Archive of Our Own

Tim likes to think that he’s made a breakthrough with Jason. That the reason Jason hangs around him is because they’ve reconciled their resentment through blood, sweat, tears, multiple heart to hearts, and undeniable bonding moments.

But then, Tim tends to frame his life in hyperboles and exaggerations, and really, Jason’s only around him more often due to his lingering guilt about Tim’s ‘death,’ and Tim’s strained relationship with Bruce.

He’s part of the Zombie Club now. That’s pretty neat. It’s just Jason, him, and Damian since Jason ruled everyone else as ‘uncool,’ and 'pretty goddamn useless on a good day,' and not only does Damian share the same sentiment, but he seems to crash Tim’s house whenever Jason’s near. It still feels new sometimes and a little strange, but still, neat. Tim doesn’t mind, honestly, he’s just stoked that someone actually think that he’s cool.

Although, it’s super ‘uncool’ for Jason to be right all the time. Not that Tim will ever admit it.

Jason’s sitting across from him looking unbearably smug. He’s got one arm folded behind his head and another holding his smoothie, slurping to his content while doing a precarious dance on one foot of his chair.

Tim refrains from tripping Jason’s chair and settles for glaring instead. “Don’t you have somewhere to be right now?” Tim asks. “Like, I don’t know, sleeping, writing, annoying Damian at school, throwing someone off a building—I don’t know. Stuff like that?”

“Nope,” Jason says, popping the ‘p’ sound. He pushes the carton of Chinese food towards Tim. “Eat.”

Tim pushes the food away. “I will after this proposal.”

“No.” The Chinese food shuffles diabolically closer. “Right now.” A stern look from the top of his eyes. “Tam says.”

And really, that’s a dirty play. Crossing Tam is never on his agenda and never will be. Tim has no shame in admitting that Tam terrifies him endlessly.

The smell of his favourite stir fry smacks him in the face, and ooh, Jason’s too devious, because his stomach finally takes charge, driven by its hunger and its fear of Tam’s disappointment.

“Fine,” Tim says. He grabs his stack of paper, chucks them into a shelf, and makes grabby hand motions like the weakling he is.

Jason rolls his eyes but throws a set of chopsticks at him.

“When Tam and I negotiated her partnership contract,” Tim says in between chewing. “I remember agreeing to majority of her board meetings, not to having a personal alarm clock for things that don’t nearly matter as much.”

“I’m actually here for Tam,” Jason tells him matter-of-fact. “She’s a much better conversationalist, and she understands the value of food. Unlike some ingrate I know.”

“Ingrate.”

“Call them like I see them,” Jason says.

Shamelessly, his chopsticks dive for all of Tim’s broccoli.

Tim slaps his hand away, and they fall into their usual conversation; how Jason’s writing is doing, even though Jason denies ever writing a single sentence of fanfiction, how everyone else is doing, how Red Hood’s business is doing, until, finally, they get down to the heart of the matter.

There’s a switch Jason flicks whenever he wants information. His eyes become bright lasers, picking up any hint of movement, and his easy grins are layered with twice the amount of charm necessary. A much more effective, disarming poker face, because Jason has always been handsome and he’s threefold more when he’s charming.

“You’re not playing around with the ray gun, are you?”

Carefully, Tim puts down his chopsticks. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asks. “It’s from space. I like space. It’s technology hints at interdimensional properties. I have experience with things that hints at interdimensional properties.”

Exasperated, Jason follows suit. “You know exactly why.”

It’s unspoken that the ray gun emits a burst of bright light when it hits its target. Like the burst of bright light that came before his year-long imprisonment. That’s also unspoken.

"I'm just playing around with it,” Tim says. “I'm not going to test it or anything."

“And what does ‘playing around with it’ mean, exactly?

“You know…” Tim looks at him, hoping Jason will finish the sentence for him.

He doesn’t.

Jason stares at him unamused.

Tim groans. “Yadda yadda,” he says. “Something about quantum mechanics.”

“You only use quantum mechanics excuse when you’re too lazy to explain about something.” Jason narrows his eyes. “What are you planning to do, Tim?”

“I’m a lazy person,” Tim says. “You should know that about me.”

Jason scolds him. "Stop avoiding my question. These things are unpredictable and you know that."

"It's been months, Jason," Tim says quietly. "You don't know what I can or can't handle."

Admittedly, there's a silence that Tim savours. Jason, surprised, purses his lips while chewing on his thoughts, and Tim can't blame him for his hesitance. This is almost the first time he's addressed his kidnapping/death outside his own head without his lungs threatening to rip itself out of his chest.

“No," Jason says slowly, then nods his acknowledgement. "but all evidence from the past points to you always pushing yourself past your limit before you’re ready.”

“Pot,” Tim mumbles, shoving Jason's noodles in his mouth, “meet kettle.”

"And look at me, taking a breather after an eventful space expedition," Jason says. "I'm, like, a functioning normal human being. You should take note."

The idea is so outrageous, that Tim almost snorts out his food. In revenge, Tim, Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises, fellow functioning normal human being, throws a piece of carrot at him.

Jason, infuriatingly, catches it in his mouth. "You should aim to the left next time," he says around his mouthful.

Tim is literally on the verge of flipping his desk at Jason when his phone vibrates.

Kon-El is calling you.

All of Jason’s previous teasing goes out the window. Suddenly, throwing food doesn’t seem fun anymore.

"Are you going to get that?" Jason asks, once Tim frowns at his phone for too long.

He doesn't. He slides on the red button. The call is dismissed and sorted with the other eighty-nine calls missed under Kon's name. The crease on Jason's forehead deepens when he catches sight of Tim's phone. It’ll probably deepen into a origami when he see that Bart’s missed calls are in the triple digits.

Then it’s a good thing he won’t, he decides. Tim slides his phone in the cabinet to accompany all his paperwork.

Jason looks like he wants to challenge him about it. His shoulders rises up and down as he takes a deep breath, opening his mouth—

Tim doesn't let him. "How's Bizarro and Artemis?" he asks, a subject that's guaranteed to occupy Jason for a couple of hours.

The stare feels heavy on Tim's shoulders, but he brushes it off. Whatever Jason wants to find in Tim, he's not going to find it, and after a while, Jason plays along.

Together, they pretend as if Tim hasn't been avoiding Bart and Kon for the past ten months of his life.

Spite and curiosity is never a good combo for Tim, even if it’s efficient and satisfying, Coupled with his curiosity, it gets him into the most awkward situations, and he really needs to wean himself off of using spite as a motivator.

Which is why he always sequester himself in his deep, dark, workshop when he does these questionable things. Because, he decides, as long as nobody is there to actually witness said awkward situations, it doesn't really matter.

Thus, Tim is hunched over the ray gun, safety gear on over his pyjamas, power source stripped and dismantled on the table, poking at wires he probably shouldn't be poking at.

Proving a point is going to be his downfall. Jason's wrong, though, because Tim is over it. He knows his limits and he's going to work past it just to show that he can, and he can bounce back after. Because he's resilient and he's over it.

He can do this.

Tim is so engrossed with his thoughts that he doesn't notice his table vibrating. He bumps a glass of water off the table, catches it before it spills on the floor, and only then does he notice.

Now that Tim's eye level with his worktable, he could see the shakes. His eyes travel past the pieces of scrap metal, past his tools, past the exoskeleton and straight to the power source of the ray gun. A gem—a space gem, that was purple when he last looked at it, but is now a vivid, glowing orange. Flecks of red, blue, purple, and green can be seen floating in the middle, if you peer close enough. Put the stone on a ring, and Tim would probably make a fortune.

Doesn’t explain how it changed colour, however.

Initial energy readings by both him and Jason shows that the rock is stable. Tim would never have tampered with it otherwise. He’s not going to lie; he’s a little bit alarmed that it would start glowing at all. He needs to move it into a containment chamber, before it does anything else unpredictable.

As if the gem heard his thoughts; the shakes intensify, and his equipment rattles against the table. The table top bends up and down like a see-saw—

The space gem glows, lighting up his workshop.

—and his whole table springs up. A huge ‘bang’ almost splits his eardrum, and the table top breaks. On reflex, Tim shoots his hands forward and the gem slams against his palm.

He’s immediately slammed with a wave of vertigo.

His head feels thinned and stretched. His insides feels like it’s folding itself inside out. It hurts to think, much less stand, so Tim collapses instead, hitting the floor so hard, his whole skeleton jostles.

“Ow,”  Tim says, dropping the gem. “Oh lord, my head.”

Then, in a snap, his dizziness clears a enough for him to hear his instincts screaming. He throw himself sideways, and a knife plants itself where his head was.

The knife is buried so deep that only the handle can be seen.

“Speaking of, hands behind your head or you’re dead,” a voice orders.

That rhymes, Tim snorts in his head a little deliriously. “Ah, right. Give me a second.”

It’s a good thing he didn’t let his snorting slip out. Even with his head spinning like mad, he can hear the sound a gun being cocked.

“Excuse me?” the voice asks, all slow and dangerous.

Tim immediately flings his hands behinds his head as he struggles to sit—

—and finds himself on the other side of the gun, sitting on a chair, one leg propped up in  a cast.

“What the actual fuck?” they both say at the same time.

Their voices are identical.

Tim catalogues him; his black hair, his fringe that flops into his eyes, the straight lines of his jaw rounding into the shape of his chin, the way that his ears are slightly asymmetrical. It’s like looking at a breathing mirror. A breathing mirror with a broken leg aiming a gun at him.

Then, Tim’s sight catches onto the gem.

Right. Tim gulps. Interdimensional properties.

The last time he had an interdimensional outing, he was trapped in prison with only himself and the bleak threat of isolation chipping away at his sanity. This time however, he’s starting off luckier—being cuffed and strapped into a lie detector at gunpoint by his interdimensional counterpart is a marked improvement.

After a brief clash where Tim dove for the gun and other him fought Tim off, punctuated by Tim’s dizziness, other him’s broken leg, and limbs flailing at each other, Tim was marched off and strapped into a chair.

“For the last time,” Tim says, before glaring. “I am not an android, nor am I of the following: a clone, a shapeshifter, an assassin, Ra’s minion, a mercenary or any sort of persons who underwent plastic surgery in order to assassinate or replace you. I am Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne—”

“Now that’s a difference,” other him mumbles.

“—alias Robin in the past, Red Robin currently. I’m twenty years old, and I am here on an accident.”

And it kills him to admit it. Tim forcibly unclenches his fist.

“I was tampering with the space gem, and I was ill prepared to handle it,” he says. “While I was aware that it had interdimensional properties, I wasn’t aware that it was still active.”

Jason’s literally another universe away, but Tim could just imagine his smug smile about being right.

It burns Tim to the core.

“Look, I’m not looking to hurt or harm anyone here in any way,” Tim says. “C’mon, I can tell from your face that our DNA samples came out exactly identical. I just want to go home. Happy?” He gives a pointed look. “Timothy?”

Other him, Timothy, scowls. “Don’t call me that.”

Timothy seems to scowl a lot—he’s a complete grump, in all honesty—but Tim’s managed to annoy himself into a better standing with Damian so Timothy has nothing on him.

Timothy shuts down his lie detector and rests his crutch against Tim’s chair. He sits, props his broken leg up, and unplasters all of Tim’s pulse monitors. This close, Tim takes the time to fully scrutinise the lines and the smaller differences between their faces.

Tim tilts his head. “You look older.”

“That’s because I am,” Timothy says. “Twenty-one.”

Then he offers no other explanation.

“Is your birthday still July the 19^th?” Tim asks. “Do you still forget to celebrate it every year?

Still no answer, and not even a tiny indication that his question was heard, actually. He's starting to understand why Stephanie calls him a brick wall at times. 

“Not a talker, huh?” Tim asks. “That’s okay. I can work with that. I have dibs on Tim though.”

That finally garners a reaction from Timothy. “Why should you get to decide when I’m older than you?”

