunch, then?” If Tim can’t predict what event is going to befall Bruce, the next best thing is sticking to his side like a burr so he can be ready whenever it strikes. Bruce can’t be killed if he’s got a bodyguard with him at all times, can he?

“I’ll have to check my schedule.” Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you feeling okay? You seem…hyper.”

“Someone needs to lay off the coffee.” Jason is trying to spear a sausage on Cass’ plate with three forks he taped together. It’s not going very well.

“I’ll go with you, Timbo,” Dick offers. “I like smoothies.” Bruce checks his watch and stands from the table.

“Sorry, I’m busy today,” Tim says. He gathers up his still-full plate, his eyes not leaving Bruce’s back as he heads for the kitchen. Tim’s mind is bombarded with images of wet floors, drawers filled with knives, dishwasher explosions.

“But you just said—”

“Another time, Dick.” Tim pushes off from the table and rushes to catch up. “Bruce! Want to carpool?”

Tim calls in a raincheck with the Titans and tells them he can’t go to the tower today on account of a dastardly case of swine flu. He can’t risk going to San Francisco now, when Bruce is…when Bruce might…

Tim camps out in a café down the street from Wayne Tower, just in case. He nurses a single iced latte over the course of four hours, long after the ice cubes have melted and the drink’s gone lukewarm. Tim monitors his laptop carefully, keeping a keen eye on crime updates and weather conditions. Anything that could pose a potential threat.

It’s agonizing, the waiting. The sweating. The bracing for impact.

Tim idly watches an apparition drift past the front window of the café and wander aimlessly down the sidewalk. Half of her skull is caved in. Tim knows without asking that she died in a hit-and-run. Is that how Bruce will go? Will he die, not by a valiant sacrifice in the cowl, but smashed to bits on the street by a drunk driver? Or will he end up like so many of the other spirits Tim sees, dead from a spontaneous heart attack no one could prepare for? What about an aneurysm?

Tim can only prepare so much. He can’t protect Bruce from the pieces of the world that are out of his control and he can’t stand it. There are so, so many ways a person can die. A tumble down the stairs could take him out in just a few minutes. A well-placed blood clot could do it in less.

Tim’s fingers itch for the Tic Tac container in his pocket. It used to be filled with cleverly disguised pills, but it now only carries regular breath mints. Tim hasn’t relapsed since Dick made him get clean last year, but time doesn’t make it any easier. He tries not to think about that easy comfort, the quick-acting high of benzodiazepines. They used to take him down from a panic attack in seconds; now, he’s completely alone.

Tim flags down a waitress passing by his table in the corner. “Can I get a tea, please?” He pointedly doesn’t look at the still-full latte in front of him. Tea is calming, right? Not as effective as a shot of Ativan, but it’ll do the job.

After she’s gone, Tim tries to soothe his racing heart by checking his computer again. The tracker in Bruce’s phone reports that he’s still safe and sound in his office. Then again, just because his phone is in there doesn’t mean he is. Bruce could be bleeding out in an alley for all Tim knows. He should have installed bio-reading chips in his family when he had the chance.

At half-past noon, Tim breaks. He texts Bruce: are u okay?

After thirty seconds with no reply and the panic mounting, he calls. Bruce picks up after four decades-long rings. “Tim? Is everything all right?”

Just hearing his voice smothers a fraction of the anxiety coursing through Tim’s bloodstream. “Yeah,” he sighs, eyes slipping closed in relief. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“You texted me.”

“I text you all the time. It’s the primary method of communication for my generation. I’m just exercising my role in modern society.” Tim tries not to look at the ghost of a suicide jumper standing in front of the auto parts store across the street. “So…what’s up?”

“You called me, Tim.”

“Right. I did that.” Tim’s tea arrives. He takes a scalding gulp, willing his restless nerves to simmer down. “How’s your day going? I heard there’s a nasty flu going around and it’s especially appearing in middle-aged men. What’s your temp?”

Bruce goes quiet for a while. Tim briefly— briefly— wonders if Bruce was struck down by a sniper and now lies bleeding out on the carpet. “You’re being strange today.”

