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Chapter Text

Timothy Jackson Drake's first near death experience happened when he was fourteen. He and his father had been trying to repair a relationship marred with neglect and years of regret, just after his mother had died, and Timothy had stepped out of the conversation (read, argument) by going outside for a walk. Y'know, to cool off. As one does.

Gotham, however, had other plans. The city had been plagued by an incredibly fast spreading - haha - plague; the Ebola Gulf-a, common name, apocalypse virus. Everyone quarantined, toilet paper was treated like gold dust. Etcetera.

Tim took precautions, of course he did. The virus was airborne, so he covered up. All gloved and masked up like some surgeon.

But he still caught the virus because his immune system had always had it in for him, and the worst part is he hadn't even realised at first.

He came home, coughing, wheezing so hard for the first time since he tried a rocoto chile for the first time, and was holed away in his bedroom. For a long freaking time. At least until his father could prove he wasn't infected but obviously things just went downhill from there.

The virus consumed him, turned said immune system into a weapon against him. He felt his body tense, his muscles clenched like a raisin, bleeding eyes, pores swelling with welts - it was a storm of all sorts of nasty and he was in the thick of it.

And yet, he survived.

Once the sickness had fully passed, and word got out that Timothy Jackson Drake had survived the Great Apocalypse Plague, his father had given him a choice:

Let doctors and scientists draw blood from him and figure out how to replicate his immunity, or decline, hoping to recover as quickly and peacefully as he could, while the rest of Gotham burned to hell around him (about 80% metaphorical).

Tim, with his innate hero complex, agreed to the blood tests.

It seems that in spite of recovering from a disease that could be akin to cancer, parents will still be parents. It seems even after beating Ebola's pissy new variant, his father refused to let Tim's previously arranged spot at a boarding school to go to waste.

Sure, it had been too expensive to let go, and sure, in the end, his father had still insisted on getting a private room for his poor, sickly son . But c'mon. The prestige was enough to make him sick, the place reeked of snobbery and expensive shoe polish.

Oh, How Tim hated the looks of pity he got from the administrative staff, looking at the list of conditions and allergies he'd developed after the plague had passed. It had been hell trying to document them all, and the list was at least one and a half pages long.

In A4.

It was distressing, quite honestly.

But soon, move in day came along, and all of Tim's belongings were moved in to the private boarding room, posters on the wall, bedding sorted. Classes would officially start in three days, though Tim had his timetable pinned to the bulletin board next to pictures of Gotham's infamous cryptid, Batman and his -now dead- sidekick, Robin.

Bruce Wayne and his son, Jason Todd. Tim had figured that little tidbit of information when he was nine. He had planned on confronting Bruce before the plague had spread, but his father had come home, his mother had died, his father had been comatose.

The last three years had not been good to him, but his father promised.

He promised that this would be a fresh start.

He'd be out of Gotham, safer here, less likely to catch anything because he was alone.

And as Tim sat down on his bed and looped his arms around his knees, he realised just how alone he actually was.

Chapter Text

By the first of September, the halls of Martha Wayne Academy were bustling with noise, everyone having moved in by August 27th. Students met with their assigned prefects, their dorm mates, old friends.

Conner (Kon-El) Luthor set his bags down in his new dorm room, which would be shared with one other student, who seemed to have not arrived yet. He opened the bags with the Lexcorp logo first, wanting to know what his father had packed for him, but the first suitcase merely had suits inside of it, and the second had some of the new Lexcorp devices Lex was gifting him.

Nothing personal, but then again, had he expected anything more from the man who pressed a 'do not embarrass me' into the space between his lips and his son's forehead. Even in shows of affection, Lex refused to show his son that he actually cared. It would have been heartbreaking, had Conner not already been all-too used to it.

Sometimes, he thought that Lex might not care at all.

Hanging the suits up in his closet, he unpacked the rest of his bags and set them up around the room. Classes would start tomorrow and he hadn't even learned the layout of the school yet.

Also, he was pretty sure that his prefect was afraid of him and purposefully left him out of the tour. It wasn't his fault that he had an RBF, as Lex's Fling of the Week put it so aptly, but the piercings and undercut probably hadn't helped either.

In his defence though, he had done it to make Lex mad, which was always a good cause in his opinion.

He closed his suitcases and flopped down on his bed, the mattress softening and dipping under his weight. His roommate came bounding in (literally, skipping) grabbed something that Kon didn't particularly care about and left again. His roommate looked like he'd go batshit insane if he had to sit still for more than ten seconds straight. And also, his hair was sticking straight up, without support from a gel or hairspray which was a feat in itself.

Kon sat up and checked the room list again, which just said 'Connor and Brat' which had to be spelling mistakes, right? What kind of parent would name their kid 'Brat'. He grabbed a pen and scribbled out his own name, (not 'Brat's) re writing it with the correct spelling, even if he only really went by Kon and not Conner nowadays, one of his more subtle 'fuck you's to his father.

Lex had outright refused to give Kon a solo room, which had led to a few arguments, a few 'you need to get a social life, Conner!'s and 'fuck you, you're not my boss!'s. It had been intense, but Kon had been told that each branch of the school had one solo room, so he decided to go on a little walkabout, to see both the school and potential rooms for next semester. If he could convince Lex to pay for a solo room.

Which was also not a great idea, because he had been distracted by the sports areas, and ended up slamming into some kid who was exiting the library.

This kid, he was absolutely tiny. So small, in fact, that Kon wanted to bundle him up, swaddle him, and keep him from getting hurt, just to melt that expression of disgust from his face as he stared up at Kon. His hair was black, his eyes were blue, which was, in itself, an interesting combination, even without the, quite frankly, amazing volume to his hair. Kon kinda wanted to ask what his haircare routine was. His eyes held both a spark of innate curiosity, and borderline obsession, disguised carefully behind what could be wariness. Kon recognised it- it was the same look in Lex's eyes every time one of his R&D projects came back successful.

(Sometimes, Kon pretended like he couldn't see that look in his father's eyes when he congratulated Kon for doing something that he approved of.)

Kon was about to apologise and help the kid up, but then the little shit opened his mouth.