“Because Timothy sounds like an older, more serious name, duh,” Tim says. “Tim is more youth in it, more energy. Do you get along with your Damian here?”

“No,” Timothy answers, and he actually sounds offended. “Why would you ever say that? Do you?”

“Eventually,” Tim answers, and truthfully, Tim’s a little shocked himself.

In the end, Dick’s attention isn’t worth fighting over. Tim’s not sure when exactly they mutually agreed that, only that they did and that they were very angry at Dick at the time. From there, the relationship could only go up, and so it did. They are at the point where Damian comes to his apartment out of his own free will, and while all he does is scowl, judge his life choices, and ravage his food stores, it’s still a milestone compared to where they were before.

“I thought you’d get along with him considering how you’re both Mr. Doom and Gloom all the time,” Tim says.

“At least, I know your universe has a Steph in it. That’s her brand of humour verbatim.” Timothy undoes the last of Tim’s restraints, before reaching for his other crutch. “I never thought I’d see a time where I’m annoyingly chipper but here we are.”

Tim almost bowls himself over, because—chipper? While he’s a generally happy person underneath all that depression, no one has ever described him as chipper.

This timeline is so wild.

Timothy lifts himself up, and hobbles to the space gem, happily floating in a new containment chamber. “I want to get back to what you said before,” Timothy says, tapping at the glass. “When you said that you’re still a Wayne and your alias—Red Robin—what do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Tim shrugs. “I was adopted by Bruce Wayne, and I was Robin in the past. My current alias is Red Robin. Judging from all the monitors, machines and weapons around here, I assumed that you’d be in the business as well.”

“Yeah, not quite,” Timothy says “You have a Red Hood in your universe?”

“Why?” Tim asks, although the alarm that started off as small bubbles as the sight of Timothy’s gun earlier churns in his gut. “Don’t tell me you’re the Red Hood here.”

“Why? Who’s in yours?”

“You go first. You’re older.”

“That excuse is getting real old soon,” Timothy says.

Grumbling, Timothy muddles through his desk before tossing something undeniably red across the room. Tim catches it before it lands in his lap.

He palms the cool metal in his hands, and yes, it’s definitely the Red Hood helmet. It’s slightly smaller, more of a fit for him since Tim always did make fun of Jason’s giant head. He was always asking why did Jason even need a helmet when he can knock all his enemies out with his giant noggin.

It’s seems he really is the Red Hood of this universe.

Timothy raises one eyebrow. “So?”

“It’s Jason Todd,” Tim says, brushing a finger across the helmet. “Jason Todd’s the Red Hood in my universe. Died from the Joker and came back.”

“Huh,” Timothy says, genuinely surprised. “Wouldn’t have thought the goody two-shoes had it in him.”

That brings all his thoughts to a halt. “Goody two-shoes?” Tim asks, incredulous. “I mean, yeah, he’s a complete sop and a softie, but a goody two-shoes?”

Timothy laughs bitterly. “You should have seen Todd during his Robin days. Bruce could have said, ‘jump,’ and Todd would’ve already found his way onto the Justice League’s watchtower before Bruce finished his order.”

His mind is boggling. “Jason?” Tim asks, again. “Jason Peter Todd would do that?”

“He’s not like that in your world?”

“Jason would doubt Bruce even if Bruce had told him the sky was blue,” Tim says, wholeheartedly.

Timothy laughs, and he look as caught by it as Tim is. “I’m liking the sound of your Todd,” he says. “Here, catch.”

A magazine lands in his hand, and Tim doesn’t need to look far; Jason’s on the front cover, looking spiffy in a suit, sporting a million dollar grin, and not a single strand of white hair on his head.

G31’s Man of The Year: Jason Wayne-Todd

G31 is a monthly magazine aiming at people under thirty-one years old. Seems that G31 is the same in this universe as in theirs. Timothy opens flips through the magazine, and Jason has a ten page spread article dedicated to him—not counting the double page photoshoots.

Attended Gotham U at fourteen. Graduated three years later. First class honours and a Masters in Literature. Tim skims through the pages. Head of Martha Wayne foundation. Lobbies for policies that benefits those in lower socio-economic position—classic Jason. A stark contrast to his playboy family. Still grew up in Crime Alley—two years later? It’s like we’ve swapped places. Are we the only ones?

“God, they’ve even managed to fit in a book recommendation, I bet this was Jason’s idea,” Tim says, showing off the page screaming ‘Read for success! Jason Todd’s Top Ten Picks of 2018.’ “What a nerd,” Tim says, disgusted even though he can’t tear his eyes away from the pages.

Timothy snorts. “You didn’t follow his footsteps in your universe? Since we seem to be swapping around.”

Shrugging, Tim says, “Never went to college.”

Timothy considers it. Considers himself in the position. “Sounds about right,” he says. “Isn’t it interesting to see what people are like when the Joker doesn’t get his hand on them?”

“Remarkably,” Tim notes.

There’s a whole paragraph dedicated to the machinations Wayne Enterprises has tried in order to poach Jason from The Martha Wayne Foundation. A certain quote block catches his eye.

“Growing up in Crime Alley, the first thing I learned to be proud of was my name,” Todd says, solemnity with every word. “I want to give everyone else the same chance. I’m very proud of The Martha Wayne Foundation and what it gives back to the community. I don’t see myself changing positions any time soon.”

“Rip my heart out directly, why don’t you, Jason,” Tim mutters under his breath.

But he doesn’t put the magazine down. He turns the next page.

While the adult superhero line-up is basically the same in this universe, the whole line-up of the younger generations are reversed. Damian’s Nightwing to Stephanie’s Oracle. Next is Tim as Red Hood with Cass as Spoiler, then Jason Todd as Budgie—

“Budgie?” Tim asks. “I get that he likes green, but why Budgie?”

“Budgerigar, or your common parakeet, humbly here to save the day,” Timothy recites lifeless and monotone, as if he’s heard it a million times.

Then again, he probably did.

“Also, Jason has a pet budgie named Iago,” Timothy says. “Iago is surprisingly talkative.”

“Does he favour red too here?” Tim shudders. “Does he look like a walking Christmas tree?”

“I wish,” Timothy says and is he—is he pouting? “He looks unfortunately fashionable.”

—and Dick as Robin.

 Big-eyed, chubby cheeked Robin.

“Aw, look at him.” Tim points at the picture of Dick in his patented pants-less Robin suit. “Look at Dick before all the angst and anger and rebellion from puberty! He’s even wearing no pants! What a throwback.”

Timothy tilts his head curiously. “Your Robin suits have pants?”

“Wow,” Tim says. “You truly have suffered.”

That seems to be the end of the files which Timothy gave him access to. Tim presses a button to keep going forwards, but the screen doesn’t change. Before he can rest with a peace of mind, however, he needs to check one more thing.

“Hey, Timothy,” he says.

Timothy sighs. “You’re not going to stop calling me that, are you?”

“No, it suits you,” Tim says, unmoved. “Do you happen to know anyone by the name of Duke Thomas?”

“No, I don’t. Should I?”  

“He’s a meta-human. He’s a future Robin and he’ll also become a vigilante with the alias The Signal when he’s older,” Tim says. “He’s very young in my universe, so there’s a possibility he might still be in middle school in yours.”

“Hmm.” Timothy hobbles over and takes over the keyboard. After a few masterful strokes, a picture of Duke and his family shows up.

Duke is tiny here, hanging on the arm of his parents in the photo. His joy is vibrant, and so are his parents, smiling widely in the camera, holding onto each other like they can’t bear to let go.

“He looks happy,” Timothy observes.

“He is,” Tim says. “He’s a sweet, happy guy. The Riddler separated him from his parents in my world. He wasn’t the only it happened to. I don’t think he’s found them yet. You should keep an eye on him, the Riddler. He had the whole city under his thumb. I wasn’t aware he had it in him.” 

"Interesting," Timothy says, tapping his finger in thought. "I've been meaning to have a word with him anyway."

Tim bets that the word Timothy wants to have with the Riddler is encased in hard metal and covered in gunpowder. Timothy flags the Riddler’s file, however, and Tim feels an inordinate amount of relief at the thought of a future tragedy averted.  

Tim’s appearance is actually pretty advantageous for Timothy, as it turns out. Timothy broke his leg in a confrontation with Black Mask during a period of time where he’s laying ground work for a long-term investment. His broken leg is quiet inconvenient, as most broken legs usually are, but now, with his doppelganger appearing out of thin air, Timothy’s able to pause his rearrangements and continue his plans as before. The agreement is that Timothy will focus on a way to send Tim home while Tim impersonates him as Red Hood, since Red Hood can’t afford to be inactive for long right in the middle of a turf war.

Timothy having a use for him explains why he’s given the degree of freedom he has. Tim's pretty sure his paranoia is consistent in any universe. Not even the Lazarus Pit could help with that.

Although, Red Hood’s always in a turf war with someone, in Tim’s opinion. He might as well take that break, but Tim agrees to cover for Timothy. It gives him something to do, as well as soften up his counterpart. They spend a whole week adjusting his body language, his fighting style, and, most importantly, his shooting accuracy.

During it all, Timothy lets him tinker with the technology in his house. It’s fascinating seeing how Stephanie’s personality translates into code. Tim could see the marginal differences in her approach to algorithm to his Steph at home. He wonders how it’ll hold up against Barbara’s handiwork. Maybe it’s something he can test while he’s here. His Steph is going to get such a kick out of being the techno bug of the group.

"Time for you to make yourself useful," Timothy says. He throws the Red Hood helmet at Tim. "Red Hood's needed at the scene. Suit up."

"That reminds me," Tim says, from where he's playing with a circuit board "What exactly is suiting up? A turtleneck and leather jacket?"

Turns out Tim was close, but no cigar. Timothy wears a light, black, Kevlar turtleneck, black reinforced cargo pants, black gloves and a deep red long coat which matches his helmet.

Twirling in front of a mirror, Tim very much enjoys the way the coat hugs his shoulder. "Let me guess," Tim says. "Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Timothy cracks his first grin of the day. "Got dragged into The Gate of Truth and lived to tell the tale," Timothy says.

"So, am I winging it tonight?"

"Not at all. I'll be guiding you from here." Timothy taps his ear. "Keep your ears out for instructions, and call me T on the field. Wait, also…”

Timothy takes him into the garage. He flicks on the lights, and there stands the most beautiful, sleek thing Tim has ever laid eyes upon in this universe.

“This is Redbird,” Timothy says, running his hands against her side. “Take good care of my baby. She just got a new coat of paint and I don't want those nasty bullets anywhere near her."

Tim slides his helmet on. It settles comfortably on his head. "Don't worry, Timothy," Tim says, pointing finger guns at the mirror. "I've ghosted Red Hood before. I got this."

Tim does not, quotation marks, 'have this.'

Bullets rain behind him. He slides on a hood of a car and ducks for cover behind the tires. Between the explosion of rounds being fired, and the car being battered, it’s hard to hear what’s being said in his ear piece.

Grumbling, Tim rummages through his coat pockets. Man, you let one 'thank you,' out by accident, and suddenly, everyone thinks you're 'mocking them' or that you're 'too soft' to rule your own 'territory.'

Tim thought many things would lead to his demise—Jor-El, Boomerang, two week old pizza—but he never thought that one of them would be manners.

"—this is what happens when you slip," Timothy says in his ear. "Give them an inch and they'll take the whole of Gotham right out from under your nose. Being the big baddie isn't a walk in a park! You should've listened when I told you to shoot in their kneecaps."

"No, I'm not shooting their kneecaps," Tim whispers furiously. "Warning shots only. That's what we agreed on!"

"Shattering their kneecaps is a warning!"

"How is a permanent joint injury a warning!"

"Because it's not their lives."

He chucks the smoke bomb underneath the car. It rolls out the other side. Two sharp beeps and a gust of grey cloud covers the howling and coughing of his perps. Tim slips into the array, disarming weapons, aiming for the back of their heads. and digging his elbow into unsuspecting throats.