“Strange? Who’s strange? I’m not doing anything strange.” Tim realizes he’s drumming his fingers frantically on the table. He drops his hand to his thigh. “Why? Did…something happen?” He’s too jittery for it to come out as casually as he means it to. Would it be suspicious to ask if Wayne Tech security encountered any bomb threats today?

“Is something supposed to happen?”

“No, no, ‘course not. Just some friendly curiosity. Smalltalk.” He takes another sip of tea, which is doing nothing to calm his anxiety, by the way. The entire tea industry is a cauldron of false advertising. “But you would tell me if something did happen, right? I read this article on arrhythmias earlier and it turns out that even just stressing out too much can make you, like, die on the floor. Just like that. Isn’t that wild?”

Bruce is silent for a suspiciously longer length of time. “You’re not using again, are you?”

Tim sighs. Definitely overdid it. “Never mind.”

“If something is the matter, son, you know you can—”

“I’m not high, Bruce,” Tim snaps. “Forget I said anything. Just…text me when you’re on your way home.”

“Why?” Bruce asks, baffled.

“Fine, then don’t. Goodbye.” Tim hangs up before Bruce can grill him any further. He buries his face in his arms on the tabletop. Heaven forbid Tim tries to look out for his family without being whacked out on pills to do it.

Sometimes Tim wishes he were man enough to rip off the band-aid and tell Bruce the truth. Every time Tim has to refuse pain meds because he can’t be trusted not to overdo it, every time he sees the asterisk and Prone to Addiction footnote in his profile in the Batcomputer, Tim thinks about telling him. Showing him that it’s not Tim who is defective, that he had reasons for the medication besides needing a quick fix.

It would be so much simpler going from the family drug addict to the family talks-to-ghosts kid. With the things they’ve all seen and the friends they have, seeing dead people might actually be easier for Bruce to handle. If only it weren’t so terrifying.

Tim doesn’t regret getting clean. As much as he misses the idyllic buzz of the meds, he knows it’s better to be off them. He feels healthier now than he has since he was a kid, back when his parents first put him on Xanax. More clearheaded, too. The only downside is that now there is nothing blocking out the full power of Tim’s abilities.

It’s not too bad, most days. It took months for Tim to get this far, pushing back the voices and visions not with drugs, but with his own strength. He’s learned to tune it out on his own so the screams shuffle into background noise. Still, it’s startling whenever Tim is sitting in his room and catches a headless corpse meandering past his door.

Tim shivers and refreshes his laptop. There’s nothing he can do now but wait.

Tim doesn’t bother trying to convince Bruce to ditch patrol tonight. He knows it’s a lost cause. And Bruce is suspicious enough as it is. Tim doesn’t need one more person cluing in to his secret now—not without some time to prepare for the fallout. It’s difficult enough handling his freakish nature on his own without the added scrutiny from his family. The other day, Damian killed a fly and told Tim to tell its ghost that it should have been faster.

The best Tim can do is don the Red Robin uniform on his night off and glue himself to Batman for as long as the night lasts.

The hours drag on endlessly. Patrol lasts for days, it feels like, and not for a single minute is Tim able to relax. He nearly takes a bullet to the gut, he’s so distracted. Every dark alley and wayward blade tightens the knot of dread in his stomach. Tim has only preemptively sensed a death a handful of times before, but he understands the gist well enough. Bruce won’t make it through the night unless Tim does something—if there’s even anything that can be done. Not even Tim knows how to stop fate from happening.

He wants to be wrong. He wants it to be a fluke. He’d trade his own life in a heartbeat if it meant Bruce got to stick around a little longer.

Tim is zip-tying a band of would-be traffickers when he feels Bruce at his back. “Do you need medical?”

Tim’s hand got sliced by a switchblade during the scuffle, courtesy of one of the very traffickers he’s securing now. The gash isn’t too deep, but it tore through his glove and raked across the back and side of his hand. “I’m fine. Just need a patch job.”

