Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tim glanced at the rear-view mirror for the third time in as many minutes, knuckles white around the steering wheel.

They’d been lucky so far.

Extremely lucky.

Far too lucky, if you asked him.

Between Delhi, Reykjavik, and Gotham there had been almost zero bad guy activity. No shadows on their tail. No surprise visits from a certain megalomaniac with a flair for theatrics.

But it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

He glanced back at the little girl in the rear-view mirror.

She was watching the Gotham skyline slide past them, neon lights painting her face in shifting ribbons of color.

Luckily, he’d managed to convince her to stay buckled with relatively little resistance.

Which was a miracle.

By the end of their first twelve hours—from Delhi to Reykjavik—he’d wanted to pull his hair out and scream into the nearest pillow. Getting her to sit still had been like pulling teeth.

Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise considering her parentage.

Still, that hadn’t stopped the frustration from bubbling up when they’d hit a particularly nasty patch of turbulence halfway over the Atlantic. Trying to corral a four-year-old in a private jet while the plane bounced like a rubber ball had not been high on Tim Drake’s list of life goals.

He wondered, not for the first time, if this was some kind of divine retribution for his own childhood antics.

All the chaos he and Young Justice and the Titans had gotten up to over the years.

Apparently the universe had decided it was time to return the favor.

Still, he had to admit he’d done a pretty good job keeping his tone calm and gentle while wrangling the small hurricane of energy that was his daughter. If he did say so himself.

At this rate, though, he was going to go gray before he even hit twenty.

Tim let out a slow breath, running through the grounding exercises Bruce had drilled into him when he was first starting out as Robin.

In through the nose.

Hold.

Out through the mouth.

He dropped his shoulders, forcing himself to loosen his death grip on the steering wheel.

Not much had changed in the six months he’d been away.

One apartment complex on the outskirts of Gotham had been taped off with yellow safety tape, scorch marks crawling up the outer walls. But that wasn’t unusual for Gotham.

It could’ve been Killer Moth.

Or maybe Two-Face had gotten a wild hair again.

It could’ve even been a fluke—but flukes were few and far between in this city.

He’d skim through the case files he’d missed the moment he finally got a minute to breathe.

And maybe take a nap.

A nap sounded heavenly.

He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep since this whole mess had started.

First Bruce disappearing into the time-stream.

And now this.

A child who looked too much like him…and just enough like Ra’s to make his stomach twist.

Her delicate features were all Drake—high cheekbones softened by baby fat, his mother’s slightly upturned nose, dainty fingers that were still small enough to curl around his pinky.

She looked so much like him at her age—the same dark hair. Only hers was cropped short and braided in double French braid out of her face. All the time he'd spent braiding Steph or Cassie's hair finally paid off.

But her eyes—bright, impossible Lazarus green were all Ra’s al Ghul.

Old. Observant. Far too knowing for a four-year-old.

Tim glanced at the mirror again.

Just to make sure she was still there.

For a split second his stomach dropped—an old instinct from the last six months, the constant expectation that something would be wrong when he looked back.

But she was still there.

Small in the backseat. Light up Batman Sketchers dangling. The stuffed robin resting in her lap.

Watching.

And when his eyes lifted fully to the mirror, hers met his.

The neon lights from the city outside caught in them, turning the Lazarus green almost electric.

Her expression was unreadable.

Not confused.

Not scared.

Just… watching him. Studying him the same way she studied everything else, like she was quietly filing the moment away somewhere in that too-clever little brain of hers.

For a moment, neither of them looked away.

Then he cleared his throat. 

"We're getting close, okay? Just a few more minutes and then you can get out."

"Okay, Daddy."

Her voice was carefully neutral.

Too careful.

Tim felt his chest tighten at the sound of it.

She’d learned that tone somewhere along the way—flat, controlled, giving nothing away.

Not the voice of a child. 

Tim forced himself to look back at the road, jaw tightening slightly as they hit the R. Kane Memorial Bridge.

Just a few more minutes.

If everything went to plan, she would never have to sound like that again. 

The bridge from Gotham City to New Jersey always felt longer than it really was.

Tonight it seemed to stretch on forever.

Below them, the dark water churned restlessly, waves slapping against the concrete pylons as wind pushed through the harbor. The river looked black under the night sky, broken only by scattered reflections of Gotham’s neon skyline behind them.

Tim kept his eyes on the road.

The tires hummed softly over the asphalt, the long stretch of bridge offering nowhere to turn and nowhere to hide. 

For a moment it felt like they were suspended between two worlds—Gotham behind them, Bristol ahead.

Past and present.

Hunter and hunted.

But soon enough the far end of the bridge rose to meet them, the glow of Gotham fading in the rear-view mirror as the road curved toward quieter streets and dark stretches of trees.

They made landfall again.

Closer now.

Just a few more minutes. 

Eventually, the only lights left were the occasional porch lamp and the dim reflection of headlights against puddles.

He took one more turn.

Then another.

Soon enough the city gave way entirely.

The mansions that dotted the outskirts of Bristol thinned out, their long gated drives disappearing behind tall hedges and iron fences. Streetlights became fewer and farther between until the road ahead was lit only by the SUV’s headlights cutting through the dark.

Eventually, Tim slowed and turned onto a narrow side road most people would miss if they didn’t know exactly where to look.

The transition was immediate.

Mansions turned to trees.

Asphalt turned to gravel.

The tires crunched beneath them as the car rolled forward, headlights sweeping across dense forest on either side of the winding path.

Tim’s shoulders tightened again.

Instinct.

Even after six months of running, some habits didn’t go away.

He checked the mirrors.

Once.

Twice.

No headlights.

No movement in the trees.

No one following them.

Still, he didn’t relax.

Not yet.

Because this stretch of road was the last place anyone would see them before they disappeared completely.

Tim knew these roads well.

He knew every curve, every dip in the terrain well enough he could probably drive them blindfolded if he had to. Years of racing through these woods in the Redbird—or tearing down the trail on the Robincycle—had burned the route into muscle memory.

Back then he’d flown down this path at reckless speeds, tires spitting gravel.

Now he crept along it in a beat-up SUV that looked like it had lived three different lives and was tired of all of them.

The engine rattled faintly every time he eased off the gas.

A far cry from the Redbird. But it blended in. And blending in had kept them alive for six months.

The little girl still hadn’t said anything.

She sat quietly in the backseat, her stuffed robin tucked into her lap, watching the trees slip past the window with the same focused intensity she gave everything else.

Tim almost wished she would ask questions.

The silence made it too easy for his thoughts to wander. And wander they did.

He found himself replaying the last time he’d seen Bruce—the chaos, alarms blaring, everyone moving at once while they tried to stabilize him after pulling him back from the time-stream.

Bruce had been unconscious then.

Broken and too thin and so unlike the Batman—unlike Bruce.

Alive, but barely.

Tim hadn’t stayed long enough to see him wake up. He’d left before Bruce could even open his eyes.

He left a letter and a promise 

Then promptly fucked off for the next six months.

And now he was back with… her.

Tim’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel.

He didn’t know what Bruce would say when he made the connection between them. Because Bruce would make the connection. Immediately. I mean, c'mon, he was Batman.

And Batman always saw everything.

Would he disown them? Would he look at her and only see Ra’s? Would he look at Tim and see a mistake he never should have made?

Tim swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe out slowly through his nose.

He risked another glance at the rear-view mirror.