"Watch where you're going, you barn-raised, uptight-"

"I'm uptight ?-"

"Connect four looking-"

"What the heck does that mean?-"

"Jelly haired-"

Kon's hands moved to his hair self consciously,

"Pompous fucking prick!"

Kon stared at the guy, still sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, and books splayed around him. He offered a hand to help him up.

"I'm sorry?"

"Good."

Up until that moment, Kon had not known that '???' Made a sound, and yet, lo and behold, that sound was made. The kid gathered up his books, which towered above him comically, and moved around him easily, heading the way Kon had just come from.

Kon blinked once, twice, thrice, and then a grin crawled over his face. Maybe this year wasn't going to be all bad, since there was at least one person at the school who could match him blow for blow. Verbally, anyway.

Chapter Text

The assembly hall was half-empty. Or half-full, depending how you looked at it. Kon sat on the far left, next to the wall. The pew-style seats were relatively comfortable, and he slouched in them, watching his fellow students. There were only maybe sixty of them, altogether, and they barely filled the hall even when the teachers closed the doors and started playing a PowerPoint.

The headmaster, a grumpy, stout old man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties began reading directly off the PowerPoint, explaining the expectations the school had in place, and reminding students of out of bounds areas in the school's extensive grounds, sports try-outs, library open hours, and a map of the school being handed out to all of them.

The kid Kon had bumped into had fallen asleep halfway through the assembly, and no, Kon hadn't been watching him. He'd accidentally glanced over there, and couldn't look away.

Because of the teachers, that is! None of them reprimanded him for sleeping, just let him put his head on his knees and sleep in what Kon could confidently describe as the worst sleeping position in the world. In fact, one teacher even adjusted the kid's jacket/makeshift blanket for him when it started slipping off! Favouritism much?

It was despicable, just because the kid was rich, and he was small, and looked like a breeze could blow him over, he was being treated with more compassion than the rest of them!

It was injustice!

It was unfair!

And Kon would right all the injustice in the world, if only he could figure out what the kid's deal was.

By the time the assembly came to a finish, at least half of the students were glassy eyed and daydreaming, which was promptly dispelled by the announcement of prefects, and house separation. Each seat had a slip of paper beneath it, with one of the house names written on it. Kon was in Sentinel house, and from looking around, it seemed that the kid was in Noctis house, along with approximately a quarter of the other students.

Two out of the four prefects stepped onto stage, one being Dick Grayson, Gotham's darling, dark hair, orphaned, best acrobat and trapeze artist in the world. He was representing Noctis house.

And the second prefect was Wally West, adoptive son of one of the most renowned scientists in Central City, and infamous with the cooks at the academy for his voracious appetite. He was representing Tempest house.

There had been rumours the two were dating, though no indication of any such relationship could be seen as then stood next to each other on the stage, holding up an elegant portrait of the house symbols, portraying unity. Dick spoke first.

"This portrait will hang in the common room of the winning house at the end of the year. Throughout the year, there will be various activities where you can earn points for your house."

Wally took over.

"At the end of the year, there will be an academic competition, as well as an athletic one, where you can earn up to ten points per activity. Your prefects will be in charge of picking who competes based on your performance throughout the year."

The other two prefects step forward, Jackson 'Kaldur'ahm' Hyde, and Megan Morse. Kaldur'ahm introduced the pair in a calm, almost soothing, baritone.

"Once you've been dismissed, follow your prefects to your first class." He ended, gesturing for the two double doors on either side of the auditorium to be opened, and for Noctis house to go out of the right and Sentinel out of the left, following their prefect.

***

Tim thought he was doing well.

Noctis house, the house that Dick Grayson, his idol, was a prefect of, and he hadn't been put in the same house as that prick who shoved him outside the library!

He was living the dream!

Of course, the second he expressed that to himself, (mentally, of course, he had no intention of being sent to Arkham for talking to himself) it all went downhill. It had started with a simple coughing fit, until it hadn't, and he'd had to go to the nurse's office to get his inhaler and ended up missing the rest of the class because he practically passed out on one of the beds. Lunch had also apparently passed whilst he was snoozing, so the nurse gave him a sandwich she snagged from the cafeteria for him.

She seemed like a kind woman, motherly. (Or more mother-like than he perceived his own, absent, and now dead, mother) With graying red hair in a neat bun and wrinkles around her eyes from a lifetime of smiles.

She was awfully kind to him. Tim had to keep an eye on her.

Gym class made Tim miss the nurse's office, despite his minimal paranoia around her, as he later found out. Despite being unable to participate, he was still expected to be present for the lesson, which meant he sat on one of the benches, as the other students completed a baseline fitness test and gave him weird looks.

The automated voice rang through the speakers at exactly 1:15 PM,

"The FitnessGram™ Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues. The 20 metre pacer test will begin in 30 seconds. Line up at the start. The running speed starts slowly, but gets faster each minute after you hear this signal," a beep sounded, "A single lap should be completed each time you hear this sound. Remember to run in a straight line, and run as long as possible. The second time you fail to complete a lap before the sound, your test is over. The test will begin on the word start. On your mark, get ready, start."

The beep went through the hall and some of the less strategic students took off at full speed. Others, the more sane ones, started slow and increased their pace.

One student, the asshole who shoved Tim (and honestly, he should really learn his name, if only for the sake of cursing him mentally) took off at full speed and continued running at that speed, the whole time.

It was impossible.

It was improbable.

It was unheard of.

By the time lap seventy came along, he was the only one left, and still sprinting between the cones. The teacher and almost every student, watched him in slack-jawed awe, up until lap eighty five, where he started (started???) to get out of breath.

Lungs of steel is what this kid had. Lungs of fucking steel.

And Tim was going to figure out what made him tick.

Chapter Text

Tim took another allergy pill, not bothering to swallow it with water, before taking the rest of his medications and changing into pyjamas.