Bruce holds out his hand expectantly. Tim rolls his eyes and surrenders his own hand. Bruce takes off Tim’s glove and checks over the wound. He takes a small bottle of disinfectant from a pouch in his belt and sprays it on, making Tim hiss.

“We’ll cut it short tonight,” Bruce decides after some deliberation. “Better to be safe than risk infection in this part of town.”

Tim has never been more grateful for the unhygienic wasteland that corrodes Gotham than he is right this moment. Also for his asplenia-related immunodeficiency. So long as Bruce doesn’t slip in the shower, there is nothing reasonably life-threatening that can get him now. The danger has to have been dodged, right? Maybe the hitman got a cold. Maybe Tim’s premonition was wrong. Maybe fate heeded Tim’s prayers for once.

Ultimately, Tim doesn’t care what it was or how unbearable it would have been. Bruce is safe, and that’s all Tim can ask for.

Tim calls the police to come pick up the traffickers while Bruce does a final sweep of the building. Tim catches up to him after he’s finished. “All set?” Bruce asks.

“Police will be here soon to pick up the creeps. There’s no point in us sticking around for them.”

Bruce jerks his chin in the direction of Tim’s hand. Even beneath the cowl, Tim can see the playfulness in his eyes. “You sure you’re fit to grapple with that hand? I’d be happy to carry you.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I think I can handle swinging a few blocks. But I’ll be sure to call you the next time I get a splinter.”

Bruce chuckles, walking towards the exit with Tim following. “What a way to make Alfred feel insignificant.”

Suddenly, Tim sees movement in the corner of his vision, back against the half-crumbled wall. In the split second between noticing the figure in the shadows and seeing the gun, Tim’s mind has already jumped through ten different shades of horror.

They should have checked the lower level more thoroughly for stragglers. Tim should have kept count of the building’s occupants when they first got here. Bruce’s uniform should be more bulletproof.

Tim knows before the gun is fully raised that he’s too late. He failed. Bruce’s back is turned. He can’t see the threat; he can’t see the gun pointed at his back.

The man’s finger twitches on the trigger and Tim doesn’t think—he just moves.

“No!” Tim grabs the arm that holds the gun, shoving it up toward the ceiling. A shot goes off, deafening in the small space. Tim’s fingers are icy cold on the bare skin of the man’s exposed wrist. It’s more than enough. All at once, a rush of hollow energy washes through Tim, punching a gasp from his chest and screeching through him like nails raked across a chalkboard. If Tim is a black star, this man’s life is a nebula sucked into the vortex.

Not Bruce.

In two heartbeats, it’s over. The man jolts and goes eerily still. Tim feels a distant pop, like a bottle uncorking. The man lets out a strangled scream and crumples to the ground like the life has been yanked from his body. The air around Tim has dropped to freezing.

Bruce whips around at the commotion, but he’s too slow to stop what’s already happened. His eyes widen at the body on the ground. Then they land on Tim.

Coming back into himself, Tim jumps back from the corpse with a choked sound. He stares at his bare hand. It feels hot, unlike the rest of him. It feels singed, but it doesn’t hurt.

What just happened?

Bruce is over in a second. He pushes Tim away from his victim. “Get away from him.” Tim doesn’t protest, too stunned to speak. He backs away silently. Bruce checks for a pulse, but Tim already knows that there isn’t anything to feel. He knows what death feels like. He is intimately familiar with the secondhand sensation by now. The dead man’s face is still twisted in horror.

Bruce wheels on Tim, equal parts enraged and bewildered. “What happened?” he snarls. “What did you do?”

“I don’t—I just touched him.” Tim didn’t even know he could… “I swear, Bru—Batman. I just…I just touched him.”

Bruce stares at Tim, scrutinizing this thing in front of him. It’s like he’s seeing Tim for the first time. Like he’s never encountered this species before and is trying to determine if it’s poisonous.

Tim makes himself scarce when they return home. He heads straight for the shower and changes out of his Red Robin suit as fast as humanly possible. It feels different now. Tim first donned this cowl because he needed an identity that would allow him to cross lines Robin couldn’t. He never expected it would actually fulfill its purpose.