Eventually the narrow road came to an abrupt end at what looked like nothing more than a sheer wall of stone.

To anyone else it was just another stretch of cliff face.

No seam.

No door.

Just a dead end.

But the top-tier, vigilante-grade security system buried beneath the rock said otherwise.

Tim rolled the SUV to a slow stop, gravel popping beneath the tires before the brakes gave a soft squeal. The engine idled low in the quiet woods.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then Tim leaned slightly over the center console and a small sensor flickered to life.

Green light washed across his face as the scanner activated. The beam swept across his eyes before the system gave a soft confirming chime, and the ground beneath the tires gave the faintest vibration.

Somewhere inside the cliff face, heavy mechanical locks disengaged one by one, the sound echoing faintly through the earth.

Stone shifted.

The cliff face split apart along seams that had been completely invisible moments before, massive slabs of rock sliding silently inward.

The hidden entrance revealed itself slowly, like the mountain itself was opening its mouth.

A narrow ramp descended into darkness below.

Something eased in Tim’s chest.

Finally.

They were here.

They made it.

Of course, that didn’t mean the danger was over.

If anything, this was just the end of one battle and the beginning of another. But at least this one was on familiar ground.

The moment the SUV rolled forward, motion sensors triggered.

A row of recessed lights flickered on one by one, chasing each other down the ramp and illuminating the winding path into the belly of the cave.

Tim guided the car slowly down the incline, tires humming against the smooth stone as the walls rose on either side of them—dark, damp, and familiar.

Behind them, the stone doorway began sliding shut again.

The massive slabs sealed together with a low, grinding finality.

Closing the mountain.

Sealing the outside world away.

At the bottom of the ramp, he pulled the car to a stop and eased it off to the side before killing the engine.

The sudden silence rang in his ears.

For a moment he didn’t move, hands still resting on the steering wheel, listening to the faint ticking of the engine as it cooled beneath the hood.

The cave stretched out around them, fully lit and humming with quiet activity.

The Batmobile was—unsurprisingly—missing from its usual platform.

Several other vehicles were gone as well, the empty spaces marking where various members of Batman Inc kept their rides when they were in Gotham.

Which meant they were still out.

Still working.

Good.

Tim’s eyes swept the cave automatically anyway.

Old habits die hard after all.

The Batcomputer glowed across the cavern, banks of monitors casting soft blue light across the stone floor. The medical bay lights were on but the bed was empty 

Everything looked normal. But normal had meant very little to him these last six months.

His gaze lingered on the central platform, scanning shadows, checking angles, cataloguing exits the way Bruce had drilled into him years ago.

Just in case.

Tim didn’t move just yet.

Instead he glanced back at the little girl who looked so much like him it still caught him off guard sometimes.

“Are we home now?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Tim’s throat tightened, but he nodded.

“Yes, birdie,” he said quietly. “We made it home.”

At those words, something small shifted in her expression.

Her grip on the stuffed robin tightened, fingers bunching into the fabric. For a moment he couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or cry.

But just as quickly, she reined it in.

Her hands relaxed again, smoothing the plush feathers in her lap.

“Okay.”

Then, after a small pause, she asked:

“Do I get to meet Batman now?”

Tim huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something soft pulling at the corner of his mouth.

There was no denying she was truly his.

“Yes, birdie,” he said. “You can meet Batman now.”

Then she surprised him by asking, “And Uncle Nightwing?”

Tim blinked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite the tightness still lodged in his chest.

“And Uncle Nightwing,” he confirmed.

She went quiet again, but it was like someone had flipped a switch.

A moment ago she’d been small and watchful in the backseat. Now she seemed to glow with excitement, fingers bouncing lightly against the wings of the stuffed robin in her lap.

“Okay,” she said again, this time a little happier.

Tim hoped it would be okay.

For both of their sakes.

“Do you remember the plan?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good. Can you remind me what we talked about?”

She sighed dramatically and began fiddling with the wings of her plush.

“Fine,” she said. “Daddy is going to say hi before me and make sure it’s safe. Then I get to meet Batman.”

“Good job,” Tim said softly. “And what if Daddy decides it isn’t safe?”

“Then I listen to Daddy and stay in the car.”

“What else?”

She hesitated for a moment.

“And Daddy keeps me safe. No matter what.”

“Because?”

She looked up at him through the mirror, eyes bright in the dim cave light.

“Because Daddy woves me with his whole entire heart.”

Tim felt something in his chest twist.

“I do,” he agreed quietly. “I love you. And I promise I will always keep you safe, remember? Pinky promise.”

He leaned back over the center console and held out his pinky.

She glanced up at him before carefully wrapping her tiny finger around his.

“Pinky pwomise.”

“And do you remember what happens when you break a pinky promise?”

Now she grinned.

“You ’splode!”

“That’s right,” Tim said. “And we don’t want any more explosions than absolutely necessary, right?”

She considered this very seriously.

“I like when things go boom.”

Tim bit back a grimace.

Yeah. Definitely his kid.

He had a sudden, terrible flash of sympathy for Bruce.

Was this what he’d felt all those years? Watching Tim, Dick, Jason—every reckless thing they’d ever done—and realizing there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop them from loving the danger?

“I know you do,” Tim said carefully. “But you don’t want Daddy to explode, do you?”

“Baba ’sploded,” she said matter-of-factually. “But Baba was mean, so that’s okay.”

Tim opened his mouth to respond.

Then closed it again.

He didn’t even know where to begin with that line of logic.

In almost every sense of the word, she was four.

But she also wasn’t.

How exactly did you explain the messy nuances of life and death, justice and revenge, to a child who’d spent the first months of her life inside the League of Assassins?

So instead he tried something simpler instead.

“Baba was mean,” Tim said slowly. “But just because someone’s mean doesn’t mean we want them to explode. Remember?”

Her delicate little brow furrowed.

“But why?”

If Tim didn’t already have a pulsing ice pick stabbing through his left eye, he was pretty sure he did now.

He paused, studying her brilliant emerald gaze, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Because…” he began carefully. “Because every life has value. Which means we can’t go around making people explode. Even if we really want to.”

“Even if they’re mean?” she asked, sounding deeply disappointed.

“Especially the mean ones.”

Her eyes narrowed like she wanted to argue.

Instead, Tim lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Her hand was so small in his. Too small. And there were already calluses beginning to form across her palm.

If he could take Ra’s down all over again, he would. In a heartbeat. 

Unfortunately… he couldn’t entirely disagree with her logic. Ra’s al Ghul did deserve to explode.

Still, he added it to the list of Things to Work On. 

For a moment the cave was quiet around them, the soft ticking of the cooling engine the only sound in the car.

Tim held her hand a second longer than he probably should have before letting it go.

Then he became aware of movement outside.

Footsteps echoed faintly across the stone.

Tim’s head snapped up.

He twisted in his seat just in time to see Alfred approaching the SUV, his familiar silhouette moving through the glow of the Batcomputer.

Tim’s heart ticked up a notch.

The little stuffed robin had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase when they landed in Iceland to refuel after the ten-hour flight from Delhi.

She had barely spoken since evacuating Kashmir unless it was for necessities.

Daddy, I’m hungry.

Daddy, I need to go potty.

Daddy, you’re walking too fast.

So when she’d tugged on his sleeve in the airport shop and pointed to the window display and said, “Look, Daddy, it’s a robin just like you,” he hadn’t hesitated.

The plush had come with them.