"That is not how I do it in my universe!" Tim mumbles, before he tightens his chokehold and the goon digs their fingers into his arms.

"It’s not your universe, is it,” Timothy hisses. “And I have a reputation to keep so shoot. Their. Kneecaps!"

The moment the body grows lax in his arms, he drops. In the corner of his eye, he sees a blur. Blood rushes to his ears, and his throat dries. He drops low and shoots an oncoming goon through the knee.

There’s a bang and a splat as a hole appears on his target. The goon collapses. His head bounces as it smacks against the concrete, and he clutches at it with a pained groan.

“Redbird coming at you in three, two—”

Redbird cuts through the smoke, and Tim swings himself on. Head low, hands gripped tight, he steps on the accelerator.

He zooms between cars while the wind bats at his body. At the speed he’s going, he can barely hear the beeps and honks that follow him.

“I don’t see why we’re wasting bullets on some lowly goons,” Tim says tightly.

“Because they’re not lowly goons,” Timothy says tersely. “They’re not even their your usual offenders. They’re two connections away from partnering with Black Mask. Trust me, these men like the fear that governs this city.”

Tim shudders out a breath. “Right. Okay.”

“Shooting them through the kneecaps is just the most efficient. It’s not near any vital organs. It won’t sever any major arteries, and there are less chances for the fragments to travel into tricky places. Leaving them running around, capable of doing harm when they have no desire to change is just irresponsible.”

“Okay, okay,” Tim says. “That… makes sense.”

He zips between two trucks travelling past each other and uses that moment to collect his thoughts.

He hopes that he doesn’t sound like his nails are being teared off.

“Hey, T?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. This is your world and I should respect the decisions you make in it.”

There’s a pause over his com. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure how to respond to that either,” Tim admits. “We can always pretend it never happened? That’s how it usually goes when I imagine these kinds of situations. Then again, my imagination usually go this far—”

“It’s funny,” Timothy breaks in. “I forgot how much I used to ramble before I was dunked into the pit.”

“I’m trying to be sincere here.”

“Then I accept your apology,” Timothy says. “Don’t do it again.”

There’s another beat of silence where Tim concentrates on driving before Timothy’s voice slips into his notice again.

“There used to be a time where I was more careless,” Timothy admits. “Do you imagine yourself apologising a lot?”

Tim thinks of his prison; the bare walls, the screeching silence, and the glass door barring him from freedom. That wasn’t the worst part of his prison, however. The worst part of his prison was that it wasn’t solid enough to contain his thoughts.  

About all the times it could have been different. All the times he could have been different, and all the chances he’ll never have to be different.

 “Yeah,” Tim says. “I think about it a lot.”

It’s towards the end of the list of errands Timothy has assigned him that he sees it. A bright neon blur jumping across rooftops when the bright neon blur clearly should have been at home considering that Batman’s on the other side of the city and it is a school night.

Timothy keeps track of these things, that’s how Tim knows.

“Code red, T,” Tim says, “and green, and yellow, and pants-less.”

Timothy snorts. “He technically does have pants, you know.”

“Not compared to what the costume could have been.” Tim ducks into the nearest sidestreet. “I thought his rebellious phase wasn’t due for another two years. Shall we pursue?”

A slight pause, before, “Sure. Why not? Go up and scare him. Shake him up a bit.”

“Okay, Red Hood,” Tim says. “Think threatening.”

He parks Redbird in a nearby alley and grapples onto the roof.

Whatever occupies Dick’s mind must be heavy. He doesn’t hear Tim approaching until Tim deliberately clacks the sole of his boots.

“Stray too far from the nest and you risk getting shot, little bird,” Tim says. “What are you doing flying by yourself?”

Dick spins around. “Hood! Hello! Hi. You look particularly stable today.”

“Answer my question, little birdie.”

Dick’s eyes jump to Tim’s gun holsters. He inches closer towards the edge of the roof.  “Yeah, no,” Dick says. “I’m just going to skedaddle now.”

Dick make a run for it. He springs into the air. But Tim’s prepared. He lassoes one foot with a grappling wire and pulls. As soon as Dick lands on the ground, he sweeps his legs out to trip up Tim, but Tim uses it as a chance to loop it around his feet and tie them together—a trick he learnt from Cassie.

Timothy is silent over his com while he does it. He probably wants to see this whole thing blow up in his face. Good thing Tim’s bigger and quicker, and agile enough to tie Dick’s hands together before Dick can do any fancy acrobatics to get away.

“Hey!”

Tim tightens the restraints. “If you’re not talking then I’m shipping you off to the Big Boss.”

“Big Boss?” Dick squawks. “Who the heck’s the Big Boss round here? Is it Two-Face? I hope it’s not him. You wouldn’t work with Two-Face, would you?”

“Pfft,” Timothy says. “As if I’d ever work with that loser,”

Him… calling Two-Face… a loser…

Right.

Pulling the wire tighter, Tim leans down menacingly. “Worse,” he says. “I’m shipping you off to Alfred.”  

“Oh, wait! C’mon!” Dick whines. “I was already on the way home! For real! On my way to Batman. Like, right now. He’s expecting me.”

“Nice try, punk. Batman’s still on the other side of the city.” Tim hefts Dick onto a fireman carry. “Off to Alfred’s disappointed stare with you.”

“No! Ugh,” Dick says. “Can't we work something out? From one Robin to another!"

"No."

"I thought you wanted me to tell you what's been bothering me lately."

Tim dumps Dick into sitting position on top of a vent before sitting down beside him. He gives Dick an expectant look, before he realises that he’s in the Red Hood helm.

“Well,” Tim prompts.

Dick sighs. "I don't want to talk about it."

Tim gives him a single consoling pat on the back. "Do you want me to dangle you off the side of the building to make you feel better?"

"The Young Justice team had a mission simulation that went awfully wrong," Dick confesses rapidly. "I was placed as leader of the mission but I ended up sending everyone off to their deaths. I know I did what I had to do, but it felt horrible, and I never want to do it ever again. There? Happy? Please don't dangle me off the side of a building." Dick shudders. "I see the weirdest things through people's window."

"Disturbing," Tim agrees. "But," he says, when Dick looks too hopeful, "that doesn't seem like all of it."

Dick frowns. “Why do you care all of a sudden? Stop pretending like you care and shoot me or something.”

“Sheesh. If you wanted me to hurl off the building, you could have just asked.” Tim digs his fingers into Dick’s shoulders—

“Fine! Fine!” Dick glares at him, then wilts. “Flying helps me sort out my thoughts,” he says quietly. “I didn’t like the person I was when I sent my closest friends to their deaths. I don’t think I have it in me to do it in real life, sacrificing everything for the cause. And I don’t want to! I don’t think I can do it like Batman does.”

Carefully, Tim asks, “Is Batman asking you to?”

“No.” If his hands were free, he’d be plopping his face in it by now. “But he might. And I don’t want to disappoint him if he asks, you know? And he wouldn’t ask without a really good reason.”                                          

Tim would say ‘yes, he does know,’ because there was a time where he would have chosen to jump into a pit of lava than disappoint Bruce, but since he’s not twelve anymore, and he’s currently Timothy right now…

“No,” Tim says. “I really don’t.”

Dick flushes. “I know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s… valid,” Tim decides. “I suppose.”

“Right. So still stupid.”

“Look, kid,” Tim says. “Disappointing Bruce is going to be the least of your worries once you finish puberty, and unless you orchestrated the whole circumstance which caused your teammate’s death, not counting the fact that it was a simulation which one of you programmed, then it wasn’t your fault.”

Dick looks unconvinced. The sad part is that Tim knows he’s not sold on both of the ideas Tim suggested.

“Consider these words from your residential zombie: you didn’t ‘send’ anybody to their deaths,” Tim says. “You gave an order as their chosen leader and they chose to follow it even when they could’ve said no. If you were willingly withholding information that could save their lives, then that’s a different story. But you didn’t. You did your best. ”

“But wouldn’t you agree that it’s still my responsibility when I knew they would’ve died and I sent them anyway?”

“They still could have said ‘no,’” Tim says. “They would have doomed everybody there. But. Still. Dying’s an occupational hazard, and even then, people still come back from it.”

Tim waves at himself and a small smile lights Dick’s face.

“And if it comes down to a situation like that on field?” Dick asks. “What happens then?”

“Batman’s way isn’t the only way to do things,” Tim says. “I can’t tell you how you should act, but just, remember that.”

Dick looks contemplative. “Yeah. I guess it isn’t.”

Shuffling his butt closer, Dick rests the side of his head against his arm.

“Are you…” Tim asks, “are you trying to hug me, right now?”

“Yeah, like a ‘thank you’ hug,” Dick says voice muffled by his arm. “Would be better if I had my arms to work with, to be honest.”

“Yeah, no,” Tim says. “Don’t act like you haven’t been working on cutting your binds behind your back. Yes, I knew the whole time. I see through you.”

“And I’m starting to see what Jason means when he says you’re not so bad, after all,” Dick says. “I don’t even mind that Bruce thinks you killed the Joker.”

Tim is so glad he’s wearing the helmet, because…

Holy shit! The Joker’s dead?

Then, Tim replays Dick’s choice of words.

So it’s wildly assumed that he killed the Joker, but Dick doesn’t seem to believe that Timothy killed the Joker even though Bruce does? He’ll definitely ask Timothy about this later.

“Did you, by the way,” Dick asks, as transparent as glass. “Did you kill the Joker?”

“You believe what you want to believe, little bird,” Tim says. He stand up and brushes the dust off his coat, and makes his way jump rooftops. “I’m going, though. Crime calls.”

“Wait!” Dick tries to wiggle after him. “Are you just going to leave me like this?”

It’s like watching a worm trying to break dance. Adorably tragic.

“You’ll figure it out, Robin.” Tim salutes him, fighting down a smile. “You’re a smart kid.”

“You were pretty quiet back there,” Tim says, on his way home. “Something up?”

“Hmm,” Timothy says. “It’s interesting to watch you interact with Grayson. You know a lot about me and my world, but I just realised I can’t say the same with yours.”

“That’s because I’ve been asking,” Tim says. “If you want something, you have to ask for it, Timmy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Sticking with Timothy.”

Timothy is right, though. He’s learning so much of this world by interacting with it, and he can extrapolate about Timothy’s past through Jason’s own. Timothy’s relationship with everyone is stilted; he probably doesn’t know this universe’s Jason enough to take a guess at Tim’s role in his own world.

Tim huffs. “Did Superman ever talk about his dad?”

“Jor-El? Not much,” Timothy says. “He was a scientist in Krypton. That’s about it.”

“He kidnapped me into an interdimensional prison cell and left me there to rot,” Tim says. “Oh, and he’s Mr. Oz.”

Dead silence over the comms. "I see," Timothy says slowly. 

Then, Tim does something he’s never done before. He tells Tim about everything. The killer drones, the missiles, the flash of white light, and the blank prison.

“I spent my whole time in that place thinking that Bruce was going to get me. Because that’s what I did for him; I almost tore through dimensions to find him. And he didn’t even leave a body. God, I was such a damn fool.” Tim frowns. “Am such a damn fool. In the end, the only one who saved me was me. In a Batman suit.”

Timothy says nothing for a minute. Then, a consoling, “Guess if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

Considering who he's talking to, and their whole situation which led Tim to pick up Timothy's work, a giggles bubbles in his chest before it rushes out uncontrollably. “I hate you,” Tim says. “I’m on a motorbike and instead of looking sleek and cool, I’m giggling.”

“Sucks to suck, Tim.”

It sounds so much like something Jason would say that he’s suddenly hit with a bout of homesickness.

“Maybe that’s why I’m sticking with Jason and Damian more often these days,” Tim admits. “They mourned as much as I expected them too. It’s obvious and transparent, why they plastered themselves on to me when I came back. We weren’t anywhere close when I left but I didn’t care. They did a complete one-eighty and that was enough—at least my ‘death’ mattered enough for them to change.”

