Archive of Our Own

Six years since The Bat first opened, and Tim still had no particular passion for working at the bakery.

Most tasks were shift-dependent, and everyone could take on one another’s roles, but there were still specific things they liked doing and made clear to the rest. Dick ran most of the operations, from logistics to finances to promotional work, with Jason occasionally assisting him if he wasn’t preoccupied baking or supervising others. Cass and Duke were polite and charming, so they took turns handling deliveries and tidying the bakery right before they closed and shortly after it opened. Damian was a baking prodigy, something he constantly gloated to Tim’s face even though Tim thought he did a decent job for someone who spent the least amount of time there, and the youngest's blunt personality earned him a permanent residence in the kitchen. Tim could fill in any of their roles, but that was only because he felt strongly about none. He was in The Bat because it was a family business and he loved his family; it didn’t get any deeper than that. Oftentimes, he grumbled about having to work because there were other things he'd rather do than waste his free time working in a bakery that wasn’t even his idea to begin with.

Today, his shift placed him by the counter, and he could only be thankful for the fact that they weren’t in Gotham. The Bat could be found in many cities, and every summer break, the family packed up to spend the season in one of their branches, letting the employees there take an assistance role if not get a paid leave. It was their version of productive family bonding, Dick had reasoned, which Tim was only okay with because they usually had fun anecdotes to bring with them when summer ended and they returned home. This year, it was the Metropolis branch, so it was their citizens who walked through the doors of the bakery and bought The Bat's pastries.

Still, there was a distinct difference between a normal Metropolis citizen stepping into The Bat and a Metropolis superhero doing it.

“Superboy?” someone exclaimed, and it wasn’t Tim, but Superboy didn’t glance at the voice. He turned to Tim instead, and he walked to him like Tim was the only thing he was certain of in an unfamiliar place. Something in Tim lurched, and he was hit with the feeling that he’d seen that look before.

Tim watched Superboy approach him, watched as he stopped and stared like he was trying to figure something out. Tim wasn’t the one with powers, and he wasn’t the one more likely to be the mind reader, so he kept quiet and waited until Superboy finally said, “Baker, not a detective.”

It took a while for the words to click in Tim’s brain. Remembering things usually felt like reaching out behind him towards something he couldn’t see clearly, but he knew it was there. This one was different—it slammed into him like it wasn’t there before, and it didn’t make it any less real. But Tim was used to the sensation, so he didn’t startle; he only blinked, then smiled. He knew his memory was sharp, but it only dawned on him now, how far his reach could go.

He didn’t respond to Superboy’s remark. “We have a batch of mini lemon bundt cake that just came out of the oven,” he said instead, ignoring the incredulous look Jason shot at him, overhearing them despite sitting with Dick on the other side, sorting through documents. “Today’s special.”

(“Since when did we have a daily special?” he heard Jason ask Dick.

“What are you talking about?” Dick replied absentmindedly, leafing through the papers. “We don’t.”)

“Special? Sure.” Superboy glanced at the display cases before following Tim to where the lemon cakes were. “What makes a bundt cake different from a normal cake?”

“Just the shape,” Tim answered, and it didn’t feel weird that Superboy went with him as he pulled the tray of mini bundt lemon cakes out despite how most customers waited by the cashier. He pretended to not notice how Dick and Jason's eyes were now trained on them. “It still tastes the same.”

“I’ve never had a lemon cake before,” Superboy confessed.

“They’re not really supposed to be sour like lemons. They just have a lemon-like flavor.” Tim paused. At least, proper lemon cakes were supposed to taste that way. Damian was good at baking, but that didn’t mean he got everything right from the start. Lemon cakes were, for the first time, a challenge to him, and given his preference for taking things literal, there was a chance that the taste of this lemon cake would be extremely sour.

Superboy frowned. “Sounds deceiving.”

“If it helps, they say they’re specifically supposed to taste tangy,” Tim offered.

“I do like strong stuff,” Superboy considered.

I know, Tim thought, but he didn’t say it.

By the time Dick had saddled up to him, Superboy was long gone with a mini bundt cake packaged in The Bat’s sleek paper box. He had carried it with both hands under the sides of the box even though there was a handle, like he wanted to be extra careful. “Right after I just told you to not sell the lemon cakes to anyone,” Dick sighed. “You know that Damian’s still working on perfecting a good recipe.”

“It’s mostly edible, and it won’t kill him,” Tim replied, and even if the lemon cake didn’t turn out to be what they hoped, it was probably something Tim thought Superboy would appreciate anyway. Alien taste buds worked differently, but Tim didn’t feel the need to explain that to Dick, because that would mean explaining how he knew it to begin with.

“Still.” Dick slumped. He turned and began making his way to the kitchen to mope about it to Damian. “The first ever superhero to come to The Bat, and he probably won’t return ever again.”

“Mhm.” If Dick noticed the lilt in Tim’s voice, the shift in what was usually his sullen mood after work, he didn’t comment on it, more preoccupied with loudly telling Damian they were now going to feature a different pastry each day as a bakery daily special.