Along with a handful of puzzle toys he’d grabbed in the same panicked sweep, hoping they’d make it through the next six hours of flight time in one piece.

He’d learned pretty quickly that idle hands spelled disaster.

She’d proudly produced the wallets of both flight attendants and the copilot before he’d even realized what she was doing.

Tim still wasn’t entirely sure when she’d taken them.

He glanced back at her now, giving her one last once-over.

Still buckled.

Still holding the robin.

Good.

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and twisted back toward the front seat, snagging the keys from the ignition.

“Just a few more minutes,” he repeated quietly.

Tim opened the door and slipped out of the SUV, easing it closed behind him as softly as he could.

The cave air was familiarly cold against his skin.

And for just a moment he stood there, drawing in a slow breath that felt like the first real one he’d taken in months.

The low hum of the Batcomputer filled the cavern, mingling with the distant chatter of bats somewhere high in the dark above.

Home. 

Or at least the closest thing he had to it.

He forced himself to turn away from the car. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to stay. To guard. To watch.

Protect protect protect.

But he made himself walk anyway.

And despite everything, he couldn’t quite stop the small smile that tugged at his lips when he saw Alfred already crossing the cave toward him.

Alfred had always had a way of appearing exactly when he was needed.

But as the distance between them shrank, Alfred slowed. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Under the cave lights he looked pale, the deep lines carved into his face making him appear suddenly, impossibly old.

“Master Tim,” he breathed. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Is that you?”

Something tight and painful twisted in Tim’s chest.

Six months.

Six months of running. Of hiding. Of wondering if he would ever make it back here again.

And Alfred was still here. Standing in the same place he always had. Waiting.

Finally, Tim managed:

“Hi, Alfred.” His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “I’m home.”

That was all it took.

Alfred closed the remaining distance between them in a few quick strides and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Tim froze for a heartbeat.

Then he melted into it.

Still careful—oh so careful—to shift his stance just enough that his body blocked Alfred’s view of the backseat.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Alfred breathed, his voice trembling despite his obvious effort to steady it. “How I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Tim breathed, the admission slipping out before he could stop it.

Alfred’s arms tightened around him.

He smelled like fresh-baked cookies and the faintest trace of cologne Tim had never been able to name—he’d tried.

He smelled like home.

“Then why have you been away so long?” Alfred asked chidingly. “You’re so thin. We will have to see to that.”

Instead of being offended, Tim let out a broken laugh.

His eyes burned.

Six months of running and the first thing Alfred wanted to do was feed him.

“I’ve been eating,” Tim said weakly.

He didn’t add sometimes.

It was hard to sit down for a proper meal when you were constantly on the move trying to track down the child you hadn’t even known you had.

Alfred pulled back just enough to give him a skeptical look.

Tim winced.

“I know,” Tim sighed. “I promise I’ll explain everything. Can we just… wait until Bruce gets back?"

Alfred raised a brow.

“It’s just… kind of a lot,” Tim said. “And I don’t think I have the energy to explain it more than once tonight.”

“I suppose that is doable,” Alfred replied calmly. “Master Bruce is on his way back now. He was notified that your flight had landed. The plan was for him to be here when you arrived.”

Alfred paused slightly.

“But it seems he was… sidetracked.”

Yeah, he knew that one all too well.

“Do you know if the others are coming back with him?”

Alfred shook his head. “From my understanding, it was suggested the others make alternative arrangements for the evening.”

“Damian—”

“Will be staying with Master Dick for the evening.”

Tim couldn’t help the wave of relief that washed over him.

He didn’t know how Damian was going to react. As it was, the first time they’d met Damian had been all daggers and righteous fury, pushing Tim off a balcony to stake his claim as the One True Heir.

Tim wasn’t sure he had it in him to fight Damian on top of everything else tonight.

Damian finding out Ra’s had apparently located his replacement was not something Tim was prepared to deal with until after an Alfred-cooked meal, a long, too-hot shower, and at least twelve hours of sleep.

"How is everyone?" Tim asked hesitantly. 

Alfred's expression faltered for a moment before coming back online. 

“Things are… improving,” Alfred said carefully. “Master Damian’s needs can be… challenging. But he has been improving.”

“And Bruce?” Tim dared to ask.

“Is Master Bruce,” Alfred said simply. “But I assure you he will be pleased to have you home.”

Tim smiled, trying to fight off a grimace.

They would see about that once he found out about the little girl in the backseat.

If Alfred noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he pulled away.

Something in Tim’s chest twisted at the loss of contact. It took everything in him not to pull Alfred right back into the hug.

“In the meantime,” Alfred said smoothly, “why don’t you allow me to help you unpack? We can at least prepare for Master Bruce’s return.”

Tim’s heart sank.

And, of course, in true Tim Drake fashion, his mouth spoke before his brain.

“No, I’ve got it. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just wait until Bruce gets back.”

That gave Alfred pause and left Tim scrambling.

“Look, I promise I’ll explain. I just—please. Can we leave it until Bruce gets back?”

Alfred opened his mouth to reply.

But the car door opened before he had the chance to speak.

“Daddy,” his daughter called. “I weally have to go potty now.”

Tim felt ice flood his veins.

Alfred froze.

Not dramatically. Not with any outward alarm. The movement simply… stopped. Mid-step. Mid-breath. The same way all Bats tended to do. 

Tim swore internally.

So much for child safety locks.

At least she hadn’t figured it out on the freeway.

Behind him, there was the soft thump of the car door swinging wider.

Small sneakers hit the cave floor.

Tim didn’t turn around immediately.

He didn’t have to.

He could already picture exactly what Alfred was seeing.

Small. Slight. Dark hair pulled back in two careful braids that had somehow survived three international flights and one very determined four-year-old’s habit of tugging on them.

Batman Skechers blinking faint blue and yellow with every step. The stuffed robin tucked firmly under one arm. And those bright Lazarus-green eyes taking in the cavern with quiet, unsettling focus.

Tim heard Alfred inhale.

Then—very slowly—the butler’s gaze shifted from the child…to Tim.

And back again.

A long pause stretched between them.

Tim rubbed a hand over his face.

“Before you say anything,” he said tiredly, “I can explain.”

Another pause.

Alfred cleared his throat.

“Master Tim,” he said with impeccable calm, “I believe the young lady has requested the facilities with some urgency.”

Behind him, a small voice piped up again.

“Daddy.”

Tim sighed.

“Yeah, birdie?”

“I weally gotta go.”

He closed his eyes for half a second.

“…Right. Yeah. Okay.”

Then he looked back at Alfred, defeated.

“So.” He gestured vaguely toward the car. “This is what I meant when I said it was… kind of a lot.”

“I can see,” Alfred said mildly. “I look forward to the story.”

That was Alfred-speak for: You will explain everything whether you like it or not.

Tim grimaced.

His daughter rounded the car—then froze when she spotted Alfred.

“Daddy?” she said again, this time dropping to a whisper as she hurried over to hide behind him.

“Yes, birdie?”

“Is that…Gwandpa Alfie?”

At her age she still struggled with her rs, so “Alfred” had been off the table. He hoped the man in question wouldn’t mind.

“It is,” Tim said, reaching a hand behind him and resting it reassuringly on the top of her head. “Do you want to say hi?”

She watched him for a long moment before shaking her head.

“Can we go potty first?”

“Yes,” Tim said gently. “We can go potty first.”