He can’t face Bruce. Not tonight, not ever. Tim escapes to his room before anyone can corner him. Will Bruce tell the others what happened tonight? Will they expose Tim’s secret, or will they wait for him to confess to Bruce himself?

Tim sits on his bed, staring down at his hand. His palm is wrapped in gauze. He took care of it himself, not daring to let anyone within ten feet of him upon returning to the manor. Not after what he did.

He doesn’t feel any different. Shouldn’t he? Nothing has changed, but at the same time, everything has changed. Tim killed a person tonight. He doesn’t know how and he didn’t mean to do it, but it happened. Someone is dead because of him. It was an accident, yes, but…that counts. Intentional or not, it counts.

Tim Drake: freak of nature. Tim Drake: seer of things that aren’t meant to be seen. Tim Drake: murderer.

Until tonight, Tim didn’t think he was even capable of taking a life. Not like this—without the slightest bit of effort. Tim has watched plants wither at his feet and goldfish go belly-up when he enters a room, but he never thought…he wasn’t prepared…

Tim knows he can’t stall forever.

“Tim.” Tim jumps at the sound of Cass’ voice; he doesn’t know when she materialized in his doorway, nor how long she stood there staring at his catatonia. “Bruce wants you,” she says. “Downstairs.” Her tone makes it clear which “downstairs” she’s referring to.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Tim tells her. He pulls his sleeves down to cover his hands, just in case.

Cass lingers another moment. Her eyes are dark, penetrating. “You…okay?”

“I’m fine.” Actually, Tim is aching for a pill now—something to take the edge off and calm his racing mind. It’s been over a year since he got clean, but nights like this one always bring him right back to that brink. Cass notices, of course. She can always read when he’s craving. Usually when the urge gets this bad, Tim and Cass will go out for ice cream to take his mind off it.

Cass comes into the room and sits on the bed beside Tim, shoving his Chewbacca Pillow Pet out of the way. “Something happened tonight?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Obviously something,” Cass says. “Talk. I’ll listen.” She goes to touch Tim’s shoulder in comfort. Tim jerks away so fast he nearly topples off the side of the bed.

“Don’t,” Tim says quickly, his pulse racing. Images run through his head of Cass dead on the ground, the life sucked out of her just like that man tonight. What’s to stop Tim from doing the same thing to every hand he shakes, every face he punches, every body he embraces? What if he’s too slow to warn Dick the next time he goes in for a hug? What if Tim can’t help poisoning every inch of flesh he comes into contact with for the rest of his life?

Cass’ eyes narrow in suspicion. “Something happened,” she accuses. She doesn’t have to say more than that.

Tim stands from the bed, far more comfortable once there are a few safe feet between Cass and himself. “Bruce’ll be mad if I keep him waiting,” he mutters. He knows Cass sees how shaky he is on his feet, but she doesn’t comment on it as he leaves the room.

Bruce is standing at the Batcomputer when Tim arrives. His head is bent low like there’s a physical weight sitting on his shoulders, his hands braced on the desk in front of him. He’s changed out of his batsuit into some sweats, which Tim hopes he can take as a good sign.

“You wanted to talk?” Tim says, creeping in. His palms are sweating.

Bruce doesn’t turn around. “The autopsy results came back.”

This is it. “What did it say?”

“It was inconclusive. Spontaneous multi-system failure, it looks like. No traces of any drugs or poisons. Cause of death remains unknown.”

“Oh.”

“What did you do, Tim?” Bruce’s voice is hard as stone.

“I just touched him, I told you.” Bruce says nothing, but Tim can feel his doubt at the poor excuse for a lie. Tim inhales carefully. “Bruce, I—”

“I missed something, didn’t I?” Tim’s mouth snaps shut. “All these years.” Bruce turns around, finally. Tim has gotten pretty good over the years at reading Bruce’s poker face. Now, he has no idea what is going on behind that blank slate, only that the look in Bruce’s eyes makes him want to run for cover.