He’s briefly broken out of the conversation by someone honking at his back. Tim flips him off and feels absolutely exhilarated doing it.

“I thought there was nothing worse than realizing that no one’s coming to save you,” Tim says. “But finding out that no one’s coming to save you because everyone moved on? The worst.”

Silence, before Timothy whispers in agreement, “The absolute worst.”

“I know I’m being a dick right now,” Tim says. “I don’t want them to mourn forever…but. Still.”

“Being a dick is great. I don’t know why people are so against it,” Timothy says. “Just stab everyone who disagrees with you. There. Done. They have something bigger to worry about.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know where to even begin with that statement,” Tim says.

Tim rambles, but he’s quite reserved in nature. Secretive, some would say. He’s definitely not usually someone who’s open with himself, but Timothy is really just another version him, after all, and if he can’t talk to himself, then who can he talk to?

“Are you close to Dick in your world?” Timothy says. "You sounded fond when you were talking to him."

"Yeah, he’s the oldest one in my world," Tim says. "He’s a good older brother. Once he knuckled down on being a family, he really stuck to it. His hugs are to die for.”

Timothy laughs, and it takes a second for the words to register in Tim’s head.  

Tim winces. "Oof. Sorry."

"I'm over it," he says, even if Tim's sure he isn't. "Nightwing's sword grazed my back once. Does that count as a hug?"

"From Damian? Who was born clutching a sword in his hand?" Tim says. "It might as well be."

Tim fixes them a meal while Timothy looks over the space gem. His gear is spread out on the table, shiny and polished. He nicks a swivel chair and rolls it beside Timothy, placing a plate of food down near his elbow. Timothy nods at him while typing on his keyboard.

Tim stares at his counterpart over the click-clack of the keyboard and thinks.

How to approach the subject of the Joker.  

“Did you kill the Joker in this world?” Tim asks.

The click-clacking beside him stops. “And if I did?” Timothy replies.

“If you did,” Tim says slowly, “then I’d understand why you’d do it. Gotham is better off without him.”

Timothy starts typing again, but this time, Tim can hear the note of approval in it.

“Take one of the other monitors, if you’re curious,” Timothy said. “Everything you want to know about the Joker is in his file. Just know that I was fresh from the Pit and I wasn’t particularly…” he breaks off and purses in his lips.

“…Friendly? Patient?” Tim offers. “Merciful?”

“Precise about it,” Timothy decides on. “I was reckless back then. Reckless, callous and messy. I’m much different now. I don’t just shoot people willy-nilly, you know. The people I shoot probably deserved it.”

“Probably?”

“Definitely deserved it.”

Tim’s not contesting that. He knows a victory when he sees it.

It turns out Timothy triple secures his systems and quadruple encrypts his files, and he’s not willing to give Tim the password because he’s a mean bastard.

“You’re a bright boy, Timmy,” Timothy says. “You can figure it out.”

“Timmy?” Tim asks, offended because he wasn’t allowed to call Timothy that.

“Older than you,” Timothy sing-songs.

Which is honestly karma for leaving Dick tied up earlier in the night. He probably wanted to compare cyber skills and pick up a couple of new tricks of his own, but still. Mean.

After a night/early morning of falling asleep on his keyboard monitor, waking up because of a neck cramp, shuffling Timothy into his bedroom, and settling on the couch determined on a proper sleep schedule because ‘new dimension, new me,’ Tim falls asleep with the G31 article splayed on his face.

Maybe that’s why he decides to visit Jason in the morning. Feed his curiosity on top of poaching ideas for the Martha Wayne Foundation for his own universe. He leaves a brief note on the table, a plate eggs, bacon, spinach in the microwave, and a pot of coffee for when Timothy wakes up. This way, Timothy will be less likely to eviscerate him for running around his universe using his identity without his supervision.

Simple.

Jason doesn’t have anything on his schedule today, but Tim’s still unsure about the state of Timothy Drake according to the public eye. He doesn’t think he can walk in unannounced without security check. Obviously, he’ll just have to break in during Jason’s lunch break with a peace offering.

“Tim,” Jason says, shoulders rigid. “What brings you here?”

In the corner of his office, even Jason’s budgie is staring at him suspiciously.

“Can’t I pay my favourite Wayne a visit?”

Two seconds pass. Neither the budgie—what’s his name again?—nor Jason blinks once.

Tim raises the loaded chilli dog he was hiding from view. Then he raises the a box of celery sticks slathered with smooth peanut butter.

There’s a squawk which Tim takes to mean, ‘you’re on thin fucking ice babe,’ and Jason gestures at the chair across from him. Grudgingly.

Even though Jason is leaner in this universe, he still has the build of a tank. His work table and chair is slightly higher to accommodate his legs, similar to the one in Bruce’s office. He looks younger, though, and it’s not the lack of white in his hair. Something about him is lighter, softer around the edges.

There are pictures on the walls of his office his office, Jason with an assortment of people beside him which changes from frame to frame. The people he stands, or squats down beside, range from toddlers to children in hospital beds and people old enough to give Ra’s a run for him money. Jason smiles in all of them—must be the recipients of The Martha Wayne Foundation.

Tim has never seen Jason smile so much.

And it’s a genuine smile as well. Not the one where he bares his teeth and does his best impression of a starving, angry shark. Not one where he heaps so much charm atop of it, Tim needs to protect their eyes from the sheer blindness of his smile.

It’s the kind of smile Jason reserves for his teammate and for Alfred. It’s the kind that Jason refuses to share even under the threat of dying.

All of a sudden, Timothy’s voice echoes in his head.

It’s interesting to see what people are like when the Joker doesn’t get his hand on them.

It reminds Tim that the Joker is very much alive in his dimension.

“Hello?” Jason asks, a crease dipping in his forehead. “Earth to Tim?”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Tim strides across, lays out his peace offering on the table and dons his best, peacekeeping, smile.

The crease in Jason’s forehead grows deeper.

“What do you want?” Jason says, watching wearily as Tim pushes the chilli dog towards him. “Seriously, you’re low-key freaking me out.” He lifts the sausage out of his buns and peers under it. “Did you slip a laxative into this or something?”

"No," Tim says, although he keeps the trick in mind for future use. "I’m just reminding you to eat your lunch—Jason, I didn't slip something inside the sausages. Forget about that right now. How's your writing going?"

"What writing?"

"Your book, or your fanfiction," Tim says. "Or your non-writing. That thing where you should be writing but you end up doing five stacks of paperwork instead."

Jason pauses in biting down his food, and it's slight, but Tim's eyes picks up the stutter as if he had shouted the admission.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jason says, tightly. "Even if I did write this so called, 'fiction for fans,' I would rather risk mutilation from hugging Damian than show it to any of you guys."

"C’mon. I promise I won't make fun of it.”

"Hugging Damian, Tim," Jason says. "We would both spontaneously combust in a great big blaze of fire and the ashes will be on your hands." He pushes himself back on his chair, narrowing his gaze. "Why are you here anyway? What do you want?"

"Why do I have to want anything?" Tim says. "Why can't I just visit because I'm bored."

There's a minute where Jason just stares at him, and Tim feels flayed from the disbelief that's Jason's exuding. He takes a page out of his own Jason’s book and balances himself on one foot of his chair.

"Do you need my help on a case or something?" Jason asks. "Did you need access to the Bat computers and you didn't want to go to the mansion?"

"As if I'd ever need help breaking in," Tim says. "But it's sweet of you to offer."

"Dick said you were acting weird, but whatever," Jason says. He grabs some files from the table and flings it Tim's way. "Make yourself useful and check these things over for me."

Tim shuffles through the files. "You trust me to do the accounts for the company?"

"Heck no," Jason says. "But it'll give you something to do so that you don't annoy me the whole day. I'll give it a read over once you're finished."

For the first time in his life, Tim voluntarily spends the rest of his afternoon on paperwork. There are breaks, of course, where he feeds Iago his celery sticks, and Iago shows off the number of soliloquies Jason tricked him into memorising (that poor bird). The number of weary looks Jason throws him hits the double digits within the first hour.

Tim finds it all so funny. Jason's whole appearance in the office is so pristine and his demeanour is cut so clean. Ruffling him shouldn't appeal to him as much as it should. Is this how his Jason always feels whenever Tim’s all don up in a nice suit?

Still, it feels as close to normality as this universe is going to get.

On his drive home, Tim buys a disposable phone, texts both Alfred and Timothy a heads up and waits outside the gate of Dick's school on his motorbike. The school bell rings, and he easily ignores the other parent's stares and whispers. In the sea of kids, he can just see Dick walking out surrounded by a group of girls.

When Dick sees him, he almost turns around and runs straight back into the school building.

Dick drags his feet closer. "Hello, cousin," he says a little too loudly. "What brings you out here? To my humble school?" He changes to a furious whisper. "My humble, civilian school, so you better not do anything funny, alright?"

"Relax, kiddo," Tim says. He tosses a helmet to Dick. "I'm just here to take you out to ice cream. Nice seeing that you got off the rooftop without any help."

The way Dick almost drops his helmet almost makes him howl with laughter.

“Ice cream,” Dick repeats. “You’re taking me out to ice cream.”

“Yes, exactly as I said.”

"Ice cream... made of cyanide?" Dick suggests.

"Almonds has cyanide in them," Tim says. "Don't knock it till you try it."

If it’s possible, Dick looks even more worried than he was before. He looks at the helmet, then at the bike, then at Tim, then at the helmet again. Tim has the feeling that if he's left uninterrupted Dick will wallow in his existential crisis until Superboy punches a new hole into reality. So Tim dons his own helmet and revs up his bike.

Tim puts on his sternest face and looks Dick in the eyes. "Get in, loser," he says. "We're going shopping."

"Holy bejesus," Dick breathes out. "What timeline is this?"

He nonetheless gets on and Tim drives off before Dick suddenly faints from shock.

Dick eats his ice cream like his life depends on it, and he almost chokes when Tim casually tried to ask about his school life. He spends the whole ride home debating to himself if this makes Tim and him friends now, and if he should focus on that and become a good influence to Tim.

Tim didn't have the heart to tell him that he's vocalizing his thoughts. Dick's still engrossed in his debate when Tim drops him off, and he's only snapped out of it by Tim ruffling his hair.

"Thanks for today, squirt," Tim says. "Tell Alfred I said 'hi' and I can see him through the blinds."

Before Dick can say anything else, Tim zooms off the property.

He arrives home and finds Timothy ensconced in darkness, curtains closed with only the sparse blinking of his machines lighting his room. He's hunched over his keyboard again, still in his boxers with bits of his hair sticking up. An empty mug and the same plate Tim used for his breakfast sits woefully on the table. The food residues are dry and flaky.

Tim can't believe he's actually about to do this. Some deity up there is having the time of his life and making him face his own life choices.

Irony, here he comes.

There's still a little bit of summer light left; with a great heave, he shoves the curtains open, and Tim takes sadistic pleasure in how it hits Timothy in the face.

He curls up and hisses.

Tim pulls open another curtain. “You know what I finally understand?” Tim says. “One of the reasons people say I’m more like Bruce than I realise.”

Timothy stops his hissing. His look could prime Tim straight for the Lazarus Pit. "That's low," he says. "Why can't you just go back messing with my interpersonal relationships and leave me to lounge in the darkness.”

“Because I heard sunlight is good for you,” Tim says. “I can’t say from personal experience, because my own exposure to it is quite minimal, but it has to better than tanning from OLED screens which is what you’re currently doing.”

Timothy watches him like a hawk planning its winged revenge.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Tim says. “But have you even had anything to eat yet?”

Timothy points at his breakfast plate.

“Other than breakfast…” Tim glances at his watch. “…ten hours ago probably?”

Timothy lowers his fingers.

Tim likes to think that it’s in shame.

“Right I’m making dinner. Don’t roll your eyes at me, mister,” Tim says. “I’m trying to turn us into functional human beings.”