She nodded, clearly satisfied with that answer.

“Carry me?”

Tim huffed out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

Of course.

“Yeah,” he said, crouching slightly and reaching back for her. “I can do that.”

She instantly wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

If he didn’t know any better, he might have sworn she was a bird. She was so light that, if he hadn’t seen Ra’s very detailed notes, one could almost argue she had hollow bones.

She was small even for her age.

Her 4T Batman onesie hung off her narrow frame, the sleeves too long, the hood practically swallowing her whole.

But it was her favorite.

A replica of Batman's suit—six pack and all.

All as that may be, she wasn't helpless. 

She could fight.

Ra’s had been training her since she could first hold a knife. Her small body carried bruises and scars in places a four-year-old should never have them—more than the usual skinned knees and bruised elbows of a normal childhood.

She nearly gutted him the first time they met.

Four years old and already faster than most adults.

But his teachers had taught him better.

Lady Shiva. Bruce. Dick.

She was fast—but he was faster.

“I’ll be right back,” Tim said to Alfred, resting his chin on the top of his daughter’s head and tucking her a little closer against him. “Just—please don’t tell Bruce until he gets back. I promise I’ll explain.”

“Should I expect any other surprises in your vehicle?”

Tim shook his head. “No. That about covers it.”

“Off you go then,” Alfred said calmly. “I will take care of gathering your belongings in the meantime.”

Tim hesitated for a moment.

He wanted to say something like thank you, or I'm sorry, but nothing felt quite right. 

Then his daughter tugged urgently on the front of his shirt.

He let out a terse breath.

"Alright, alright, I'm going. I promise." Tim said, although he couldn't quite keep the fondness out of his voice.

Wren made a small impatient sound against his shoulder, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

He adjusted his grip on her automatically, one arm hooked securely beneath her legs while the other steadied her against his chest and started for the locker room.

If Alfred happened to be watching them go with a softer look than usual, well, that was neither here nor there.

Still, Tim found himself moving a little slower than necessary, his soles echoing softly against the stone floor as he carried her past the line of empty vehicle bays.

Above them, the Batcomputer's humming got louder, the glow of the monitors casting blue light across the cavern walls. Somewhere in the darkness, bats shifted and rustled.

Wren lifted her head when they were far enough away just enough to peek over his shoulder, eyes wide as she took it in.

The cave.

The computer.

The sheer size of the place.

Tim knew the feeling all too well.

"Big," she whispered.

"Yeah," Tim murmured back. "It is."

Her attention drifted back to Alfred as Tim crossed the floor.

“Daddy,” she said urgently.

“I know, I know,” Tim said quickly. “We’re almost there.”

She huffed and dropped her cheek onto his shoulder, making it very clear she was unimpressed with the current speed of events.

He set her down just outside the locker room, and she immediately grabbed his hand.

“C’mon,” she insisted.

Tim blinked down at her.

“Birdie, I’m right here.”

She gave him a withering look, completely unblinking.

Tim sighed.

“Yes, yes. I’m right behind you.”

The locker room lights flickered on as they stepped inside, the motion sensors catching them a second later. The room smelled faintly of cleaner and shampoo, the same sterile-clean scent it always had.

It was far cleaner than most of the bathrooms they’d visited lately.

She marched toward the nearest stall with the focused determination of someone on a very important mission.

Only to quickly turn back and hold out her robin.

“Pwease,” she said.

Tim took the outstretched plush without hesitation.

“Of course.”

She gave him a long look, clearly confirming the transaction had been honored, then nodded and turned back to the stall.

Tim leaned against the tiled wall just outside and looked down at the robin in his hands before scrubbing a hand over his face while he waited.

Six months.

Six months of airports and back alleys and safehouses and planes.

Six months of sleeping in chairs and running on pure caffeine and adrenaline.

And somehow the strangest moment of all was standing outside a bathroom stall in the Batcave while his four-year-old daughter used the restroom.

He let out a quiet breath and tipped his head back against the cool tile.

“What is my life,” he muttered under his breath.

He was a seventeen—no, eighteen-year-old high school dropout, somehow still the majority shareholder of a multi-billion-dollar company, standing in the Batcave holding a stuffed robin while waiting for his lab-grown child to finish in the bathroom.

What was his life, indeed.

“Daddy?” her voice called from the stall.

“Yes, birdie?”

“Pwease don’t weave me.”

Tim huffed softly.

“Never,” he promised.

There was a small pause.

“…Okay.”

A moment later the toilet flushed, and the door creaked open as she stepped out, looking very pleased with herself.

“All done.”

“Good job,” Tim said, pushing off the wall.

She immediately reached for her robin, but he held it just out of reach.

“Hands first,” he reminded her, earning an exaggerated eye roll.

“Ok-ay,” she said. “Help?”

“Of course.”

He tucked the plush under his arm and lifted her up to the counter so she could reach the sink.

She stuck her tongue out in concentration as he turned the faucet on, letting the water run over her fingers before grabbing at the soap dispenser with both hands.

Too much soap came out.

Tim didn’t comment.

She scrubbed her hands carefully, small brows furrowed in focus.

“Remember—”

“Twenty seconds,” she cut him off. “I know.”

“Right,” Tim replied. “Just making sure.”

“Duh,” she said matter-of-factually. “I know everything.”

Tim had to bite back a laugh.

“Of course you do.”

He helped her rinse the soap away, drying her hands with a paper towel before setting her back down on the floor.

She bounced once on her heels, clearly much happier now that the crisis had been resolved.

Then she made grabby hands.

Tim smiled softly and handed her back the plush.

And, in a true twist of events, he remembered to ask:

“What do you say?”

Because manners.

Adults definitely taught manners.

“Up?”

“Not quite,” Tim said patiently. “When someone does something nice for us, we say—?”

She frowned and thought for a moment before offering, “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Tim said, experiencing another what the hell is my life moment.

She considered this exchange carefully.

“Now up?”

“Now up,” Tim confirmed, gathering her into his arms.

That was when he heard it.

Low at first.

A distant rumble rolling through the cave like approaching thunder.

Tim froze.

He knew that sound.

Anyone who had spent any amount of time in Gotham City could tell you what that was.

The Batmobile.

The engine’s roar echoed down the entrance ramp, deep and unmistakable as the hidden doors sealed behind it. The vibration carried faintly through the floor beneath Tim’s feet.

In his arms, she lit up.

Her head popped up from his shoulder immediately, eyes going wide as the sound filled the cave, growing louder with every passing second.

“Daddy!” she gasped, twisting around in his arms. “What’s that?”

Tim closed his eyes and counted to ten.

Because of course.

Alfred had said he was on his way back.

“That,” Tim said carefully, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, “is the Batmobile.”

Her entire face brightened.

“I get to meet Batman now?”

Tim sighed.

“Yeah, kiddo,” he murmured. “You get to meet Batman now.”

She gasped and wriggled harder, trying to climb out of his arms—something Tim was decidedly not having.

He tightened his hold just a little.

“Remember the plan?” Tim asked gently. “Daddy is going to keep you safe, so I need you to stay right here in my arms, okay?”

“But why?” she pouted.

Tim shifted her slightly higher on his hip, tucking her close against his chest.

“Because Batman can be a little scary the first time you meet him,” he said quietly. “And I want to make sure you’re okay.”

She frowned at that.

“But I’m not scared.”

Tim huffed softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Unfortunately.

The Batmobile engine roared louder now, echoing through the cave as it descended the ramp.