“Dick told me you overdosed,” Bruce continues, “after I came back, but he never said why. I was so relieved you were okay that I never questioned it. I never questioned why you were taking them in the first place. You told me it was anxiety, and none of your medical history suggested otherwise. Your parents told your doctors that you had night terrors. They said it was your imagination running wild from the trauma of watching the Graysons die. You were frightened of monsters, they said—people who weren’t there.”

Tim’s eyes burn; his throat tightens. “Bruce—”

“I tested you for the metagene, once. Back when you first started out as Robin. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Bruce’s stare is damning. “You hacked into the system and changed the results before I could see what they were.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry. He didn’t know that Bruce knew he’d tampered with the results. He should have anticipated he’d get caught, but…but Bruce never said anything. He never gave any indication that Tim’s trick all those years ago had failed. Tim had thought he was home free.

“I knew you were hiding something from me, so I ran the test again later that night on a private server you wouldn’t be able to hack into. It came up negative, but I never understood why you would change it if you weren’t a metahuman.” Bruce’s head tilts. He looks at Tim carefully like he’s peeling apart his layers, trying to see through to the creature beneath. “Because you’re not a metahuman, are you? You’re something else.”

Tim, as helpless as he’s ever been, public gallery to his own witch trial, nods.

“I went back after what happened tonight,” Bruce says. “I reexamined your files for an answer—something that would explain how you did what you did. You covered your tracks well. Even I didn’t see the signs all these years.” Tim is almost deluded enough to believe that’s pride in Bruce’s voice. But Bruce could never be proud of a killer—not unless they’re Jason or Damian, someone human.

“I’d notice you talking to yourself sometimes, but I thought that was just a quirk. It was only rational that someone who grew up the way you did would invent imaginary companions. You’re a detective, so I never questioned how you’d know so many things that, by all means, you couldn’t have found out by observation alone. You knew Jason’s favorite book. You knew about my mother’s piano and my father’s chess set. Things you only could have known if someone had told them to you.”

Bruce leans back against the desk, studying Tim. His expression is inscrutable until, after the tensest moment of Tim’s short, tragic excuse for a life, he says simply, “Ghosts. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You see ghosts.”

Tim nods again, unable to make his vocal cords work. This is it. This is the moment he’s been dreading since the day he realized his imaginary friends weren’t as imaginary as he thought. He had a good run, but the clock has run out; the gavel hits its block.

“But that’s not all,” Bruce says. It comes out almost as a question. He’s reached the end of known and is officially delving into the unknown portion of this awful interrogation. “There’s more you can do, isn’t there?”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Tim whispers. It’s a useless argument, but he’s desperate. He always planned to tell Bruce about his powers eventually, but not now. Not when he’s not ready. “I didn’t even want to hurt him. I just—I could sense this morning that something was going to happen to you, and—and then he raised the gun and…it happened so fast. I didn’t even know I could do that until it was already too late.”

He wants to apologize. He wants to throw himself at Bruce’s feet and beg for his forgiveness, but it’s taking all of his strength just to stand here and witness the crumbling apart of everything he’s fought so hard to keep. Tim struggles past the lump in his throat to say, pathetically quiet, “It was an accident.”

Bruce nods. “I believe you.”

Tim waits for the but, only…it doesn’t come. He stares up at Bruce, disbelieving. “You…do?” He can’t let himself believe it could be this easy. Tim hid this earth-shattering secret from Bruce for years. What right does Tim have to assume he’s still deserving of Bruce’s trust after all that deceit? This would be easier to navigate if Bruce were a normal father and Tim a normal son, but at the core of their relationship, Tim and Bruce are partners. How can Bruce be expected to keep Tim in his life when he knows he can’t trust him?

Will Bruce take away Red Robin? Will he disown him, write him out of his will, tear up the adoption certificate? Can one even un-adopt a person? Tim is emancipated, so probably. It would be warranted, after all Tim has done. If Batman can’t trust his Robin, there’s no point in keeping him around any longer.