“But we’re not functional human beings,” Timothy says, although he does sit himself up his chair. “I don’t see what the big deal is. I do this all the time—we do this all the time.”

“And it doesn’t help with our depression, does it?” Tim says. “There’s just some things the Lazarus Pit can’t help with.”

Timothy sulks in his chair, but he doesn’t disagree, and Tim guesses it’s time for another story time on his part to keep it equal.

“Back when I was in the prison, I was off my medications,” Tim says. “I was off my medications for a whole year, and the prison was already twisting with my sense of time and reality, being an actual pocket in time and space, so that definitely didn’t help. I was in a pit with my own mind working against me, and I’m trying not to slide back into that.” He gives Timothy a look. “I’m trying not to let us slide back into that.”

“So what, you trying to stifle your depression through the sheer power of positivity?” Timothy asks, but it’s light-hearted, and he lift himself up on his crutches to the dinner table.

“Yeah, I’m taking a page out of Dick’s book,” Tim says. “My Dick, by the way. Like, my Nightwing, not my—anyhow. You know what I mean. If I can rescue myself from that prison, then I can bulldoze myself into positivity.”

Timothy waves his hand. “What you name little Timmy is between you and him, but I admire your resolve.”

Tim opens the cabinets for some pans. He thinks for a minute, then closes it again. “That also reminds me,” Tim says. “I nicked some of the pills in your cabinet, so you should probably keep count of that. Sorry.”

“I actually don’t mind what you’ve been doing with Jason and Dick,” Timothy says. “It’ll be useful to build a good rapport with them.”

Putting his fork down slowly, Tim says, “You really don’t mind…?”

“I really don’t,” Timothy says. “I’m saved on doing the actual emotional labour during the initial stages of building a relationship, and in turn, you can feel the highs of emotional intimacy without facing the weight of all the expectations and commitment that comes with it.”

“A little called out,” Tim says. “Should’ve never told you about Bart and Kon, but I’ll take it.  So are you never going to tell about my existence in this world?”

“I will, eventually,” Timothy says. “Then again, I’m enjoying watching their freak-outs too much.”

“This is going to cause so many trust issues.”

“Everything that’s happening is an improvement right now,” Timothy says. “When you’re at the bottom, there’s literally nowhere else to go but up.”

Tim grumbles. “I should’ve probably made you work for it more.”

“Hmm,” Timothy says, stuffing potatoes in his mouth. “No take backsies though.”

Tim gives him a side-eye. “Jason and Dick are right, you know,” Tim says. “It’s super weird when you suddenly have a sense of humour.”

So they start a routine where, on the days he’s not working on Tim’s systems, he’ll bug Jason at work, take Dick somewhere for an after-school forced brotherly bonding session, then come home and hang out with Timothy. Sometimes they patrol, sometimes they do Red Hood business, sometimes they work on Tim’s systems, and sometimes, all they do is watch movies. Like having me-time but with company.

Timothy has also officially kicked Tim off the space gem project.

“I have more experience with space stuff by virtue of being older than you, and all the times I had to deal with alien tech when I was part of the Outlaws,” Timothy says.

“The Outlaws?” Tim asks. “That’s interesting. Who are the Outlaws in this universe?”

“Kon-El and Cassie Sandsmark,” Timothy says. “They’re currently on their honeymoon in New Zealand. They wanted to be as far away as their work as possible, and they did it. Some maps don’t even have New Zealand printed on them.”

“Honestly blows my mind,” Tim says. “Why do they never visit us? Or you visit them?”

“No-metas in Gotham, remember. I would never want to put them through meeting Batman anyway.”

“True.”

“Besides, would you even be ready to face my version of Kon?”

“Okay, fair,” Tim says. “But it’s still nice to know that you have friends.”

And it explains why Timothy’s edges are a lot less sharp than Tim expected.

Speaking of sharp edges, Tim’s glad to report that he wore Jason down. Bribing Iago with peanut butter probably did majority of the work but Tim’s sure it’s his pleasurable company and copious amount of paperwork that did it.

Jason slides over a tablet to him, before sitting down with Iago on his shoulder. Wordlessly, Tim picks up the tablet. He reads the first sentence before his eyes grows twice size of his face, and an uncontrollable grin breaks out.

“Is this…?” Tim asks.

Jason looks resigned. “The stories I wrote about Robin between the ages of eleven and thirteen, later revised when I should have been studying at college. All there in pdf form.”

Tim scrolls down with his finger, and the page goes on and on. He stops when catches the word ‘bo-staff’ and he can’t help when his face lights up.

“Was I the Robin you wrote about?”

Jason avoids his eyes and focuses on stroking Iago on his shoulder. “This series is yours,” he admits. “I have another one where it’s Damian, and I guess I kind of stopped when I took the mantle.”

“A series?” Tim asks, gleefully.

Jason flushes so hard that even Iago must be feeling the heat. “How did you even find out, anyway? I’ve always made sure to thoroughly disconnect my online presence from anything I do in real life.”

It’s because the Jason in his universe told him, but he can hardly say that. Jason told him that reading and writing were his escape during his Robin days. There was no one to talk to, and school never helped. So when his mind was jumbled up and he needed an outlet, a book or a pen was where he always went.

“I have my sources,” Tim decides on. “If you grow any redder, though, you’ll look like a neon Christmas tree coloured in with highlighters.”

Jason jumps out of his seat. “That’s it,” he says, making a grab at the tablet. “I changed my mind. Give it back here—”

“Nope,” Tim says, leaning back on his chair. “No take backsies. I promise you won’t regret this.”

“I regret it already.”

“From this point further,” Tim retracts. “No regretting. I swear.”

Because he’s not completely heartless, he rummages in his pocket and throws Iago a treat. Iago catches it with a flutter of his wings while Jason mutter, ‘traitor,’ and grudgingly pets him.

“Thanks for working on him, Iago,” Tim says.

“Yes, yes!” Iago replies. “Oh mighty evil one!”

Jason bursts out laughing while Tim sits there mildly offended. Mildly because, well, it’s pretty true, so he can’t really be offended.

Tim slants Iago a look. “Is that Aladdin? Really, Jason?”

“He’s a bird of many feather, you see. Own your birth right, Iago,” Jason says. “Smart bird. He knows a Jafar when he sees one.”

Timothy warned him about the brutality, so in that aspect he was ready. The rest of the Joker’s files, however, is something to think about.

Where Jason went for theatrics, Timothy went for efficiency. There was no big confrontation with Bruce or Damian. Instead, he focused on cutting a swathe through the depravedly dense Gotham, all the way to the Joker. The sheer body count is staggering. Tim’s throat dries itself from reading the accounts.

It’s briefly noted that Timothy slowed down upon chasing after Harley Quinn, who was already in a relationship with Poison Ivy at the time. That’s a much more accelerated timeline than for the Harley in his universe.

Tim briefly wonders if they’re both still alive.

“They’re still alive,” Timothy says from the doorway. “You said your question out loud,”  he says before Tim could ask.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Couldn’t stop thinking,” Timothy says. “I wanted to see how you’d react.”

“How do you want me to react?”

Timothy balances himself precariously on his crutches. “However you want to. Whatever feels right, as long as you’re truthful about it.”

Tim takes the image of Timothy—the same, sulky Timothy, who’s been waking up early to cook him breakfast—and tries to superimpose it with the Timothy in the files. They both have blood on their hands. They both have the body count.

“So?” Timothy asks quietly. “Can you bear to look at the monster you could have been? Are you going to turn away from me?”

“I don’t think I can ever turn away from you,” Tim says, every bit sincere. “I don’t think I’d ever want to. After all these pictures…after everything you went through…I can still see why. There’s always been that kind of potential inside us.”

Rolling out his chair, Tim moves a stool closer and pulls another swivel chair beside him. He pats it in invitation.

It’s almost as if Timothy has been holding his breath for centuries and just only learnt to let go. He shudders out a breath, and fall into the seat beside Tim.

“The word ‘potential’ feels wrong in this context,” Timothy says. “It always felt like it’s meant for something positive.”

Tim shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says. “What happened with Harley Quinn?”

Timothy nods at his mouse, and Tim continues clicking through the files. A picture of Arkham Asylum come up. Then, security footage of the barren halls leading to the Joker’s cell.

According to the files, Nightwing had dropped off the Joker the week before. His cell is only known to a small amount of staff, and Batman personally designed it’s structural integrity.

“Harley Quinn joined in,” Timothy says.

Tim almost falls off his chair. “What?”

“She wanted in, and she already had all the information on Arkham Asylum when I arrived,” Timothy says. “So I thought why not? The more the merrier.”

Harley’s face appears before the camera. She appears to be inspecting it, staring at the lens from different angles. There’s a huge close up of her finger as she taps at the glass twice, right before her fists zooms in and the camera breaks into static.

The next time the camera turns on, the cell is empty.

“Where did you guys take him?”

“The Joker’s warehouse,” Timothy says.

“Is that where you killed him?”

“Harley broke his neck.”

Tim breathes out. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.”

“Wait for it.” Timothy leans forward and presses next for him.

Another face comes up. A fellow psychologist who worked in Arkham, he reads. Graduated top marks from Gotham U. through Arkham’s scholarship program. Name suspiciously redacted from his view.

“Privacy reason on Harley’s behalf,” Timothy says. “I can undo the redaction for you, if you want it. Although you could probably work out her identity by yourself.”

“Depends on how the story goes,” Tim says. “What happened to her?”

“The Joker happened,” Timothy says. “The Joker has been pulling the same tricks on her that he pulled on Harley. Playing with her mind. Grooming her to break him out of Arkham. When Harley got wind of it, she was livid.”

The screen moves on to a first person perspective, a video from Timothy’s helmet. The Joker’s on his knees, blood on his face and his eyes swelling up. He begs deliriously, wheezing his sorry and his lies that they can be happy together, Harley! Please give him another chance!

He was in the middle of a spiel about how Harley could never be replaced when Harley steps forward and—

Snap!

Harley breaks his neck, and his body slumps onto the ground.

“Replacing me was never the issue, tootsie,” Harley says, checking her nails.

Tim pauses the video. He takes a breather.

“Wow,” he says.

“Yup,” Timothy agrees. “It’s different, isn’t it. The moment you see someone in the same position, everything just becomes so much clearer. Harley took mini-her under her wings and helped her with her rehabilitation. Officially, she’s the Conservatory’s curator now. Unofficially, she works with Poison Ivy to make sure the plants have what they need. ”

“Good for her,” Tim says. “I always forget that Harley was a trained psychologist.”

“Same,” Timothy says. “Whatever Harley was that night, Gotham needed more of it.”

Explains the drastic decrease in body counts, Tim thinks, his eyes roaming on the screen.

“And thus, the Red Hood was born,” Tim says instead.

“It really wasn’t,” Timothy says. “As you could have read from these files, I’ve been terrorising the city for weeks.”

“Stop ruining this poetic moment for yourself,” Tim tells him.

Grinning, Timothy closes the file on the screen, and Tim’s unguarded by how animated he seems.

Timothy’s look turns contemplative. “You seemed surprised at his death. I’m guessing that he’s still alive in your world?”

It’s a strange sensation, feeling dissected by your own gaze. Like knowing that you’re millimetres away from a bed of nails about to puncture your skin. Timothy takes one look at his expression and huffs out a bitter laugh that sucks all the lightness in the room.

“Guess Bruce is disappointing in any universe he’s in,” Timothy says.

An old part of Tim, the stubborn eleven year old gazing through his camera lens, wants to crawl out and defend Bruce—because this is Bruce; the man who made him Robin, the man who treated him and loved him as his own. Bruce was and always will be the man who gave him a family—

—but he’s exhausted. He’s worn out and raw. Things with Bruce can be so complicated that it feels like dragging something fragile through a bed of coarse sand. Even the mention of his name leaves Tim chipped and crumbling.