“Still,” Tim added, resting his chin lightly against the top of her head, “we’re going to do this together.”

"Fine," she drawled dramatically. "But can we go now?"

"Yes, we can go now."

Not for the first time, Tim wished he’d remembered to strap on his bandolier before getting out of the car. But his collapsible bo staff was still a comforting weight in his pocket, the familiar shape pressing against his thigh as he stepped out of the locker room.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

His daughter didn’t seem to notice—or care—about his sudden hesitation to leave the bathroom.

She tugged insistently on the front of his shirt as he stepped out into the cave again, dragging him along like a dog on a leash.

“We gotta hurry,” she demanded.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Tim said, though he didn’t actually speed up.

If anything, he slowed. Just a fraction.

His heart was in his throat.

The cave felt bigger suddenly. Too open. Too exposed. The lights from the Batcomputer cast long shadows across the stone floor.

Somewhere deeper in the cave, metal creaked faintly as the Batmobile cooled.

Bruce was here.

Tim couldn’t decide if he wanted to run. Or vomit. Or both.

Instead he swallowed hard and forced himself to keep walking.

It was too late for any of that now.

The Batmobile engine had already gone quiet. Bruce was here. And Tim had absolutely no idea how this conversation was about to go.

He wondered what Bruce was going to say about the last year. 

About everything. 

Tim had spent nearly six months tearing the world apart looking for any trace of Bruce, chasing clues through half a dozen countries and compromising every value he’d tried to uphold as Robin along the way.

Then he’d disappeared for another six months.

No calls. No explanations. Just gone.

Until finally sending Bruce a single text from Delhi:

On my way home.

Only to show up again tonight—with a daughter nonetheless.

Tim’s grip tightened slightly around her.

He hoped Bruce would keep her safe.

If not for Tim’s sake…then at least because any child born of a Bat and Ra’s al Ghul had the potential to be dangerous to everyone.

The League had believed that. Ra’s certainly had.

But she hadn’t chosen any of it.

She hadn’t chosen the League.

She hadn’t chosen Ra’s.

She hadn’t chosen him.

She was innocent in all of this. She didn’t have the same blood on her hands. She shouldn’t be the one to pay for the sins of their fathers.

In his arms, she squirmed impatiently.

“Daddy,” she whispered loudly.

“Yeah, birdie?”

“Are we almost there?”

Tim looked up.

Across the cave, the Batmobile sat in the center of the cavern.

Tim took a slow breath.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, we’re almost there.”

As they rounded the corner, Tim saw him.

Bruce was just climbing out of the Batmobile.

The black car still ticked quietly as the engine cooled, heat curling faintly off the hood under the cave lights. Bruce stood beside it, tall and immovable as ever, already speaking with Alfred in low, hushed tones.

Alfred had turned slightly away.

Purposefully.

Just enough that Tim couldn’t read his lips. Which meant—of course—it was about him.

Tim slowed.

Instinct.

A dozen possible outcomes ran through his head in the span of a heartbeat.

Bruce angry.

Bruce disappointed.

Bruce silent.

Bruce—

In his arms, his daughter suddenly went rigid.

Then she gasped.

A full-body, electric gasp of pure excitement.

Tim barely had time to tighten his grip before she shifted in his arms. Small fingers pressed sharply into the inside of his wrist. Right between the tendons.

Tim’s hand spasmed open.

“Wren—”

But it was too late.

She twisted like a slippery little eel and dropped out of his arms the second his grip failed.

Tim stared at his suddenly empty hands in disbelief.

But he didn't have time to think.

“Wren, wait!” he called.

But she was already gone. Four-year-old legs pumping as fast as they could carry her, Batman sneakers flashing against the stone floor.

Straight toward the Batmobile.

Straight toward Bruce.

Tim swore under his breath and broke into a run after her. Because of course this was how the reunion was going to happen. Not with a careful explanation and persuasive argument as to why he shouldn't put them both in a cell.

Not with a plan.

Not even with a warning.

No.

No.

Instead his four-year-old daughter—wearing a Batman onesie and clutching a stuffed robin—was sprinting across the Batcave toward the most dangerous man in Gotham.

Tim’s heart lurched into his throat.

“Wren!” he called again.

She didn’t slow down.

Suddenly, his exhaustion was gone. The soreness of the stitches in his side didn't matter.

All that mattered was she was too far.

If Bruce decided she was a threat—if he reacted on instinct before Tim could explain—it was all over.

He couldn't survive this.

Not this time.

Wren skidded to a halt right in front of Bruce. She tilted her head back to look up at him. Way way up.

Batman was very tall.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, taking him in from boots to cape to insignia on his chest plate and the sharp points of the cowl.

All the shyness she'd shown Alfred earlier—hiding behind Tim, whispering, clutching his shoulder—was gone.

Replaced by pure fascination and awe.

Her Lazarus-bright eyes were wide as saucers.

Tim reached them just in time to see her grin.

"Hi," she said brightly.

Bruce didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

"Are you Batman?"

The cave went very, very quiet.

No one spoke—not Alfred, not Tim, nor Bruce.

Behind her, Tim finally skidded to a stop, chest heaving, every muscle in his body braced for whatever came next. Because somewhere behind that cowl, Bruce Wayne was staring down at a four-year-old girl who looked just enough like Tim…and had Ra's al Ghul's eyes.

And Batman wasn’t known as the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing.

Bruce shook off the shock like a pro.

To anyone who didn’t know him, it might have looked like nothing had happened at all.

One moment he’d gone stock still. The next he moved again—subtle, controlled, the way a predator settles back into motion after spotting something unexpected.

His cape shifted slightly as he straightened.

Behind her, Tim could practically see the gears turning.

Threat assessment.

Recognition.

Processing.

Bruce looked down at her.

Then he answered, calm and perfectly even.

“Sometimes.”

She gasped.

“Daddy, wook! It’s Batman!”

She twisted around to beam at Tim with unbridled delight.

Then she turned back just as quickly, puffing up with pride as she gestured to her outfit.

“I’m Batman too,” she declared, pointing proudly to the onesie and the yellow bat symbol stretched across her tiny chest.

“And this is wobin,” she added, holding up the stuffed bird. “Just wike Daddy.”

Behind her, Tim made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh.

Or maybe the beginning of a nervous breakdown.

Dealer’s choice.

Bruce’s gaze flicked briefly between them.

Wren.

The stuffed robin.

Tim.

The resemblance.

The eyes.

If any of those calculations reached a conclusion, nothing in his expression showed it.

Instead, he shifted his attention back to her and extended a gloved hand in greeting.

“It’s nice to meet you, Batman,” he said gravely. Then he inclined his head slightly toward the Batmobile behind him.

“Would you and Robin like to sit in the Batmobile?”

Now Tim really was having a nervous breakdown.

Tim opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

In front of him, Wren froze for exactly half a second. Then she spun around and looked at him with the most weaponized pair of puppy-dog eyes ever employed in human history. 

Dick Grayson included.

"Pwease, Daddy?"

Tim dragged a hand down his face.

If this was a trap, it was an incredibly effective one.

On the one hand: Bruce Wayne. Batman.

On the other: a four-year-old with Ra's al Ghul's genetics and the full emotional artillery of a toddler who had just been offered the coolest thing on planet Earth.

Tim sighed.

Long. Tired. Defeated.

He looked at Bruce.

Bruce looked at him.