His pyjamas were blue, covered in tiny robins (the bird kind, not the sidekick kind) , and the comfiest thing he owned. He'd owned them since he was nine, and after he got the plague, his growth had been permanently stunted, so he never grow out of them. When they needed altering, he found the exact fabric needed for it, and gave it to the family tailor. It seemed fitting that such a source of childhood comfort, childhood weakness, some would argue, would be the one he turned to on a day such as the one he'd had, where The Guy™ practically stared at him throughout all of their shared classes, and lunch at the long dining tables in the cafeteria area. His food had to be separately and specifically prepared, due to his sensitivity, allergies, and intolerances to most things.

He had heard the whispers of 'spoiled', 'pampered', 'snobbish' directed at him, and disregarded it all. Not a single one of these had experienced any kind of hardship. His mother had died, and then he'd contracted a deadly and debilitating virus which had long lasting after effects, and if these arrogant, gossip hungry, children decided that he'd be the source of their vicious entertainment, so be it.

He cleans up after himself and flushed the toilet, rinsing his mouth out and washing his hands, ready to just go to sleep. His room was bare, his sheets plain white with grey accents, and the only thing that held anything with any sentiment was the bulletin board covered in red thread and photos of Batman and Robin. He hadn't been able to go out and take pictures of (read: stalk) them since he caught the plague, but that night, he fell asleep staring at his board, wondering if he'd ever get the chance to see another Robin.

Before the plague had hit him, he'd debated going to Batman and forcing him to let Tim take up the mantle- the poor guy was practically going insane. Rumours on the streets were that he was more violent, and someday soon, he'd end up breaking his No killing rule, by accident or by purpose, Tim didn't know, but what he did know was that Batman needed a Robin, and that Robin could no longer be him.

He was too weak, too soft, too easily hurt, and whilst he wanted to be Robin, he wasn't suicidal, and he knew that Batman wouldn't want another Robin to die on the job.

His robin pyjamas rode up as he shifted in his bed.

Childhood comfort was a mirage, the imagination of a small boy whose parents were never around. It wouldn't protect him from cruel kids, or the plethora of diseases he was bedridden by.

***

Clink went the dripping of the leaky pipes in Kon's dorm room.

Click, went the sound of his roommates fingers against his phone.

Low murmurs drifted in and out of his ears from outside the heavy door, just heavy enough to block out some noise, though it was practically useless to Kon. His hearing had always been amazing, really. He could hear the heartbeat of a spider resting on the inside corner of the kitchen's pantry, and the heartbeats of every teacher in the teacher's facilities and accommodations, all the way across the Academy.

He had known for years that some kind of genetic abnormality, that Lex had never explained, obviously, elevated his senses far beyond what was 'normal' and that he shouldn't mention it to anyone. However, that didn't stop him from latching onto heartbeats and adjusting his own to match, to feel more normal.

One heartbeat, however, stood out to him. Every other person's heart in the academy went ba dum, ba dum, ba dum , but this person's went ba dum… ba dum… ba dum , as if their heart was perpetually half asleep or on the verge of failing. He was tempted to track this person down and beg them to sort it out, cause it was so off putting when compared to the others. The only other exception to the regular heartbeats in the school, that he could notice, anyway, were three heartbeats, matching the same, frantic, quick pace. One came from his roommate.

"Hey, man, could you like… chill?" He rubbed his forehead as he addressed his roommate for the first time, "you sound really stressed for some reason."

His roommate, a scrawny, small, pale, freckled little redhead, turned and furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm not stressed. What gave you that idea?"

He waved his hands vaguely.

"Never mind. You should probably rest, though. You seem tired."

The kid, as Kon had taken to calling him, because it was a better option than 'brat', grinned and shovelled a pack of gummy worms into his mouth.

"Nope!" He smacked his lips together and, oh, ew, Kon really wished he had the ability to black his eyeballs because ewww , he hadn't needed to see the corpses of several gummy worms on his roommates tongue right after the first day of classes, "name's Bart, by the way. Dunno why they put 'brat' on the paper.

"I'm Kon." He offered, sitting up and extending a hand to Bart. They shook hands, and for someone so small and meek looking, his grip was pretty firm.

"Did we just become BEST friends?" Bart joked, after letting go, causing Kon to laugh a little and lay back down on his bed.

"Watcha up to, anyway?"

"My," there. A slight hitch in his breath, as if he was considering his words carefully, "cousin is texting me. He and my uncle are working on something and wanted my opinion."

Kon hummed, letting Bart talk about mechanics and chemistry, all he wanted, occasionally inputting some suggestions when he noticed something he understood.

It was nice.

Homely, even.

But could Kon know what home felt like if he'd never had one in the first place?

***

In Wayne manor, a father lay a bouquet of peonies on his son's grave. Peonies weren't his favourite, but the florist didn't stock Spider Lilies at this time of year. He had shed so many tears for his boy, what was a few more, over the grave of a child, of his child, taken so soon, beaten and blown up, and he hadn't been able to save him.

He was a failure.

A failure of a man.

Of a parent.

"I'm sorry," the father sobbed over his son's grave, "I'm so sorry, Jay-lad."

He pressed his forehead to the cool stone and stood, tracing the letters of his son's name, over and over again, before he went back inside.

When he left, green eyes snapped open, and Jason Todd breathed in for the first time, in a grave six feet below the ground.

Chapter Text

In a distant universe, Superboy Prime punches through the universe, correcting wrongs, changing the outcome of many, many decisions. The cracks traveled into our universe, and a little boy crawled his way out of a cold, so cold, grave, gasping, heaving, leaving the soil in disrepair. A green eyed zombie scrambled its way out of Wayne cemetery’s gated neighborhood and into the throes of a city recovering from a fever.

The boy wouldn't survive.

Not without his family’s help.

***

Kon vaguely tuned in to his chemistry teacher as he demonstrated the experiment they’d be doing, a simple chromatography experiment, but honestly, Kon was more interested in watching the kid doodle on a sticky note. Was that… a ghost on a skateboard? Did the kid skateboard? Nah, he seemed like a simple stumble would put him in the ER for days.

Speaking of the kid, Kon should find out his name so could snark at him more accurately in his mind. He should probably have been listening to the register. No matter. It wouldn't be a problem.

The professor gave out his last instruction, pulling up a file on the board with student’s names next to the partner they’d be working with.