Bruce moved on so he should too.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy says, a little nervously, when Tim hasn’t spoken in an age. “I—uhm. I’m sorry. I was making a joke. I didn’t mean for you—”

Tim forces out a laugh. It sounds watery. “Don’t be,” he says. “I wasn’t even the one who—who died—don’t be sorry about that.”

He bring his hands up, and the pressure of rubbing his face helps him collect his thoughts into a single, neat, package. It’s easier, this way, to pretend that Bruce’s name never caused any bleeding in the first place.

“It only hurts because we cared,” Tim says. “That’s the worst part.”

And in both universes, Tim thinks, they cared too deeply.

Using his most innocent smile, Tim nods to Iago, drops a package on Jason’s desk, and gives a flourishing bow. It’s a small rectangular block, wrapped in Christmas paper with reindeer and little pine trees, topped with a small yellow bow. Tim thinks he wrapped the paper quiet well. Timothy wouldn’t stop laughing but Tim’s pretty proud of it.

Jason is immediately suspicious.

“What’s this?” he says, palming the gift. He narrows his eyes and shakes it beside his ears. Then he checks the weight between hands and slowly places it on the table. He does a thorough scan with his phone, a layer of blue light brushing against his present. Even then, Jason still regards his phone with a sour face, displeased with whatever he’s reading on the screen.

“Are you finished yet?” Tim asks. “I promise it’s not like a bomb or anything.”

“I’m not falling for that.” Jason glares at it. “That’s exactly what you said the last time you sent me a glitter bomb. Twice.”

Outside, his face doesn’t twitch. Inside, he’s all the way home, high fiving Timothy for his sheer awesomeness.

“Do you know how hard it is to get glitter off Kevlar, Tim?” Jason says. “Do you? And all the awkward places glitter likes to slip into?”

“Body glitter’s a thing, Jason,” Tim says. “You act like you’ve never had to hide as a burlesque go-go dancer in a gay club.”

Jason stares at him. “No,” Jason says slowly. “I never did.”

Really? Tim’s a little taken aback. He had to in his universe. It’s a little unfair Jason never had to in his.

“Never mind,” Tim says immediately. “Forget I said that. Now please open the gift before I grow old and die a second time.”

“No dying jokes,” Jason says, but he starts to unwrap his gift.

And really, that’s just rich coming from Jason.

Tim’s not the best illustrator. Whenever Tim puts a pencil to paper, things more often set itself on fire than come out as distinguishable shapes. He briefly remembers that one time Alfred struggled to keep his face straight when Tim drew Alfred a self-portrait. It’s a good thing, then, that his photoshopping skill is on par with his photography.

And Timothy had taken great photos of Damian, a lifetime ago. With Timothy’s permission, Tim created a cover page. Then comes all the typesetting online courses he crammed within a week and his life narrows down to margins and spaces, and sentences and typefaces. Timothy, surprisingly, comes in and helps with majority of it, once Tim’s eyes start blurring on him.

What does it say about his Jason that he already has a favourite typeface planned out for every situation? Or that he will always say yes to drop caps at the start of the chapter? Regardless, in honour of his memory, Tim puts a silhouette of Damian in a dynamic pose at the start of every chapter, and he uses little batarangs as dividers.

Then again, what does it say about Tim for remembering all of this?

Jason touches the book gingerly, brushing it with his fingertips and nothing else, as if he’s afraid of the book disappearing with the slightest bit of pressure.

“God damnit, Tim,” Jason says.

Tim blinks. Is his voice actually…shaky?

“This doesn’t make up for all the times you were absolutely shitty to me,” Jason says. “But god, does it come close.”

Jason rubs his hand over the back. He traces the cover and tests the feel of the pages before sighing into his chair.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Tim asks. “I think I should. I need to run errands anyway.”

Tim heads to the door and pauses when Jason stops him.

Jason hesitates for a second, then, a tentative, “See you tomorrow?”

Tim printed three copies of Jason’s book, one for him, one for Jason, and one for Timothy. When he gets back home, he finds Timothy grinning at the book in his hands.

“Enjoying your book?”

Wrestling his face back in control, Timothy says, “It’s… decent. And somewhat accurate. Which I appreciate.”

Tim nods along. “So decent that your face might break from all that smiling you did?”

“It’s so decent that your face might break from my fist.”

Tim snorts, unaffected. “Smooth.”

Timothy rolls his eyes. “Don’t sass me, Timmy. Or I’ll withdraw into my emotional shell until the end of time.”

“Sure you will,” Tim says. “I get it, you know? Knowing that Robin inspires people is different to actually seeing that Robin inspires people. It’s cool man, I get it.”

If Timothy’s eyes could be plastered at the ceiling, it would be. “I have something for you too,” he says. “Check what’s on the table.”

Tim grabs the sheet of paper on the table, and peers at the numerous graphs on it. “What’s this?” he asks. “Is this from the space gem?”

"Sort of." Timothy leans over and points at the paper. "Whatever it is, it’s not from the space gem but it’s definitely trying to reach the space gem,” Timothy says. “So this and that, yadda yadda quantum mechanics, and I bet they’re from your universe. Someone’s looking for you and whoever is on that side is making my job significantly easier.”

His heart suddenly feels full, and he can’t stop his own grin from growing. He’s not letting himself expect anything—he doesn’t want to prime himself up for any heartbreak but…

Tim always knew that he was going home, but someone’s at the other side trying as well, and that—that just means the world to him.

“You have to keep up with the visits when I’m gone, okay? We’ve gotten to the point where he just stands outside looking mildly offended whenever I dare to come even a second late,” Tim says. “You can’t undo all my good work here.”

Kneeling in front of storage container, Tim frowns when one of his picks snaps in half. The broken bit clatters near the bodies—living bodies, don’t worry—tied up, and indisposed bodies of Two-Face’s goons guarding one of his smaller stashes. One of goons start lolling awake, and Tim throws one of his empty guns at his head, knocking him unconscious.

He’s always wanted to do that ever since he saw Jason do it.

Over the com, Timothy draws out the most dramatic groan in the history of mankind. “I will,” he says. “I will. I will attempt to keep with this brotherly bonding nonsense stuff. What would we even do though? Plot the Young Justice’s downfall?”

“Pfft,” Tim says. “Stuff like movies, ice cream, video games, and parkour. You’re not a cartoon villain, you know. You’re sounding more like Damian than yourself right now. ”

“You take that back right now.”

“If the shoe fits,” Tim says. “He’s only just starting to open up about his needlessly complicated love pentagon with Donna, Barbara, Kori, and Wally. Pentagon? Actually, not a pentagon. It’s more like a spider web and wow, these kids are walking bottles of angst.”

“Which is why you should never skim more than the surface,” Timothy says. “Focusing on angst is so much easier than being faced with your impending mortality. These kids have the right idea.”

“That’s… surprisingly insightful,” Tim says. “See, you’re a natural at this brother thing.”

Finally, the locks click open. Tim brushes it aside and heaves the door open. Inside stacks upon stacks of packed cocaine.

“Jackpot,” Tim says. “Bring in the truck, T. We’ll be on our way and done before Two-Face even gets a whiff of this.”

“Not quite.”

The voice is familiar, but at the same time, it’s not one he immediately recognises. Dread coils around his spine, and it lengthens its body when Tim turns around and find Nightwing waiting for him.   

Shit, Tim thinks to himself.

“Shit,” Timothy says over the com.

Damian is built more like Bruce than Dick, and when he crosses his arms and glowers, Tim can feel the weight of the world’s disappointment crashing on his shoulder.

Tim glowers in return much like what he’d do back at home before he realises that he’s wearing the helmet that’s covering his glower.

“Nightwing,” Tim says, careful to keep his voice cold and sharp. “Leaving Bludhaven to fend for herself? Poor city’s crying herself to sleep.”

“Hood,” Damian acknowledges. “You will step aside and let the Gotham authorities deal with this mess.”

“Unfortunately, no it’s not my style,” Tim says sympathetically. “But if you have anything, I can see if I can help with that.”

Damian brings out his katana. “I will not ask again,” Damian says, and oh boy the katana grew with Damian.

Tim slides his guns from his holsters. “You never did in the first place,” Tim says.

“Trucks coming in ten. I’m setting off a bomb and that should draw Damian away from you,” Timothy says, his typing loud enough to be overheard. “Batman’s on League business. He won’t come. Distract him for as long as you can.”

“How are two guns meant to win against Damian’s sword?” Tim says under his breath.

“How is a single sword meant to win against two guns?” Timothy fires back.

“Okay, point,” Tim says. “Our world doesn’t work like that though.”

That’s when Damian lunges.

Timothy said distracting. Tim interpreted as fighting for his skin to be kept at his hide, because this Damian is faster, and stronger, and a whole lot angrier than Tim’s ever faced before..

“You’ve made a fool out of me,” Damian whispers furiously, in between strikes. “Grayson and Todd had me convinced that you’ve rescinded your ways, and here I was, arriving at Gotham inanely thinking that you were in peril either from your health or your seedy acquaintances. Instead I find you engaged in your usual criminal activities. How dare you!”

“Yup,” Tim wheezes out, taking a kick right on his sternum. “Never thought I’d apologise for making you care.”

Fuming, Damian raises his katana, and Tim makes the impulse decision to drop his gun and break character. He dodges the barrage of slashes and roundhouse kicks, and unclips his bo-staff from his belt. His staff snapping to full length surprises Damian a split-second long enough for Tim to knock the katana out of his hands, and sweep Damian off his feet.

Damian dives into his fall and rolls up within a second, brandishing a set of escrima sticks at chest level.

They circle each other with their weapons drawn out.

God, it feels good to hold his staff again, but if Tim isn’t able to beat Dick in his universe, he won’t be able to beat Damian now. He needs a plan.

Then he remembers. A small query resurface from where it niggles at the back of his mind. Ever since he watched the Joker die on video.

He steps out of fighting stance, the bo-staff standing tall by his side. “You were the one who gave Harley Quinn info on Arkham, weren’t you?”

Damian is unmoved. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I’ve always found it odd that all the security personnel within a mile of Joker’s cell were missing on the day that we came,” Tim says. “All the access codes? The layouts? I believe in Harley’s capabilities but for Batman to be completely unaware that she had those things until very the last minute—”

“I do not have to answer to you,” Damian snaps. “And I will not fall for your rambles! Fight!”

An explosion breaks off in the distance. His glare alone could have probably caused the smoke cloud that billows towards them.

“This isn’t over, Hood,” Damian says, sliding his escrima sticks into his thigh holsters and walking towards his sword.

“Hold him back for a second.”

“Nightwing, wait,” Tim says. “Please,” he forces out, when Damian makes no move of slowing down.

“What is it?” Damian sheaths his sword. “Well? I do not have time for this.”

“Tell him I don’t hate him,” Timothy says. “Yes, I know, I should be saying this to his face and I’ll deal with that later. But tell him I said that. And that I forgave him a long time ago.”

“I don’t hate you,” Tim says.

Damian freezes in his steps. 

“And I forgave you a long time ago,” Tim says. “I’m still angry at you though, and I don’t know when that will change. But you should, also, go check that explosion right now.”

“Ooh, yes,” Timothy says. “That too.”

Damian’s jaw hardens, as if he’s on the verge of interrogating Tim again, but he turns around and vaults himself up the storage containers instead of speaking.

Tim watches him go. “All these years and you never asked him?”

“No,” Timothy admits “I guess I was afraid of what I might hear. It seems to be a recurring theme in my life… I honestly didn’t know he felt that way. How could you tell?”

“Damian at thirteen is simultaneously opaque and translucent,” Tim says. “He was monologing, and he only ever monologues when he’s either furious, hurt, or disappointed.”

“That’s his full spectrum of emotion, all right,” Timothy says.

“Yup,” Tim agrees. “The same full spectrum that usually comes out during Mario Kart.”

Damian at twenty-six really isn’t that much different. Tim wonders if he should even try approaching the subject when Timothy potentially already knows what he’s going to say.