The cowl revealed nothing.

Tim looked down at Wren again.

"…You have to listen to Batman and promise not to touch anything," he said carefully.

Her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“I pwomise!”

Tim squinted at her.

He’d seen that look before.

Usually right before something exploded.

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky pwomise!” she declared immediately, spinning around and holding her pinky out with deadly seriousness.

Tim stared at the tiny finger.

Then at Bruce.

Then back at the tiny finger.

This… this was how he died.

Not in a heroic blaze of glory.

Not in some dramatic rooftop fight.

But by pinky promise.

He sighed the sigh of a man who had already lost the argument before it had even begun.

“Fine,” he muttered, hooking his pinky around hers. “Now go on. I think Grandpa Alfie wants pictures.”

She beamed and spun back around.

Tim knew, with absolute certainty, that he was going to regret everything.

True to his word, Alfred did, in fact, want pictures.

Bruce held out a gloved hand to help her climb up into the driver’s seat, Robin tucked securely under one arm.

The Batmobile swallowed her whole.

From where Tim stood she looked impossibly small behind the wheel, the enormous console of switches and screens stretching out around her like the cockpit of a spaceship.

And—miracle of miracles—she kept her promise.

Her hands stayed carefully folded in her lap.

Mostly.

Tim could see the way her fingers twitched every few seconds, her eyes darting across the dashboard as she took in the buttons and toggles and glowing indicators.

Bruce stood beside the open canopy, one massive armored hand resting casually against the frame.

Watching.

Tim didn’t realize Alfred had stepped away until a hand settled gentle on his shoulder.

“My boy,” Alfred said quietly. “You look as though you are about to fall over.”

Tim startled.

Perhaps he actually swayed, because Alfred’s grip tightened slightly.

“Perhaps you should sit while I prepare some refreshments.”

“I can’t,” Tim said immediately, eyes still fixed on the Batmobile. “I can’t leave her.”

“I believe Master Bruce has things quite under control,” Alfred replied calmly.

He was already steering Tim toward one of the nearby workstations with quiet authority.

“Sit. I shall put the kettle on.”

Tim allowed himself to be maneuvered, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stay close.

Across the cave, Wren’s laughter rang out as she chattered excitedly to Bruce about something involving “turbo boosters” and whether the Batmobile could fly.

Bruce responded with the low rumble of his voice, patient and steady.

Tim sank down into the chair.

The world tilted slightly.

“Coffee?” he asked weakly.

Alfred gave him a look. The kind of look that had stopped grown men in their tracks for decades.

“Tea,” Alfred said instead.

He turned toward the small kitchenette already reaching for the kettle.

“I have just received a new honey chamomile imported from overseas,” he continued smoothly. “I believe that will better suit your current needs.”

Tim rubbed a hand over his face.

Across the cave, his daughter’s delighted voice carried again.

And Bruce Wayne—Batman, terror of Gotham—appeared to be patiently explaining the difference between the Batmobile’s primary engine and its afterburner.

Tim stared at the ceiling.

What the hell was his life.

Tim stared across the cave as Wren continued her rapid-fire questions about the Batmobile.

At some point the words stopped registering.

The lights of the Batcomputer blurred together. The steady hum of the cave faded into background noise. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else sitting in the chair.

Six months.

Six months of running.

Six months of not sleeping.

Now he was back in the Batcave watching his daughter sit in the Batmobile with Batman.

The world felt slightly unreal.

Something warm pressed into his hands.

“Drink,” Alfred said gently.

Tim blinked.

A mug.

Steam curled up from the surface of the tea.

He hadn’t even noticed Alfred return.

Tim took a sip automatically.

Warmth spread through his chest, the honey and chamomile cutting through the metallic taste of adrenaline still lingering in the back of his throat.

Across the cave Wren suddenly laughed.

Then she spotted him.

“Daddy!”

Before Tim could react she launched herself out of the Batmobile and sprinted across the cave again, Bruce moving after her at a much more controlled pace.

Tim barely had time to set the tea aside before she climbed straight into his lap.

The impact made him wince.

He hid it immediately, wrapping his arms around her instead.

“There you are,” he murmured.

She was still buzzing with excitement.

“Batman showed me the wheel!” she announced. “And the buttons! And there’s a computer and—”

She went on for a while until her words started to slow down and she leaned heavier into his chest.

“And Batman said the turbo button makes it go really really fast and—”

A yawn interrupted her mid-sentence.

She blinked slowly, like the thought had wandered off somewhere she couldn’t quite follow.

Tim adjusted his hold automatically, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.

“Sounds like you had quite the tour,” he murmured.

“Mhm,” she said sleepily.

Her fingers were still tangled in the soft wing of her stuffed robin.

“An’ Batman said the computer can talk,” she mumbled. “An’ I asked if it could tell jokes but—”

Another yawn swallowed the rest of the sentence.

Her small body sagged further against him.

The adrenaline that had carried her across half the world was finally giving up the fight.

Tim felt the weight of her settle fully into his arms.

Heavy.

Warm.

Safe.

He shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to jostle her, even though the movement tugged unpleasantly at a dozen aches he’d been ignoring for days.

Her voice faded to little half-words against his shirt.

“…Daddy?”

“Yeah, birdie?”

“…weally fast car…”

Her breathing evened out.

Within seconds she was completely asleep.

Bruce stopped beside Alfred.

The cowl came off first.

Bruce rolled his shoulders once, the movement slow and deliberate, before Alfred handed him a mug.

Coffee.

He could tell by the rich aroma.

Tim cracked one eye open and squinted at Alfred.

“Traitor,” he muttered hoarsely.

Alfred ignored him with the dignity of a man who had raised several vigilantes and survived to tell the tale.

Bruce took a sip. Then his gaze lifted to Tim.

Not Batman now.

Bruce.

Watching the boy who had disappeared for six months…and returned with a child asleep in his arms.

The cave fell quiet again.

This time the silence felt different.

Heavier.

The kind that came right before difficult conversations.

Tim looked down at Wren, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

She looked impossibly small asleep, tucked into his arms 

“…I can explain,” he said quietly.

Bruce didn't answer right away—instead taking a long drink from his mug. 

Then one dark brow arched slightly. 

"I saw you wince," Bruce said, voice calm—too calm. "How badly are you injured?"

Tim blinked.

Of all the questions he had expected—it wasn't that one.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

The lie came out on reflex.

Bruce didn’t react.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t even blink.

He just took another slow sip of coffee.

Still watching him.

Waiting.

Across the table Alfred made a soft, deeply unimpressed sound.

Tim sighed.

“It could’ve been worse,” he said quietly. “It would’ve been if I hadn’t gotten the drop on Ra’s in Kashmir.”

Bruce’s coffee stopped halfway to his lips.

Tim didn’t look up right away.

He was still watching Wren sleep, one small hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“She didn’t know me by costume,” Tim continued softly. “And she was just doing what she’d been taught…”

He trailed off.

The silence stretched.

When Tim finally glanced up, Bruce hadn’t moved. The cup was still suspended in his hand.

“Who?” Bruce asked.

One word.

Flat.

Tim huffed a tired breath.

“Wren,” he said.

Bruce’s gaze flicked down to the sleeping child in Tim’s arms.

Then back to Tim.

“She’s proficient with a knife,” Tim added after a moment. “For a child her age.”

A pause.

“More than proficient.”

Because she had to be.