“You’ll be working in these pairs for every experiment you do from now on, whether that be with me or your other two professors, since the school is too stingy to actually buy more resources,” although that last part was mumbled, and he probably didn't intend for the students to hear him, Kon heard anyway, and made a mental note to get Lex to donate more to the science department, if only so he didn't have to work with a partner. His eyes skimmed across the Smartboard, trying to find his pair.

Cassie Sandsmark, Bart Allen

Greta Hayes, Cissie King-Jones

Stephanie Brown, Garfield Logan

Connor Luthor, Timothy Drake

Jaime Reyes, Logan Hyde

-Wait! Kon didn't have time to figure out who Timothy Drake was, before the kid -the kid! Was Timothy Drake!- had appeared, seemingly magically, at his side. Kon fought the shriek bubbling in his throat, to wanting to give the kid the satisfaction of scaring him. Timothy’s eyes studied him, was it possible that he didn't remember their encounter outside the library? Could Kon become his friend? Maybe the kid was just angry that day and he wasn't really that much of an ass-

“What are you looking at, Jelly hair?”

Never mind, the kid was definitely an asshole.

***

Chromatography was probably the easiest experiment Tim ever did, and he'd done his first titration at nine. Whenever he did chromatographs,  liked seeing the pretty colours bleed upwards, like magic. Eventually, as all things did, his little fantasy of being some kind of magical being, came to an end.

he wasn't some magician. He wasn't someone like Zatara, or Wonder Woman, or Martian Manhunter.

He was just Timothy Jackson Drake, son of Jack and Janet Drake, a sickly little boy who had no hope of being someone other than what he was.

A failure.

A problem.

Unwanted.

his asshole partner snapped his fingers in front of his face,

“-mothy? Timothy!”

“just Tim.” He snapped, and clipped the filter paper a little higher, to stop it from touching the water. His partner huffed, and (inwardly) Tim knew he was being a little mean. He sighed.

“I'm- I’m sorry. I’m just- tired,” he finished lamely, and Connor looked at him strangely.

“I don’t know, dude, you looked like you were pretty mad at someone. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Tim felt anger bubbling up his insides, although he knew this poor guy didn't deserve it. He was just making sure Tim -his lab partner- was alright, but still, a voice inside him screeched in annoyance. How dare he presume to know what I’m feeling? How dare he ask such invasive questions? They weren't invasive, not unless Tim really wasn't okay, which, wow, he really did not want to think about that right now, cause he didn't want to start spiralling.

“I'm fine,” he snapped, and so did the tentative bonds of friendship between the pair.

“Whatever,” Connor Luthor’s expression went cold, “let's just finish this experiment then.”

Tim tried to forget the feeling of ice that radiated from the boy's crystalline blue eyes.

***

Kon had really wanted to help, try to get the kid talking about what his problem was, maybe help him (Lex had always said he had a bit of a hero complex).

But fine. Whatever. The kid could sort himself out. He wasn't Kon’s problem anymore.

(He wasn't Kon’s problem before, either.)

When Timothy fell asleep without having lunch, it wasn't his problem.

When Timothy tripped and almost fell on top of a teacher, that wasn't his problem.

 When Timothy got four answers wrong in their physics class, it wasn't Kon’sproblem.

when the substitute teacher snatched a device from Timothy, it wasn't his problem.

It may have been a little bit of a problem when Timothy passed out.

***

Tim woke up feeling like he'd been run over by a particularly vengeful eighteen wheeler. Several times. Ran him over. Reversed. Ran him over again. It didn't feel great.

The nurse fussed over him, gave him a juice box, and fluffed his pillows.

“Ma’am?”

“Just Helen, please, sweetheart.”

“What happened?”

Helen stopped fussing over him, and leveled him with a look.

“Some boy in your class brought you here and said you’d passed out. He also said that your substitute teacher took your CGM and you didn't tell him what it was.”

Tim gaped at her. 

“I told him it was my glucose monitor and he didn't believe me!” He protested indignantly whilst Helen clucked and fussed over his pillows again like a hovering mother hen.

“Either way, I doubt he’ll be allowed near you again.”

***

As the living corpse wandered through the city, high above them, a pretty blue bird spread his wings and flew across rooftops. His little brother’s tracker had moved, and he was going to kill severely incapacitate whoever had defaced his brother’s grave. Even in Gotham, people had some respect for the dead, for the little boy taken from his family too soon. His tracker beeped, and he parkoured down the building, slamming the source of the beep against a wall.

A familiar face looked back at him, rigour mortis barely setting in, and bright green eyes, instead of baby blues. His entire face was bruised, and covered in dried dirt and blood, sticking to his skin. He opened his mouth, and it felt like his lips weren't his own when he whispered a name so holy in Wayne Manor that none dared to let it pass their vocal cords and contaminate the name with the silence, the hatred, the hell that had befallen an already too big, too empty house.

“Jason?”

Chapter Text

A YEAR LATER:

Months of training had led up to this moment, training, late night talks, hashing out family drama, simply existing together. Jason, looked over his new uniform one last time, the deep red of his feathered cape complimenting the deep black accents nicely.

“Welcome to the team, Cardinal.” Nightwing placed a hand on his shoulder.

Cardinal did have a nice ring to it.

***

The pounding of bass from his headphones matched the pounding in Tim’s ears as he ran. 

One five metre lap, touch the ground, two, touch the ground, three, touch the ground, four-

He slipped, and his ankle caught the other one, pulling him face down and head over heels.

“Falling for me already? I'm not entirely sorry to say that I’m not interested, Timothy.” A grating voice came from above him, like a smug cat, and Tim looked up to find Conner Luthor looking down his nose at him, figuratively and literally. He heaved himself up with only a little bit of a struggle and stood as gracefully as he could when he felt and looked, most probably, like he'd been run over by one of those iconic double decker London buses. 

Not that he’d been to London. 

Or anywhere outside of the Gothopolis area.

Speaking (thinking?) of which, he should call his father.

“Timothy?”

Tim forced his attention back on Conner Luthor, a feat that he would rather never have to partake in again, truly a Herculean trial. Conner scoffed as if he could read his mind, but then knelt to grab something from his bag.