“You’re not a killer,” Bruce says simply. “And you’re not a liar. Not without good reason.” He inclines his head pointedly.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, because what else can he say? “I wanted to tell you. I tried so many times, but I…” Was a coward. Was weak. Didn’t want to lose the one parent I had left. “I couldn’t risk it. And by the time I thought maybe I could, I’d already waited too long.”

Bruce just nods, his expression still unreadable. “The drugs?”

Tim looks shamefully down at the floor. “They make it easier to block it out. Without the pills, it’s…it gets loud. The volume’s dialed up all the way. I can’t focus.” Some days it’s unbearable. Tim can barely hear himself think over the cacophony of souls elbowing each other for his attention, deafening him with their wails. “It was worse when I was younger.”

“And now?”

“It’s…easier, I guess. I’m learning how to tune them out. I didn’t have much of a choice after Dick made me get clean.”

For the first time, Bruce’s expression shifts into guarded curiosity. “Does he know?” Tim nods. “Who else?”

“Jason and Damian. Raven sensed it the day we met. Duke knows too, as of that talk we had last month.” Tim feels more guilty with every name he lists. “I haven’t told Cass, but I know she knows. And Conner found out when he came back from…you know.” He waves a hand uselessly.

Bruce’s mouth is parted, his expression cracking. “Jason,” he repeats. Tim had a feeling that would be the one he’d linger on, connecting the missing dots. “So, you saw…”

“Yeah. He was a pretty…prominent figure in my life when I first started out.”

Bruce nods slowly, taking it all in. “I’m the last one to know?”

“I wanted to tell you for so long, I swear, but I didn’t…I couldn’t risk it. I know how you feel about metahumans in your city. Things changed after Duke, but by then it was too late, and I just kept putting it off, and…” Tim has lied to Bruce more times than he can count, but this is the only time he’s truly felt like a traitor for doing it. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce does something that surprises Tim: He puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder, and his eyes soften. If the touch weren’t through the fabric layer of Tim’s sweatshirt, he wouldn’t have allowed it. “I understand, Tim. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“You? But you didn’t—”

“I’m supposed to be a detective. I should have noticed something like this early on, but I didn’t. I’m sorry that you felt like you couldn’t tell me. I shouldn’t have missed it.”

“Oh.” Tim can count on both hands the number of times Bruce has apologized to him for anything. If they were in uncharted waters before, this has thrown them completely off the map. “So…what happens now? Should I hand over the uniform, or can I keep using it outside of the city?”

Now Bruce is the confused one. “What are you talking about?”

“I know I’m probably fired, right?” Tim fights to keep the pain out of his voice. He’s been preparing for this for years; the least he can do is take his sentence without blubbering. “Turning me in would compromise our identities, so you can’t involve the authorities. It’ll take some time for me to set up a new base of operations—longer if I’m locked out of Oracle’s systems. I can have my room cleared out by lunchtime tomorrow.” That’s a stretch, he knows, but he doesn’t want to overstay his long and undeserved welcome any more than he already has.

He has a few safehouses he can squat in until he procures himself a permanent apartment. Unless Bruce wants him out of Gotham completely, which would make the apartment hunting a little more difficult. His room at Titans Tower should still be empty if it comes to that.

Bruce’s mouth twists in a way that Tim could almost describe as pitiful. “You’re staying here, Tim. Red Robin is yours for as long as you want it.”

Tim can’t trust the mercy. “Bruce, I killed a man tonight. It was an accident, but I still did it. I killed an innocent person to save you.” Okay, maybe not innocent, but he was still a human being. He didn’t deserve to have his life cut painfully short just because Tim was selfish. The most despicable part is that, even now when the guilt has settled on him fully, Tim doesn't regret what he did. Bruce is standing in front of him, betrayed and disappointed, but alive. Tim would do it again in a heartbeat.

“He was a freelance henchman with a criminal record,” Bruce says. “No living family members, according to his file. His last job before tonight was stealing materials for Scarecrow. No one will report him missing, and as far as the computer system knows, he died of natural causes during the fight.”