Tim looked back down at her again, thumb brushing lightly over the back of her small hand.

“The League started training her as soon as she could hold one.”

Across the table, Alfred went very still.

Bruce finally set the coffee down.

Slowly.

Very carefully.

And when he spoke again, his voice had gone quieter.

“Start from the beginning.”

So he did.

“It started while I was working with the Justice League task force to save you,” Tim said quietly. “Right before we found you, I got a message from Ra’s.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Tim huffed softly.

“Since his attempt to take over Wayne Enterprises, he’s been a little…obsessed with me,” he said. “This one was just a picture. And some coordinates.”

He hesitated.

“At first, I didn’t believe it. I mean, why should I? Getting under my skin had basically become his favorite hobby.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change.

“But then he sent something else,” Tim continued. “One of his couriers. And a drive with the same coordinates.”

Tim rubbed a hand over his face.

“I knew it was a trap,” he admitted after a moment. “But I couldn’t let it go.”

Across the cave, Alfred went very still.

“We pulled you out of the time-stream,” Tim said, glancing briefly toward Bruce. “And right after that, Ra’s sent one more message.”

His voice dropped.

“An ultimatum.”

Tim looked down at Wren, asleep against his chest.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t let it go. I needed to see for myself.”

Wren twitched in her sleep, nuzzling closer.

Tim smiled faintly and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I tracked him for six months,” he went on. “Every lead ended the same way. I’d think I was getting close, and then it would turn into another dead end.”

His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her small hand.

“They kept moving her.”

Bruce didn’t interrupt.

“I finally caught up to them in Kashmir.”

A pause.

“Ra’s had been training her since she could hold a knife.”

Alfred inhaled softly.

“She’s nine months old,” Tim added. “But they accelerated her development so she could be molded into the perfect successor. Physically and mentally she’s about four.”

Tim shifted slightly in the chair, careful not to jostle her.

“I know some of what they did to her,” he said quietly. “But there’s still a lot I don’t.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Tim finished. “And I can’t let him take her again.”

His arms tightened slightly around the sleeping child.

“She is… everything to me.”

Tim breathed out a long breath.

“If you want us to leave, I understand,” he said quietly. “I know this is a lot, but she’s my daughter and I can’t—”

His chest tightened.

The words snagged somewhere in his chest.

He couldn’t fail her.

He couldn’t let Ra’s take her back.

He couldn’t let her grow up inside the League.

He couldn’t let her become—

His lungs hitched.

The cave felt suddenly too big.

Too bright.

Too loud.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t—

“Tim.”

Bruce’s voice cut through the spiral like a blade.

“Name five things you can see.”

Tim’s head snapped up.

Bruce was kneeling in front of him now, close enough that Tim hadn’t even noticed him move. One large hand rested firmly on his shoulder, the weight of it solid and grounding.

Tim dragged in a shaky breath, air scraping painfully into his lungs.

“Five things,” Bruce said again, calm and steady.

Tim blinked hard, forcing the cave back into focus.

"The Batmobile," he rasped.

A breath. 

"Alfred."

Another.

"The chair."

His gaze dropped to the small bundle in his arms.

“Wren.”

He swallowed.

“And… you.”

Bruce gave a single, approving nod.

“Good.” His hand tightened slightly on Tim’s shoulder.“Now four things you can feel.”

Tim sucked in another breath, slower this time.

“Her,” he said immediately, shifting his hold slightly around Wren.

“The chair.”

He weakly leaned into Bruce's touch without meaning to. 

"Your hand."

Another breath. 

"And the floor."

His feet were planted firmly on the cave floor. 

He managed a shaky breath and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said hoarsely. “That was dumb. I think I’m just… tired. And overwhelmed.”

Bruce squeezed his shoulder.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly. “It sounds like you’ve been through a great deal. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Tim blinked.

“What?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change.

Tim stared at him.

Who was this man? And when had he replaced Bruce?

Because the Bruce he knew would’ve skipped straight to the emotionally constipated bad cop. 

Tim squinted at him suspiciously.

“Did you get hit in the head again?”

And then Bruce did the most curious thing.

He chuckled.

Not loudly.

Just a quiet huff of amusement that barely escaped his chest.

“No,” Bruce said. “I didn’t.”

He leaned back slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.

“When you spend that long lost in time,” he added after a moment, “you end up with a lot of it to think.”

Tim frowned.

Bruce’s gaze flicked briefly to the sleeping child in Tim’s arms, then back to him.

“I realized,” Bruce said quietly, “that I haven’t always been there for you the way you needed.”

Tim stared at him.

Because now he was certain this was some kind of elaborate hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation.

“I’m hallucinating again, aren’t I?”

Bruce frowned.

“Do you often hallucinate?”

Tim grimaced.

“Define often.”

Across from them, Alfred went very still.

Bruce’s expression shifted—just slightly—but the concern in his eyes was suddenly unmistakable.

“Tim.” The single word carried enough weight to make him look up. “How long has it been since you slept?”

Tim opened his mouth. Then closed it again. Because suddenly he couldn’t actually remember the answer.

That seemed to answer Bruce’s question.

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Finish your tea,” he said. “Then we’ll get you into bed.”

Tim blinked at him.

Bruce’s voice softened slightly.

“We’ll figure everything out tomorrow,” he added. “After you’ve finally had some rest. Okay?”

Tim stared at him for a long moment. Still suspicious. But he could at least enjoy it while it lasted. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him like this.

It made something in his chest feel strange.

Hazy.

Warm.

Soft.

“…fine,” Tim said, giving in.

Bruce smiled faintly and reached over, handing him the mug he’d set aside.

Tim took it, careful not to jostle Wren where she was curled against him. Her breath was warm against his throat and tickled.

Slow.

Even.

And not something he expected to last long. But he knew he should at least try to take advantage of it while he could. 

He brought the mug to his lips but paused and frowned. 

"…did you drug this?"

There was a beat—Bruce and Alfred shared a look, then Alfred made a scandalized sound.

“Master Tim—”

Bruce, on the other hand, chuckled.

Like—actually chuckled.

Low. Quiet. Barely there. But unmistakable.

Tim’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing immediately.

“Okay, no, seriously,” he said, more pointed now. “Did you—”

“Neither Alfred nor I drugged your tea,” Bruce said, still calm—still that faint edge of something almost amused lingering in his voice.

Tim squinted at them.

Because that sounded reassuring.

But—statistically? Historically?

Not actually comforting.

His gaze dropped back to the mug. 

The steam curled lazily off the surface.

Too normal.

Too—

He tilted it slightly, watching the liquid shift.

Clear.

No sediment.

No discoloration.

Still.

He brought it a fraction closer—just enough to catch the scent.

Honey.

Chamomile.

Nothing sharp. Nothing metallic. Nothing chemical.

So it was probably fine… right?

Tim frowned.

“Okay, but define not drugged,” he said.

Alfred drew himself up ever so slightly.

“It is simply loose-leaf tea, honey, and water from the kettle,” he said, crisp and composed. Then, after a beat—just enough to make it pointed—“Would you care to inspect the contents yourself, Master Tim?”

Tim paused—actually considering the offer.

His eyes flicked from the mug… to Alfred… to Bruce—searching for even a hint of insincerity.

But all he found was a faint crease between Bruce’s brows.

Concern.

And the tight, disapproving line of Alfred’s mouth.

Tim exhaled and shook his head.

“No,” he sighed. “It’s fine.”