“Professor Thompkins told me to give you these,” he handed over a stack of worksheets, “and to tell you that we’re working together for the end of term ecology assignment.”

Tim's head snapped up.

“Did you tell her ‘no’?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I told her I’d rather throw myself out of the home ec classes on the fourth floor than work with you.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did she say?”

“She’d schedule an appointment with the guidance counsellor under a referral of suicidal thoughts.”

Tim groaned a string of unintelligible curses and vague muttering.

“You okay?” Conner’s finger reached towards him like he was going to out a hand on his shoulder and then thought better of it.

“Don’t touch me, Luthor.”

“Kent,” since Kon had emancipated himself from Lex Luthor and gone to live with Clark Kent, the resulting press shitshow be damned, he’d insisted on using the name ‘Connor Kent’, though Bart called him ‘Kon’, perhaps as an affectionate, friendly, fond nickname, or maybe more.

Tim obsessively stalked the media after his announcement, and the most common theory was, drumroll, Mpreg. It was, honestly, hilarious, watching the reddit and twitter threads go inside trying to figure it out, despite the fact that LuthorCorp was very blatant about their experiments in genetics and genetic modification.

Heck, they even had a page dedicated to cloning, granted, it was extinct animals that they published findings about, and were attempting to clone a sabre-toothed tiger, and not humans, but still, his point still stood.

Tim shifted his legs to sit cross legged on the floor of the near empty dance studio. Near empty, save for the pair of them. Connor stood in front of him, towering down, as he watched Tim go through the sheets he’d been given. Tim’s hair fell in front of his face, obscuring it., save from his mouth as he skimmed through each page.

“What’s our topic?”

“Hmm?” Kon’s eyes lifted to meet Tiim’s, because he was definitely not staring at the other boy’s lips, “oh, we’re doing genetic mutations used on farms, like those glowy fish.”

“... fish which glow to detect underwater pollution by selectively fluorescing in the presence of environmental toxins?”

“Yes, that!”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“I know the fish glow.”

“I'm requesting a partner change.”

“Please do, that would benefit both of us.”

They continued bickering as Tim collected the cones he was using, stacking them in the supply closet and locking the door of the gymnasium behind the pair. 

Bart found them walking together to the outside seating for lunch, and attached himself to Tim’s side, making the both of them move on from their argument, even if another would inevitably start up within the hour.

Kon pushed the doors open and almost immediately, Tim shivered from the blast of cold air. Immediately, Bart descended on him.

“You’re cold? Should we eat inside? Did you bring a jacket or a hoodie? Never mind, I’ll go grab one from your closet, gimme your room keys, I'll be back in a- ”

“Bart,” Tim started,

“You and Kon can get along for a minute whilst i get it-”

“Bart-”

“Actually, maybe I'll take Kon with me, Cassie, get over-!”

“Bartholemew Henry Allen!”

Bart stopped speaking for a second, stunned.

“I’m fine, we’ll just eat inside today.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose like he was starving off a headache, and Bart opened his mouth to say something, likely fuss even more, but Kon covered his mouth.

“Lead the way, Gold Star.”

Tim scowled at him, but headed in the direction of one of the indoor cafeterias, beelining for the table and seat closest to the window, to absorb as much of the metropolis sun leaking through the windows as he could. Cassie arrived a couple of seconds after the three of them, with another girl walking alongside her. She slid into the seat next to Bart, and the new girl stood awkwardly, before Cassie dragged a chair over from the table next to them for her to sit at. 

“I’m Cissie,” she offered, and the others responded in kind, falling into an easy conversation, save for Tim who ate silently and soaked up the sun.

“What’s up with Plant-Boy today?” Cassie whispered to Kon, who was also staring at Tim.

“Plant-boy would be a horrible superhero name.” Tim finally said, blue eyes flicking towards them.

“My superhero name would be something arrow themed.” Cissie declared, which sparked another conversation about superheroes, except this time, Tim joined in, cracking jokes about the various Gotham superheroes and what his superhero name would be.

“Gotham hasn’t had a Robin for a while now, right?”

“No, not since the second one was offed by Joker.”

“You heard about Cardinal?”

“You think the Bat’s gonna get another bird?”

Tim simply shrugged at the question. 

“Batman needs Robin, but he’s got two other heroes operating out of Gotham right now, so maybe not. Probably not.” 

He would. Eventually. Tim had been doing research, months of it, since Jason Todd had returned to the school, and he was almost certain that Bruce Wayne and Talia Al-Ghul had a son together, that Bruce was not aware of. Robin was more than a mantle, a hero. Robin was hope, Robin was light. Robin was everything. Batman needed Robin, but Robin also needed Batman.

And he was certain that Talia Al-Ghul would bring hers and Bruce’s son to Gotham soon.

Chapter Text

“My name is Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne. I am the blood son of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al-Ghul. I am here to be trained under my father, and I bear no ill will towards any of my father's housemates.” The child, barely standing at 4’6, looked up at Nightwing and Cardinal, baby fat still clinging to childish features, and tried to look intimidating.

He failed miserably, only succeeding in looking like a slightly miffed kitten.

“Housemates?” Cardinal squawked indignantly.

“Blood son?” Nightwing frowned before stalking into the cave, “Bruce!”

***

The academy was decorated in bright red and green tinsel, fairy lights illuminating the large tree in the centre of the cafeteria. Each student had been given a bauble and asked to decorate it, in order for it to be added to the collosal tree. The tree shook gently from the draught coming in from the windows, creating a background soundtrack of chimes for the student’s conversations. Tim leaned his head on Cassie’s shoulder, letting her support his body as she chatted amicably with Conner, Bart, and Cissie. He interjected sometimes, but let them talk and eat. 

At any other time, Tim might have thought that the food looked appetising, and might have wolfed it down like Conner and Bart did. Right now, however, he wanted to puke.

The roast at the centrepiece smelled of burnt flesh, the salad carried the odour of vinegar and lemon juice, and the roasted vegetables and potatoes looked dry, and crumbly.