He does it anyway. For his Damian back home.

“He’s not Bruce, you know,” Tim says softly. “He’ll understand.”

Timothy takes a while to reply. “He’s his son, Tim.”

Never has a statement sound so damning. That seems to be the end of that according to Timothy.

You were too, at some point, Tim thinks. “Alright,” he says instead. “I won’t push it.”

By the time Tim stores everything in Red Hood’s warehouses, he’s exhausted. He trudges home and almost passes out in the shower. Saying goodbye to the hot water beating at his back is already the worst part of his night, but he perseveres and eventually he towels himself dry. On the way to his couch, he notices the kitchen lights still on, and he finds Timothy slouching on a dining chair with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and Coca-Cola on the table.

Timothy offers Tim an empty glass. ”Drink?”

Tim shakes his head. “Can’t. Still under twenty-one, but I’ll sit with you.”

“Out of every incriminating thing you’ve done tonight, this is where you draw the line?” Timothy says. “Tim. I am technically an actual Crime Lord.”

Somehow, that fact completely escaped Tim’s mind. That must be how tired he is.

“You know what?” Tim says. “You’re right. Hit me up. I’ve only ever tried vodka sodas before, so this will be interesting.”

He accepts the glass from Timothy and starts sipping. Fire travels down his throat and blooms in his chest. His skin feels slightly warmer to the touch.

“Hmm,” Tim says, delighted. “Just tastes like cola.”

His sips starts increasing in frequency. Then he never stops.

Thus begins their alcoholic daze.

“I miss Steph and Cass,” Tim says. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t close in this universe. They’re like my best friends since, like, ever. Cass is like the scary older sister I never had, and Steph and I used to date in our universe.”

“I forgot to ask,” Timothy says. “You mentioned that Cass is in Hong Kong. What’s Stephanie up to over there?”

“Taking a stab at college,” Tim says. “Trying to put all the cape stuff away until she graduates.”

“Huh,” Timothy says, sipping his drink. “Explains your vodka sodas.”

“What?”

“She’s closer to Damian here,” Timothy says, instead. “And just between the two of us, I’m absolutely terrified of her after that time she broke a brick with my face.” Timothy frowns. “My face with a brick. She broke my face with a brick.”

“She broke your face with a brick too?” Tim asks, a little nostalgic. “Classic Stephanie.”

Timothy looks confused. “Too? Didn’t you say that you guys are best friends over there?”

“Absolutely,” Tim says. Then he sighs happily. “It was my first broken nose, too. Isn’t she awesome?”

“Do you want me to kill the Joker for you?” Timothy asks. “It’s honestly no big deal. Will be super cathartic to me. I can just show up in your universe,” he cocks an imaginary gun against his head and pops it, “and done. No one needs know.”

Tim considers it, because it really is a sweet offer. “Nah,” Tim says. “Harley, Jason and Babs have dibs on him first.”

“Drat,” Timothy says. “Better luck next universe.”

“Did you,” Tim hiccups, “did you ever sleep with Talia back when you first woke up in the pit?”

Timothy swirls his glass and watches the bottom of his jack and coke. “Not Talia, no.”

“But you did sleep with someone?” Tim says. “C’mon, I won’t tell anyone.” He holds his hands up. “Pinky promise.”

Timothy doesn’t reply. He only stares at Tim, his eyes bright and pitiful. “Guess,” he finally says.

If it’s not Talia, it could honestly be anyone else in the League of Assassins. Tim has fought so many League of Assassin members; it’s hard differentiating who is who anymore. At the same time, Tim can’t think of anyone who would be so utterly fascinated with him that they’d risk Talia’s wrath… unless…

Unless…

The smile slips off his face. “Oh my god,” Tim says, horrified.

Timothy offers no consolation, only tipping his glass off with more alcohol.

“Oh my god,” Tim says again, louder this time. “I slept with Ra’s Al Ghul.”

Tim takes the bottle of jack and downs it.

“Hey, Timothy,” Tim asks, flailing one arm out. “Hey, Timothy. Hey—stop moving so much. I’m trying to ask you a question.”

Timothy, whose face is down between his arms on the table, only grunts in reply.

“What if,” Tim says, struggling with the weight of his own tongue. “What if it’s true? What if it’s all true?”

"What?" Tim unplasters his face from the table. “What if what’s true?”

“What if I did end up loving Kon and Bart more than they loved me, and that’s why they never—that’s why they didn’t—” Tim breaks off into indiscernible mumbles.

Timothy frowns. “Huh? What? Why does that matter? Why do they matter again?”

“Because they’re my best friends,” Tim whines. “They do matter because that…ugh! I don’t know… I almost broke the world for them, I guess.”

“Then you’ll deal with it and move on,” Timothy says. “We’re strong, Timmy. We only need, you, me, each other, and,” Timothy dramatically leans in, “ourselves. Rejection never stopped us before. It never will. Fuck Batman!”

“Yeah,” Tim says, nodding. “I don’t know how we got here, but yeah! Fuck Batman!”

He flops until his head on Timothy’s shoulder, and throws his arms around him—self? Timothy. Around Timothy.

“And the biggest fuck you of all to Mr. Oz,” Tim says. “Fuck Kon’s dad-sort-of. I used to like being alone. I used to be so self-sufficient that I needed no one else. Then he chucked me into that prison and now I hate being by myself.”

Timothy looks taken aback. “You hate being by me?” he asks, a raincloud appearing over his head.

Horrified, Tim says, “No!” He hugs Timothy tighter to him. “I love being by you. You’re me, but cooler. So that makes you cool, man.”

The raincloud clears and suddenly, it's a blearily sunny day. Satisfied, Timothy pats the top of Tim’s head.  “I am pretty cool,” Timothy admits. “You’re cool too, Timmy, because I said so. The biggest fuck you of all to Mr. Oz too then.”

At first, Tim closed his eyes to stop his head from spinning, but now, with Timothy’s voice lulling him and his shoulder radiating heat, he finds himself tethering on the edge of sleep.

Tim drifts off to the sound of Timothy softly muttering, ‘Fuck Batman,’ in his sleep.

A crash springs them awake. Metal clangs against the ground before a string of cusses follow. For a second, Tim is instantly alert, and then a wave of nausea crashes into him until he almost collapses. He does his best to push it aside, and snaps his bo-staff into full length.

Timothy is already armed, pointing at the doorway. He makes the go-ahead for Tim to move forward, and Tim stalks as quietly as he can to find—

“Jason?” Tim asks.

Jason leans against the wall holding his shoulder. Small gashes are visible through the torn patches of his costume. The area under his shoulder plasters against his skin more than usual—possibly soaked from his own blood.

Tim abandon his staff and helps Jason carry his own body weight.

“Killer Croc,” Jason replies to Tim’s concerning glances. “Told Killer Croc I worked green better than he did and he didn’t take it well.”

“Nuh uh,” Tim says. “No talking until all that blood outside of you is back inside.”

Even pale and breathing harshly, Jason managed to wheeze out a laugh. “…just need to sleep it off,” he says. “I’m fine…”

Until he reaches the kitchen, and his gaze lands on Timothy, whose already on the phone with Dr. Thompkins.

“Tim?” Jason asks, incredulous. Then he looks beside him. “Tim again? I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”  He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. “Oh my god. I have to be dreaming… this… but no way I’d dream about Killer Croc… in the same…”

Jason looks like he’s about to break himself from sheer concentration. The rest of the sentence devolves into incoherent mumbling, which Tim ignores as he settles Jason into the Timothy’s room.

Much later in the morning, when he’s had enough of his blood transfusion, Jason sits himself up in bed. “I just had the strangest dream,” he says, voice raspy and eyes still cloudy from sleep.

Then he sees him and Timothy waiting by his bedside and he gapes for five solid minutes.

(Tim knows it was around five minutes because it was enough time for him to serve them all breakfast and grab a mug of coffee for Timothy and himself.

This must be what Alfred feels like all the time.)  

“Shadow clone jutsu?” Timothy offers, nudging the conversation forward.

Jason blinks. “What the fuck?” Jason says. “What the actual fuck?”

“We have a lot of explaining to do,” Tim says. “But you should get started on your breakfast because it’s going to take a while.”

After Tim and Timothy has finished explaining the whole debacle, Timothy details the experiments he’s been doing with the space gem, and that gets Jason straightening in his seat.

“I want in on the space gem project,” Jason says.

Timothy opens his mouth before deliberating swiftly. “No,” he says. “I don’t want people tampering with my prototypes.”

“You were hiding alien tech from me! You know how much I love alien tech!”

“Still,” Timothy persists. “I have a good system going on and I dislike anyone messing with it, even myself. Tell him, Tim.”

“He punted me off the project like I was a soccer ball,” Tim says. “I’m still crying to this day.”

“You owe me this,” Jason says. “After basically using a doppelganger into tricking me that you like me. You made me feel like a fool for think that, impossibly, you might actually wanted to spend time with me.”

Timothy only crosses his arms. “I do like you,” Timothy says, cleverly dodging the rest of the statement. “I helped with your book,” he adds on weakly.

Jason crosses his arms, and oh, does he look crossed. “Save it,” he says, huffing. “I don’t know why I expected anything better from you, Timothy.”

Timothy looks at Tim for help. Tim—whose head bounced back and forth with remark—gestures wildly with his hands, hoping that Timothy interprets it as a mixture of ‘go apologise and talk about your feelings,’ and ‘don’t threaten him,’ and ‘you better not run away from this or I will drag your broken ass back here’ simultaneously.

“Jason,” Timothy says. He shuffles closer, or as much as he can with one feet one top of a chair. “Bluejay,” he tries again, sighing. “Look… I have a lot of problems.”

Timothy then pauses, deep in thought. Tim and Jason follow suit since, well, they’re not about to disagree with Timothy, really.

“Watching Tim interact with you and Dick helped, I think,” Timothy says. “It’s not you that I dislike, it’s my resentment of you that I can’t handle. Seeing what it could have been like, what people are like if things were just a little different… I liked that. It gives me something to work towards. To be like Tim, but in a Timothy way. So I’m sorry from tricking you, I truly am, and I hope you’ll give me the chance to do better in the future.”

In the same situation, Tim would be itching to flee the room after such a sincere admission. He’s so proud of Timothy for sticking his ground. Not counting the fact that he couldn’t even run anyway because his leg is broken, of course.

After holding onto his anger—and failing, since Jason will always be a softie in any universe he’s in, Jason says, “Thanks." He waits a second, before asking, “Does that mean I’m on the space gem team now?”

Timothy slants him a look. “Yes, but you’re on thin ice.”

Jason doesn’t do a victory dance, and he really shouldn't else he'll rip his newly-stitched wounds, but it was close. Very close.

Later on, when it’s just Tim and Jason putting away the dishes, Tim says, “I’m sorry too, by the way. Know that even though I was pretending to be Timothy, all of the sentiment and all of the feelings are very much genuine.”

Jason searches his face. “It’s weird,” Jason says. “You don’t look nearly as constipated as Timothy did from when he apologised this morning.”

“Wow,” Tim says.

“But I accept your apology,” Jason says. “Although it kind of sucks, since I thought it was my irresistible charms that wore down your defences but really, it was just Timothy from another dimension.”

“Hey now,” Tim says. He pats Jason’s back. “If it makes you feel better, you tried to kill me multiple times in my universe but I’m still your friend.”

“I’m not sure how it’s supposed to make me feel better,” Jason says. “Also, I’m very sorry?”

“No, no,” Tim says. “I mean about having faith in your charms. I know my Jason’s not you, but he is, in a way. Some things never fundamentally change, and I think you loveable-ness transcends multiple dimensions.”

“Oh,” Jason says, red dusting his cheeks. “Thanks.” He clears his throat and presses against Tim’s hand on his back. “Do you—uh—do you always say sweet stuff to the Jason in your universe?”