He took a slow breath.

Then lifted the mug again.

This time—

he didn’t drink right away.

The rim hovered just shy of his lips.

A beat.

Another.

His eyes flicked up—quick, sharp—checking.

Bruce.

Alfred.

Still there.

Still watching.

Even if Bruce’s attention was on his own mug, and Alfred had turned back to tidying—he could feel it.

Their eyes on him.

Tim swallowed hard.

Said a quick, silent prayer and tipped the mug back, taking a careful sip.

His breath caught the second it touched his tongue—heart kicking hard in his chest.

Sweet.

Floral.

He didn’t swallow. 

Held it there, mind racing. 

A long, stretched second. Then he forced himself to swallow.

Nothing happened.

No burn. 

No bitterness.

Just—tea. 

Steeped to perfection.

Taking a drink seemed to break the spell.

The tension in the room suddenly eased. 

Not gone entirely, but it was… looser.

Alfred gave a small, satisfied nod, as if that settled something for him, and disappeared without a word,

Bruce shifted, too.

But he didn't leave.

Tim blinked, completely and utterly thrown.

Bruce moved just a fraction, pulling his phone from his belt—still very much in the cape sans cowl—and flicked his thumb across the screen like this was a normal, everyday experience.

He took another sip of his coffee, completely unbothered.

Tim had so many questions. Too many. But he didn't want to ruin whatever this was, so he swallowed them down instead with another sip of his own tea. 

Wren was still tucked against him, so tiny and warm.

Tim let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The cave felt different.

Or maybe it was him.

He supposed that was possible—one can't come back from fighting the LoA twice and not be a little broken by the end.

Everything felt just slightly off—tilted, like the world had shifted half a step to the left while he wasn’t looking. Like he’d slipped sideways into his own personal brand of Twilight Zone hell.

Tim glanced at Bruce again.

Who was this? And what had they done with Bruce?

Tim’s eyes burned.

The overhead lights were starting to blur at the edges, smearing just enough to make him blink harder. Slower. His head dipped once before he caught it, grip tightening instinctively around Wren where she rested against him.

She hadn’t moved an inch since she’d crashed.

Bruce had only left briefly—to shower and change—but he’d promised he’d be back.

Then they’d go upstairs.

Together.

A shower sounded nice. But his bed—his long-abandoned bed—sounded better.

He just had to stay awake.

A hand closed around his shoulder and Tim snapped.

Still groggy with sleep, the world dropped out from under him, replaced by the roar of blood in his ears. For a split second, he knew they’d been caught.

He knew they'd been too lucky.

He’d been too unfocused—too relieved to be home.

His arm locked around Wren, hauling her tight against his chest as he twisted hard out of the grip, kicking the chair back at the League operative and turning his body to put himself between her and the threat.

Protect.

He had to protect—

His free hand moved on instinct, already reaching for the collapsible bo-staff in his pocket when something caught his wrist.

Someone.

Bigger than him.

Stronger.

The roaring got louder.

He had to move.

He had to—

“Tim.”

Everything stuttered.

His eyes snapped up, catching on the figure in front of him.

Bruce.

The cave rushed back in all at once.

Cool air.

The chatter of bats.

The rich aroma of Bruce’s favorite dark roast.

Wren cried out, sharp and startled, her small hands clutching at his shirt as something soft hit the floor beside them.

Tim froze.

Still braced.

Still twisted.

Still holding her too tight.

Bruce had already stepped back, hands up, palms open, a few paces away now.

The universal sign for I come in peace.

“Breathe,” Bruce said, voice low. “You’re safe.”

Tim blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Air hitched in his chest like his lungs had forgotten how.

Wren made another small sound, pressing closer, and that—that broke something loose.

Tim’s grip shifted, arms tightening around her in a different way now, curling instead of striking out.

“I—” he started, voice rough. “I thought—”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Bruce cut in, even and steady. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”

Tim still didn’t move.

Not until there were hot tears soaking into the skin at his neck.

Then he moved with a different purpose.

“Shh, shh,” he breathed, rubbing a hand up and down her back. “It’s okay. Daddy just got a little surprised by Poppy. I’m so sorry, Birdie.”

“Robin—” she whimpered against his neck.

Tim glanced down and—oh.

Still keeping her close, he carefully leaned down and plucked the plush from where it had fallen at his feet.

Bruce didn’t move.

Didn’t come closer.

Just watched.

Tim brushed it off and offered it back. 

Her hands shot out instantly, grabbing it, clutching it tight as she buried her face in the plush fabric.

Tim glanced up at Bruce, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—y’know. I just thought—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Bruce said gently. He managed a small smile, but Tim could still see the concern in the lines of his face. “I thought your bed might be more comfortable than that chair.”

Tim huffed faintly.

“Hasn’t stopped you from sleeping in it before.”

That earned a real chuckle.

“Fair,” Bruce admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I want you suffering the same fate.”

Tim grunted, continuing to rock Wren, smoothing a hand down her back. 

“Where’s Alfred?”

“He’s upstairs,” Bruce said, voice low. “Making sure your room is ready for both of you.”

Tim nodded.

That tracked.

Alfred was always ten steps ahead.

“What do you think about going upstairs?” Bruce asked, still watching them.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Wren snuffled against the crook of his neck, her small body still trembling in his arms, breaths hitching as she tried to settle.

His hand moved automatically, rubbing slow, steady circles up and down her back.

Grounding them both.

“I think Wren might enjoy your bed,” Bruce added after a moment, gentler this time. “Alfred’s already brought your things in.”

Tim swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, okay.”

Still, neither of them moved.

Tim took another breath and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

Waited.

Listened to her breathing.

Then—finally—he made himself move.

It felt like trying to push through cold molasses, every step heavy, delayed, like his body was still catching up to the decision.

But he moved.

One step.

Then another.

Toward the stairs.

Bruce followed a pace behind, deliberate in it—soles striking just loud enough against the stone to be heard.

It was slow going.

One set of stairs bled into another, the climb stretching longer than it should have, until the cave gave way to the family wing. His room just a few doors down from Bruce's. 

Tim paused just outside the doorway, gaze catching on the warm glow spilling out from his room.

“Just a few more steps,” Bruce said quietly behind him.

Tim nodded.

Forced his legs to keep moving.

The hallway was washed in gold, soft light pooling across the floor, chasing back the cold that had settled into his bones hours—days—ago.

He crossed the threshold.

His room was ready.

His bed had been turned down, sheets pulled back in quiet invitation. The heater hummed softly, warming the space to something almost too comfortable after the chill of the cave.

Everything was in its place.

Like he hadn’t torn through it before he left. Like he hadn’t upended half the room trying to find something—anything—that would lead him to Bruce.

It was all there.

Waiting.

For him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Bruce said from behind him, voice low, careful. “Alfred found a clean pair of pajamas for her. They’re laid out.”

Tim nodded faintly, eyes still tracking the room like it might shift if he looked away.

“We can pick up a few more things tomorrow,” Bruce added. “Maybe do some shopping. After breakfast. I think I heard him mention something about cinnamon rolls.”

A pause.

“Sound like a plan?”

Tim blinked up at Bruce.

Then nodded.

“Get some sleep,” Bruce said quietly. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Tim nodded again.

Didn’t trust his voice.

He stepped fully into the room, shifting Wren carefully in his arms.

She stirred faintly, pressing closer.

Still there.

Behind him, the door clicked softly shut.