Bart poked his side and Tim cracked one eyelid open to look at him.

“You gonna eat that?” Bart pointed at the chocolate mousse someone had set in front of him, and, wordlessly, Tim pushed the bowl over to Bart who scarfed it down like a vulture on a carcass.

He didn't even chew. 

Tim grimaced and sat back up properly, coming into eye contact with Conner, who looked almost worried. Tearing his eyes from Conner’s, Tim looked at Cissie.

“-Christmas plans?”

Tim blinked.

“What?”

“Do you have any Christmas plans?”

“Oh. I'm probably going to go home. See my dad. Visit my mom’s grave. You?”

“I might stay at the academy this year. My mom’s being pretty pushy and I dont want to deal with her during the only time of the year when I can relax.”

Tim nodded, picking up his steak knife and poking at the table with it. The conversation continued, with Conner telling Cissie he was going to meet his grandparents and see the farm for the first time and Bart and Cassie talking about their own holiday plans.

Minus Conner, it almost felt like they were a little family.

***

“Tim? Timothy? Tim?” The social worker’s voice brought him back into reality, worried and concerned, like a pseudo-parent.

Tim didn't need a pseudo-parent. He had parents. His mother was dead, but he had his father, except, well, he didn't, did he?

“He specifically stated not to tell you whilst you were at school. He didn't want you to mess up your schooling, or get even more sick-” Tim tuned him out, gazing absently at Drake manor.

“Hospital.”

“What?”

“Take me to the hospital.”

The social worker - Mr. A Draper- looked at him worriedly once again, and Tim felt unnecessary rage building in his chest. He didn't need someone to worry about him.

He didn't need anybody. He wanted to see his dad.

“I want to see him. Take me to the hospital so I can see him.”

“A-Are you sure? You’re pretty frail, and I don’t know if you’ll be able to-”

“I want to go to the hospital. Now!” And, in the back of his mind, Tim registered that he was acting like a spoiled brat, but he needed to go- he needed to see his father.

Mr. Draper practically fell over himself to get to his car, and Tim climbed into the passenger seat. Mr. Draper was dreadfully boring. He obeyed all the traffic laws, and played some jazz from the radio. If Tim hadn’t been so worried, he might have played into the brat persona he was building, and turned it off.

As it stood, he could barely lift his arms, feeling so detached from his body that he could barely climb out of the car and follow Mr. Draper to the hospital room where his father was laying on the bed, eyes closed, hooked up to several IVs. Tim stumbled into the chair beside the bed and reached out to grab his father’s hand.

He had a sudden memory, of waking up after he’d been sick, to find his father beside his hospital bed, head on the mattress, clutching Tim’s hand like a lifeline. Once he had realised Tim was awake, he had yelled for the doctor, and hugged Tim close, murmuring over and over again how worried he was. 

A doctor came into the room, introduced herself, and laid out the facts:

Jack Drake was dying of what looked to be a delayed reaction from something he’d ingested whilst in Haiti. 

He likely wouldn’t make it past the month. 

Tim appreciated her straightforwardness.

Mr. Draper cut in.

“Your neighbour has offered to drive you to and from the hospital, and has offered to let you stay with him, fostering you temporarily, and has offered to help you with any documents you need.”

Tim’s heart stopped for a second.

“Mr. Wayne?” Mr. Draper nodded.

Why would Bruce Wayne offer to take him in? What did he gain? Did he know that Tim knew his identity?

Tim clutched his father’s hand a little tighter, but nodded anyway. Mr.  Draper left Tim with the doctor, saying he had other children to see, more documents to sign.

The doctor pat his head gently and moved on to the next patient.

Tim lay his head down on the mattress and closed his eyes.

He wished Bart was here, or Cassie, or Cissie. Hell, even Conner would be decent company. 

He just didn't want to be alone.

***

“You’ll be fine, Kon! A little higher!” Clark coached from above him, as Kon struggled to adjust to being mostly weightless in the air.

“I’m gonna fall!”

“You won’t! Besides, you’ll be fine, even if you do fall.”

“You’re not helping!” Clark flew a little lower and grabbed Kon’s arm, floating upwards slowly.

***

“Focus. Train your eyes on that spot, and then let the light refract.” Kon stared the hay bale down, feeling heat build up behind his pupils, and then release in a steady stream of red light, blasting a hole through the hay. Clark high fived him.

***

Clark added another chicken egg to the ones rotating above his head, as he used his tactile telekinesis to juggle them. 

“Ready?”

“For what?”

Clark threw one of Ma’s sewing mannequins into the mix, and Kon adjusted quickly to the added item, juggling it with the eggs seamlessly.

***

“How was your day, boys?” Ma set down a plate of shepherd's pie down in front of each of them, before sitting down herself. Pa came in, trekking mud onto the floorboards. Before Ma could say a thing, he waved his hand.

“I know, sweetheart,” he kissed Ma’s cheek before heading to the bathroom to shower and put his clothes in for a wash.

Clark and Kon wore mirroring expressions of disgust and embarrassment, making Ma laugh.

“Oh, hush. Eat your food.” 

The good atmosphere remained over the table as they all dug in, nether Clark nor Kon saying a word as they wolfed down the pie. Pa came in, new clothes and slightly wet from his shower, sat down next to Ma, and served his own portio, significantly smaller than Kon’s and Clark’s

“How was your day?”

Clark swallowed.

“Kon’s doing really well. His powers have been coming in nicely, and I’m thinking of taking him to the fortress tomorrow.” Kon flushed a little at that. Living with Lex really hadn't prepared him for any amount of praise.

“Just make sure you're back for Christmas Eve,” Ma agreed easily, serving Kon another portion. She winked, “gotta build all that muscle if you're gonna be like your dad.”

This time, Clark’s movements stuttered just a little, his fork falling into his plate.

The rest of the dinner was only minimally awkward after that.