“Natural…what?” Tim can’t believe what he’s hearing. “How can you even say that? I—”

“Did nothing,” Bruce finishes. “Like you said, you just touched him. Even if I hadn’t erased the video footage, that’s all anyone would have seen. It was an unfortunate coincidence.”

Tim can’t…he can’t. He can’t comprehend any of it. Bruce Wayne—moral backbone made of steel, let the Joker live after killing Bruce’s own son, would rather die himself than take the life of another—covering up a murder? It’s unfathomable. It goes against every principle this family stands for. Bruce is crossing the one line he dared never to cross. For Tim.

“Thank you,” Tim says thickly. He doesn’t know what else he can say to possibly convey how grateful he is. It’s more than he deserves.

“I would,” Bruce adds, “like to know more about these abilities of yours. For research purposes, of course. And so we can prevent an incident like this from happening again. Does tomorrow afternoon work for you?” Bruce picks up his tablet from the desk and starts entering the information into his schedule. He talks as he types. “I would also like to see if we can deduce where these abilities came from, if not from a metagene. I have a handful of contacts we can call, see if they know anything. If we know where your powers originated, it could help us find a way to make them more manageable for you.”

Tim’s mouth opens and closes several times before he can find his voice again. “What…how are you okay with this?”

“You’re my son,” Bruce says. “It’s going to take some adjustment, I’ll admit, but I still love you the same. This explains a lot, actually. I thought I was getting rusty, but anyone can solve a case in half the time when they can just ask the ghost of the deceased who their killer is. It’s a very useful trick you’ve got there.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. This conversation has taken him in so many unexpected directions, he’s genuinely concerned he’s invented such a thing as mental whiplash. “Thanks, I think? But I haven’t—I mean, it’s not like I use them to solve every case.  Less than half, actually.” At Bruce’s intrigued hum, he goes on. It's strange to talk about his abilities like this, like it's something normal. “Some people are harder to reach than others. I can’t always do it, even when I’m not high. If someone’s totally at peace, it’s not as easy to reach them. It helps when they’re angry. Or if I have a personal connection to them.”

“Personal connection?” Bruce asks. He’s looked up from his tablet, curiosity piqued.

“Like, if I knew them, or if I’m with someone else who knew them. I saw Conner every day after he died, even when I didn’t want to. Jason too. I still see your parents sometimes when my head is clear enough.”

The tablet hits the stone floor hard, the screen shattering on impact so loudly Tim flinches. Tim could have easily saved it mid-flight; the only reason he didn’t is because he’d assumed Bruce would do it himself. Tim has never known Batman to drop anything.

Bruce is a split-screen of hope and utter devastation. “You see them?”

Tim almost doesn’t want to say more, seeing Bruce unguarded like this, but he owes it to him. “Pretty often. Mostly in the upstairs sitting room. Sometimes in the library.” They’re chattier than most of the spirits Tim encounters in the manor. They like having regular updates on the lives of their many grandchildren, both official and honorary. It’s all Tim can do to keep up.

“They watch you,” Tim says, daring to look Bruce in the eyes. “They’re proud of you.”

Bruce’s eyes glisten and for a short, terrifying moment, Tim is afraid he’s going to cry. But all Bruce does is let out a deep breath that he sounds like he’s been holding for a very long time. Before Tim can protest, Bruce reaches out and pulls Tim into a firm hug. Tim’s pulse jumps and he tries to back away, remembering the sheer horror on that man’s face as he died at Tim’s hand, but seconds pass, and Tim doesn’t feel the telltale prickle in his spine. He doesn’t feel frost gathering in the air.

Bruce’s bare hand is warm on the back of Tim’s uncovered neck—skin on skin, life touching death. Bruce’s heart is still thumping firmly in his chest. Tim shudders with relief as more beats pass and his poison doesn’t unleash itself on Bruce. He’s alive. Tim sags into the hug, his fears alleviated for the first time since he woke up this morning and felt death churning in his veins.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispers into Tim’s hair.