“Huh.” Tim replays their conversation. “I guess you could consider that sweet. To answer your question, I don’t tend to say sweet things often to my Jason. Maybe I should start though.” Tim’s smile turns wicked. “You very much suit the colour red.”

Jason flushes redder than his helmet, and Tim howls with laughter when Jason ducks away in embarrassment. He only stops when there’s a wet, soggy tea towel thrown on his face.

With both Jason and Timothy working on the space gem, Tim’s days in this universe finally comes to an end. Before he leaves, however, there’s one more person he wants to make right with before he goes.

“I know I might as well be another person,” Tim says. “But he’s still me, and he still cares. He even promised me that he’ll try to keep up the after school hang outs. By the way, has he talked to you about that yet?”

“He did,” Dick says. “He honestly sounded as if he was going to die a second time, but he did talk to me about it…” Dick shifts in his seat. “I… I don’t know.”

Tim could see Dick debating it in his mind, about hugging him or not, so he makes the decision for him. Dick has always been a tactile person; sometimes he's like a cat and he needs to be patted while he thinks. He nudges Dick inside his arms and tucks him close, resting his head on top of Dick’s as Dick burrows into his chest.

“How could you tell?” Dick mumbles against his chest.

“You used to do this for me when I was younger,” Tim says. “You’re the older brother in my universe, and you very quickly taught me to like hugs through soft, warm, coercing embraces which I couldn’t even dream of escaping from.”

“Sounds mildly threatening,” Dick says. “Cool guy, though.”

“He is.” Tim laughs. “You would have liked him very much.”

When they separate, Tim clasps Dick on his shoulders. “Look after Timothy and Damian for me, okay? They’re grumpy but they won’t bite. Always remember to disarm them before you hug them.”

Dick nods, absorbing Tim’s every word. “Disarm them before you hug them,” he repeats.

“And remember not to stew about things for too long without telling anyone,” Tim says. “Don’t let things fester so much that it causes you to blow up and say something that you’ll regret immediately, okay? Let everything out, the good and the bad. We’ve all been there. We care about you. We’ll listen.”

Dick ducks his head, guilty. “Do I do that a lot in your universe?” he asks.

“Very much so.”

Dick grimaces. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When the moment comes, they bid Tim off in Timothy’s workshop. After one last round of goodbye with Jason and Dick, Timothy hands him the containment chamber. The space gems floats inside, happy and undisturbed.

“There should be some nausea when you first land, but it should pass within a couple of hours,” Timothy says. “If you noticed that its smaller, don’t worry. Parts were safely chipped off for control experiments.”

“Nothing I haven’t experienced before,” Tim says. “At least this time, no one at home will pull a gun on me when I first arrive. Anything else before I go?”

“One more thing.”

Timothy hands him a folded sheet of paper, and Tim slides it into his pants pocket.

“After the control experiments, we tried something that’s a little smaller in scale,” Timothy says. “Sending smaller waves and frequencies through time and space. We found that as long as we hold parts of the same gem, the results are quite reliable.”

A grin breaks out on Tim’s face. “So we can call each other whenever we want?”

“Eventually,” Timothy says. “As soon as the other Outlaws are back, I’m searching for a gem of my own. Our universe's equivalent. Maybe we’ll accomplish video calling one day.”

“Wouldn’t this be messing around with the fabric of time and space too much?”

“Compared to what the Justice League does whenever there’s a crisis?” Timothy scoffs. “This is nothing. Don’t get me started on the Speedsters. They’re worse.”

Tim places his containment chamber on the nearest table and holds his arms out. Timothy looks resigned but he gives Tim the go ahead, and Tim tackles him into a hug, careful not to knock away his crutches.

(Over on the side line, Dick leans near Jason and whispers, “They’re hugging. If they’re hugging then does that mean they’re finished? Do you think I can join in? Tim is so much better at this than all of you combined.”

“No,” Jason hisses, eyes glued forward. “They’re having a moment, Dick. Let them have their moment.”

“They’ve had plenty of moments. They lived with each other,” Dick says. “And stop turning so red, you perv. They’re just hugging!”)

“Thanks, Timothy,” Tim says. “For everything. I’m going to miss this place when I’m back. I don’t think I would’ve handled this as well as I did if it weren’t for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Timothy says. He gives one soft pat on Tim’s back. “It’s… it’s going to be different when you’re gone.”

Tim laughs, squeezing even harder. “I’ll miss you too, you lug. Don’t take too long with the space gem, okay? I want the chance to show off my universe to you.”

Finally, Timothy circles his free arm around Tim and squeezes back. “I won’t, Timmy,” Timothy says. “Promise you that’ll be the next thing I do when this leg finishes healing.”

The second bout of nausea is so much worse than the first. The first thing Tim does when he lands in his universe is fall onto his butt and cradle his head in his hands. But squeezing his eyes as hard as he can does nothing to lessen the nausea, so Tim forces his eyelids open and focuses on standing.

Then he looks up to the stunned faces of Jason, Damian, and Stephanie standing in his living room. Damian has his sword out and its length is half his body, Stephanie has bags under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in a week, and Jason—Jason has white in his hair.

He’s home. He’s finally home.

“Guys,” Tim says, pure joy and relief laced in his voice. “Guys, I missed you so much.”

Acting on his hugging high and forgetting that it usually takes some kind of bodily harm for him to grudgingly show affection, he throws himself on the three, dragging them into his arms.

It’s no surprise then, that Jason, Stephanie, and Damian breaks out into an immediate panic.

“I’m honestly okay,” Tim says, after being deposited on the couch with a glass of water in his hands. “Everybody just sit down for a second. I’m fine. I had pretty good time, in all honesty, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. No, Damian, put down that blanket. I don’t need it. I’m not in shock.”

Caught, Damian huffs and slinks back to Tim’s hallway closet, carrying the blanket with him. Tim can hear the echoes of his muttering, something about stubborn Drakes and hypothermia and how he’s probably going to get himself killed a second time without anyone there to watch him.

Tim refrains from smiling. I missed you too, Damian.

“No, we’re not just going to sit down,” Jason says, fuming, pulling all the attention back to him. “I told you not to mess with the ray gun, and what did you do? You messed with the ray gun! Then you disappear for weeks and you want us to sit down?”

Tim’s not sure if he should reply. He hasn’t seen Jason this angry at him since he burst into the Titans Tower and beat him within an inch of his life.

“At least it’s not for a year, am I right?” Tim offers in an effort to lighten the mood.

It does not lighten the mood. Jason stops his pacing. His eye starts twitching. His face grows increasingly redder and redder until he’s doing a great impression of a steam train flying off the rails and crashing into him.

Tim looks at Stephanie for help.

“Don’t look at me,” Stephanie says. “When Jason finishes with you, your ass is grass and I’m going to mow it into extinction.”

Damian doesn’t add anything, but he crosses his arms approvingly.

It seems that Tim has no allies in this room. Jason, Stephanie and Damian on their own are formidable opponents, but they are downright terrifying when they band together against a common enemy.

And Tim…

Tim feels so warm that he might combust.

He wasn’t expecting this, coming back from Timothy’s world. He knew someone was looking for him, but truthfully, he wasn’t expecting anything at all. His plans after coming back included shutting himself in his workshop and working on the communicator via Timothy’s instructions. Probably cook enough for the next couple of days. Maybe fold the laundry and sweep around if he had felt like it.

But being sat down and scolded into submission?

It’s more than anything he could ever imagine.

“—reckless and foolish and—are you even listening to me?” Jason asks, almost breaking into a shrill. “Are you smiling right now?! I swear to fucking god, Tim, if you’re not listening to me, I am going drive Redbird into the nearest brick wall, crush her body with my bare hands and grind the pieces into ash before I feed it down your throat—”

Tim has been thinking since he’s been back.

Since when did he start swerving at the thought of rejection? Since when did he become the kind of person that only delved beyond the surface when the consequences wouldn’t have affected him?

Since when he did become so scared of being left behind that he stopped following the people he cared about?

He shouldn’t be afraid of rejection. He doesn’t want to be afraid of rejection.

If meeting Timothy taught him anything, it’s that every tragic moment will have its place in his life, and he’ll get back up. He always does. He always will.

Tim’s strong, stronger than he ever realised.

Finally, finally, he believes it.

 “Jason,” Tim says. “Would you consider ever working at the Martha Wayne Foundation?”

Currently, Jason’s reading the copy of the stories he wrote in the other universe. He peers up from his book, and shifts into a more comfortable position on Tim’s couch before answering.

“Like the other Jason?” he says. “Not particularly. I like the idea of helping people but nothing about administration or running a company sounds remotely appealing to me.”

“That’s fair,” Tim says. “Although, to my credit, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Seeing the other you so at home at the MWF only cemented it.”

Jason scratches at the shaving cut on his chin. “Maybe one day I will,” he says. “I’ll do unofficial proposals under your name, but not my own. When I do, I don’t want the position given to me. I want to work my way up like everyone else.”

“Oh right,” Tim says. “You’re still technically dead, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Jason says, grimly. “Sucks to be a real life zombie.”

Tim considers Jason for a moment, before walking over to the couch. “I’m tired,” he says. “Move over a bit?”

Jason grunts and he moves onto the sitting position. Draping his legs over Jason’s lap, Tim neatly slots himself on the couch, with his back resting on the armchair. He brings out his phone and pretends he doesn’t feel how there’s a hint of red at the top of Jason’s cheeks.

Tim may be oblivious, but he’s not that oblivious. He rightfully won the title ‘Detective’ from Ra’s fair and square. Whenever he leans in, Jason leans back, and he can’t explain why warmth spills into his chest whenever Jason decides to grace him with his time or his, well, his general existence.

But the world can’t blame him for taking it tentatively slow on this one. All good things in life do seem to take its time.

“Enjoying yourself?” Tim asks.

“Immensely,” Jason says. “Seems I’m a great writer in any universe I’m in.”

“Not that I would know, because you never let me read your stuff,” Tim says, sulking.

Immune to his patented sad face, Jason only pats his knee. “Nothing personal,” Jason says. “It’s literally just you and the rest of the family. Kori loves everything I write and Roy says I’m a bard in the making.”

“Was Roy sarcastic when he said it?”

“Yes, but he said those exact words and he can never take it back,” Jason says. “And that’s all that matters.”

Snorting, Tim sprawls one arm on the back of the couch. “Don’t freak out about what I say, okay,” he says. “But I’m very grateful that you are the way you are.”

Jason puts his book down, his eyebrows following suit. “Is this because of the other universe? Are you feeling okay?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m feeling fine. I told you not to freak out.”

“Then why with the sudden gratitude?”

“Because,” Tim says.

Because I want to say it before I can’t anymore, Tim thinks. And because Jason deserves to hear it.

“Fine. I’ll take the compliment,” Jason says. “I’ll file it under all the other eccentric things that you like to do, but I’ll take it.” He pretends to read for a couple of seconds, putting his book down. “Was the other Jason that bad?”

The cover of G31 flashes in his mind.

“No, he was great,” Tim says. “Absolutely amazing. He was G31’s Man of the Year.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Tim says. “He was a cute wholesome baby who's going to take over the world with his smile, but sometimes the original series triumphs over the reboot with better production values and reasonable writing.”

Jason squints at him. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re referring to Star Trek right now or not.”

“And you, Jason, are the original series to me,” Tim says. “After all you’ve been through, you’re still amazingly you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Never change, Jay. Never change.”

“Oh,” Jason says. “Okay.”

He brings his book back up. After a couple of seconds where Tim can clearly see that he pretends to be reading again, he clears his throat, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I’m glad you’re back too, Timbo,” Jason says. “This place was too dull without you.”

For the first time in almost two years, Tim boots up the his chat group with Kon and Bart.

Hey guys, he types. Can we talk?

Two sentences, five words. Yet, he rereads it over and over and over until he’s satisfied. He ignores the backspace button because he’s not running away. This time, he's sticking his ground. He sends the message before he overthinks himself.

Then, he waits.