Chapter Text

Timothy Jackson Drake was a quiet child. By nature, or by nurture, Damian was not sure, but there was an inherent sadness in his being as he floated through the manor like a ghost. He was endlessly polite, like all socialites were, but he was so much smaller than anyone else Damian knew. Not to mention, he sat in his room for days on end sometimes, curtains drawn and heating cranked to the max, with only Pennyworth allowed inside, to deliver food and a large vial of sickly smelling liquid with a syringe. As the days got colder, these bouts of loneliness seemed to get more frequent, and the more it persisted, the less time Timothy had to visit his father, whose condition, Damian overheard Father talking to Grayson, was steadily declining. On one of these days where Timothy stayed in his room, Damian decided to heed Grayson’s advice and be more sociable. He pushed open the door to Timothy’s guest room and heaved himself up onto the bed, to sit at the edge. Timothy was awake, book in hand, looking at Damian with barely concealed amusement underlying the visible irritation on his face, though Damian could tell that the other boy’s irritation was not directed at him, more at the failings of his own frail body, as Damian could recognise the dark circles under his eyes for exhaustion, likely caused from being up at all hours in coughing fits or puking into his en suite bathroom.

“Father says I need to learn how to be more sociable. Todd says playing card games could help boost my ‘social skills’, but he hasn’t been able to teach me any,” Damian pulled out a deck of playing cards from one of the pockets in his little hoodie, a hand me down from Grayson, “could you teach me?”

“Why don't you get Dick to teach you?” Timothy asked, adjusting his pillows to be more comfortable in supporting his frail body. Damian scoffed.

”He taught me ‘snap’, and refuses to teach me anything else, because he thinks me an incompetent child who shouldn’t be exposed to ‘casino games’ as if I haven’t seen much worse.. I’m eight, not six.”

Timothy’s lip quirked.

“Fair enough. Would you like to learn how to play BlackJack?” He held out his hand for the deck and carefully peeled the plastic casing from it, taking out the cards, removing the jokers, and then shuffling them with the skill and expertise of a person who had been playing cards all his life. Damian watched the cards fold over each other, in a mesmerising pattern, and decided immediately that he needed to learn how to do that. He listened to Timothy explain the game, which was relatively simple compared to the games he'd watched others in the league teach each other., and played a few rounds, before Timothy brought out a bag of candy and split it into two piles of ten for each of them.

“Now for the gambling aspect. How many of your pieces are you willing to bet that you’re going to win this?”

Damian hesitated, before sliding five pieces into the middle. Tim put in all ten of his pieces.

“Awfully confident, Timothy?” Timothy shrugged, and dealt out the cards. He lost one round, let Damian get overconfident after losing a second, and then took all his pieces -plus Damian’s- back in the third round.

Damian was in awe. Move over, Grayson, Timothy was his favourite now.

“Which other games do you know? Teach me more?” Damian paused, then added as an afterthought, Grayson's and Pennyworth's voices in his head telling him to be polite, “please?”

They spent another two hours playing more games, until Tim devolved into a coughing fit, during which Pennyworth glided in with another medicinal vial and a syringe, which Tim floundered for whilst he was still coughing. Eventually, Pennyworth got him calmed down, gave him tissues and rearranged his pillows and water bottles for maximum comfort, before giving Tim the medicine to administer himself.

Damian was ushered out of the room once it became apparent that Tim couldn’t play anymore, which was disappointing. Perhaps the next time Timothy was feeling better, he could help convince father to get him a tiger, like the one he tended to when he was living with his mother and grandfather.

***

“Hey, dad,” Tim’s fingers, pale and almost translucent, veins showing starkly through , gripped his father’s hand, eyes locked into the vitals screen, not his face, “the doctors said you might be able to hear me, so I should keep talking to you. Umm, Mr. Wayne and his family have been great to me. They’ve been treating me really well. Mr. Pennyworth drove me here. There’s a new addition to the family. His name’s Damian. I don’t think he liked me much at the beginning, but we've been getting along a lot better recently…”

He trailed off. God, this was pathetic. Here he was, holding his dying father’s hand and rambling about the Wayne family. He didn’t have any stories to tell, nothing about himself. His life had been defined by stalking the bats at first, and then the sickness, and then recovery, and now he had gone full circle, talking about the Wayne’s like they were his family. They weren’t. They couldn’t be. He’d already made changes to his father’s will, in case of emergency, which meant that the Wayne's couldn't take him in, he wouldn't be more of a burden than he already was.

He cleared his throat.

“Bart called today. You haven’t met him,” and you likely won’t, he left unsaid, “he’s great. I’ve got good friends at school. Maybe you were right to say I needed to go. Bart’s hyper. He’s like a little kid. And Cassie! Cassie’s great. She’s direct, and kind, and a little bossy sometimes, but she’s amazing. And Cissie’s also great. She kissed me before the holidays, but I don’t think she’s actually interested in me. She and Cassie have this great dynamic that I don't wanna get in the way of. Anyway, Bart called. He was asking about me. Asked after you, wanted to know if I was okay.”

Tim went back to rambling about his friends, for two hours, Tim talked until his voice was hoarse and a nurse brought him some water. He talked until the end of visiting hours, when Mr. Pennyworth knocked on the door to his father’s room, giving him his last few moments of privacy before going back home to the chaos that was Wayne Manor. Tim pressed his forehead to his father’s hand, limp in Tim’s grasp.

“I’m sorry.” For everything. For worrying him, for being so sick, for leaving, for being such a fucking failure-

A hand landed on Tim’s shoulder, comforting, heavy, familiar. Mr. Pennyworth. Tim stood, letting go of his father’s hand and let himself be guided to the car, and then driven to the manor.

Damian accosted him at the front door, eyebrows scrunched adorably and deck of cards clutched in his hand.

“How do you do it?” He demanded.

“Do what?”

“That thing! With the cards!” Damian attempted to demonstrate, splitting the deck into two and trying to shuffle them the way Tim had, in a bridge hold, but failed miserably, the cards slipping out of his hands and falling to the ground.

“Oh. Shuffling them? You can do it easier, if you want-“

“I want to do it like you, Timothy. It looked interesting when you did it. Like some kind of magic trick.”

“Oh.” Tim really couldn’t say anything else, his heart bursting with affection for this kid who seemed to idolise everything he did since that day he'd climbed onto Tim's bed and demanded to be taught card games.

“I can show you-“

“After dinner,” Mr. Pennyworth cut in smoothly, slipping past the pair to go into the dining room. Damian crouched and gathered up his cards, leaving Tim leaning unsteadily on the wall to take off his shoes and then head into the manor proper. Damian offered his shoulder for Tim to lean on as he stumbled like an unsteady calf into the living room, taking the armchair.

“Christmas is coming up,” there was some underlying anxious tone in Damian’s voice, which made Tim look up, watching Damian sift through his deck with his eyes firmly glued to the deck.

“Yeah, it is. I planned on going to see my father.”

“You should spend Christmas Eve here then.”

“Will I have to buy gifts for everyone?” Tim asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

Damian shrugged.

“I’ve never celebrated Christmas before. And I think father’s Jewish. I don’t know what religion Grayson or Todd practice, but I think for them, Christmas is more a family event. Time to spend together.”

Tim hummed.

“I’ll probably go back to Drake manor then. Leave you all to celebrate together.”

Damian looked up sharply.

“No.”

“No?”

“Stay. Please?” He added the plea as an afterthought, but that didn’t disguise the desperation in his voice.

“Why?”

“You- I‘ve never celebrated Christmas. And aside from Grayson, I like you the most. I would like to celebrate my first Christmas with you.”

Tim couldn’t speak for a moment, Damian’s vulnerability wrecked his last few defences against this family. It was risky, reckless. What if he said something that gave away how much he truly knew? Would they keep him locked in the cave? Fake a death certificate for him and send him to the other side of the world? Adopt him?

“I’ll stay for Christmas morning,” Tim acquiesced, “and maybe lunch. But after that, I’m going to go to the hospital.”

Damian nodded.

“Thank you, Timothy.”

***

The next few days were a blur of Christmas preparations. Mr. Pennyworth took Damian and Tim out shopping to buy gifts, and Tim made sure to grab one for him too, when he was distracted with prying Damian away from the toy swords.

He ended up getting a gift for everyone at the manor, he even got dog toys for Bruce’s dog, Ace. Damian got a children’s archery set, Jason got a collectors edition box set of Austen Novels, and Frankenstein, and after some debate, he got Dick a children’s police uniform as a gag gift, along with a carved wooden elephant and a couple of new shiny paints for his bike.

***

Christmas morning came along, and Tim had every intent on keeping his promise to Damian. Alfred made them a feast of various foods- waffles, pancakes, turkey rashes, toast, eggs, even some tarts and a large apple pie which sat on a tray, to be snacked on throughout the day. Bruce had cheesy carols and Christmas songs playing through the intercom system he had installed throughout the manor for gala’s and when he was too far away from everyone else and needed to talk to one of them.

At around 8 o’clock, Alfred let them open their stockings, which even included one for Tim, full of general stocking stuffers; candy, key rings, mini figurines, some stationary, and more memory cards for his cameras, that had been practically wasting away in his closet. It was sweet, and kind, and Tim would not cry. 

Once the others pocketed their goods, Dick and Jason both sat cross legged on the floor, like children, and waited for Bruce so they could open their gifts. Damian sat next to Dick, head leaning on his arm and practically falling asleep. The rest of the morning went as normal, or as normal as it could be in Wayne Manor, gifts were exchanged, and at around noon, Mr. Pennyworth drove him to the hospital.

***

“Drake industries is going bankrupt,” Tim only felt minimally bad for giving his father bad news whilst he lay comatose in the bed in front of him, their hands clasped together in some mockery of the true father-son relationship they’d never had, “Mr. Wayne is helping me, but he has his own company to run… amongst other things, so I'm kind of drowning in work.” Tim rested his head on the pitifully thin mattress and sighed. Even here, in the privacy of his father’s hospital room, he couldn't bring himself to voice the secret he’d kept all these years, to protect the bat’s and their identities.

“I’m sorry for being so weak. I'm not the son you wanted, I know. I know mom wanted a daughter, and you wanted someone to continue your legacy, but I can't. I'm too-” Tim coughed, hard, gagging at the sheer force of his heaves.

“I didn't get you a Christmas present. I debated it, but I figured that,” he coughed again, “What’s the point? You likely won't be waking up anytime soon, and I just- I'm tired, dad, so tired. I hate being this sick all the time. And I have to go back to school in January, where I'll get worse as the weather gets colder. ”

Tim ran his hand through his hair and absently realised he’d been way overdue for a haircut. He didn't particularly care, but his parents had insisted on his hair being cut and styled neatly all the time, as a representative of Drake Industries, and the Drake family. 

Maybe this would be his first action as an orphan; disobeying his parent’s favourite rule by growing his hair out. Maybe he could get Bart to teach him how to spike his hair. Maybe he could get an undercut like Cassie.

“I know you wont make it,” Tim continued, monotone, blandly, “I've been grieving you the entire time you’ve been in this place. I don't know what I’m meant to do when you die. Mr. Wayne already has too many kids, and-”

A movement in his peripheral caught his eye. The screen attached to the life support system was beeping, the lines moving rapidly. The pounding of feet followed, and nurses and doctors flooded into the room, checking over everything, moving quickly, charging up defibrillators. It felt like Tim was a stranger in his own body, watching from someone else’s perspective, watching his father convulse under the shocks, watching the nurse’s fail, watching the doctors declare his time of death.

He felt like a ghost, even though he wasn't the one dead.

Jack Drake was dead. He was lying on a hospital bed, chest unmoving, heart stopped, and he was dead.

Jack Drake died before his sickly son, even though all the odds had pointed to him being the one to plan his son’s funeral, in another few years, when his frail body would get the best of him.

Jack Drake died with a small hand, too small for a sixteen year old boy, clutching his, both subverting their own expectations for their lives.

Timothy Jackson Drake spent Christmas Day in a hospital room, watching the line go flat on his father’s heart rate monitor, feeling numb, as if he was the one having painkillers pumped into him.

Timothy Jackson Drake spent Christmas Day holding the hand of a dead man.

Timothy Jackson Drake spent Christmas Day surrounded by doctors, nurses, all sorts of people, and yet, he’d never been so alone.