Heroes had never been anything new, even after that one night when the entire Wayne household woke up with flashes of memories they knew didn’t belong to them despite how intimately familiar they felt. From there, it only escalated, as if a gate had opened and they just had to know everything about a life they didn’t actually live. But it was one thing to be a civilian who lived in a world with superpowered heroes running around in capes and spandex fighting crime, and another to learn that in another reality, they were, in spite of their distinct lack of superhuman abilities, also running around in said capes and spandex to fight crime.

Bruce was far from naïve, and even if he sat his entire family out for a talk that yes, all that happened, and yes, all of that was real—at least in another reality that people just like them living in it—it did not mean that they were going to go travel around the world learning different kinds of martial arts, building suits and fancy new gadgets, or prowling the streets in suits and tights to beat up bad guys, no matter how badass Steph and Duke thought it was.

The Bruce of another world may have decided the best way to deal with his parents’ death was to fight crime and ensure a tragedy like theirs would never be repeated again, but as noble as the notion was, Bruce here took a more pacifist approach, refusing to bloody his hands or let his wards do the same. He only grudgingly respected the work that “spandex supes”, in Jason’s words, did, and it was hard to tell whether the newfound memories made him more appreciative of them for continuing the line of work he hadn’t pursued.

There was also the fact that their Gotham, though equally bleak, was vastly different from the Gotham of reality-counterparts. None of their criminals were as bloodthirsty or as creatively insane. If Bruce Wayne in another universe secretly donned a mask to investigate murders and apprehend overpowered criminals that GCPD couldn’t deal with, then Bruce Wayne here donned on a suit and battled corporate and government corruption that most politicians and lawyers didn’t have the guts to stand up against.

As a result, there was no Batman in their world, but there was The Bat, a bakery that the family opened in Gotham, at first, before gaining enough success to expand their branches to other cities and states in the country. The idea came from Dick, who reasoned that despite how they couldn’t fight the good fight against the injustices and harshness of the world that they’ve had first hand experience in through big, explosive ways like heroes did, they could do it through the little things, such as offering help or spreading comfort and care, brightening someone’s day up or providing a rest stop to those who needed it through a homely bakery.

(Everyone knew the real reason Dick wanted a bakery was so that everyone would get to taste Alfred’s otherworldly creations, but the feeble sentiment was more than enough to get Bruce to indulge in Dick’s ambition. By the time Tim had entered the family, The Bat was already in its first year and had been slowly abandoning using Alfred’s recipes for their pastries, mostly because Alfred was insistent that they make The Bat fully their own thing by making their own recipes from scratch.)

It wasn’t the intention they had when The Bat first opened, and they never really did anything formal or serious about it, but Dick began insisting that The Bat was a “superhero-friendly space”, where heroes could be treated like normal people even when in costume. It had nothing to do with the dreams of the revelation that somewhere, in another world, they were costumed heroes too; if anything, all it did was emphasize how much these heroes were human, even if they biologically weren’t, so they deserved to be treated that way, even if it could only manifest in the small things they could provide.

“The dreams, those other versions of us,” Cass said once. Tim didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the balcony door had been left open, and it wasn’t every day that he saw Cass and Damian have a moment to themselves. “Have they ever made you want to… do something about them?”

Damian had never been the reassuring type, and Tim almost felt offended that Cass didn’t go to him when he always thought they were the closest. But there was nothing scathing in Damian’s tone when he answered, “Father said they’re true, that they’re not just some collective hallucination we’re all experiencing. Todd says it doesn’t matter whether something is true or not, it’s a matter of whether you believe that truth. It might’ve been the deepest thing I've heard him say.”

“But what do you say?”

Cass’ question made Damian pause, needing time to find the words he needed to say. “What our counterparts have done—Grayson finds it admirable. I suppose I agree. They risk their lives every day for people they don’t even know, and they’ve given up the semblance of an ordinary life they could’ve had for those who likely don’t thank them for the cost. But none of it compels me to do the same,” he answered. “As much as we are the same people as those heroes from that other world, we’re also different. My mother and grandfather, your parents—none of them are assassins. I don’t believe it is in our nature to become crime fighters. Father always tells us there are different ways to fight that don't involve fists.”

“There are,” Cass agreed solemnly.

Damian nodded. “If I were in the shoes of my other self, I don’t think I would’ve made a different decision. But I’m not, because I came from somewhere else, so I don’t believe we’re wrong for choosing another path,” he said, because he must have sensed Cass’ apprehension, the lingering guilt. “I doubt this is a comforting statement—Brown often calls me pessimistic, and I’m sure Drake would argue with me on this—but I believe reality influences us more than we influence reality. Everything monumental has already been set in stone, and there’s no use fighting it. It’s impractical to fight something you can barely even comprehend. So it’s in the everyday decisions that we have agency.”

For a few seconds, Cass was quiet. “You’re right, it’s not very comforting,” she told Damian. “But thank you for telling me regardless. It's... different.”

Whether or not the rest saw things the same way as Damian did ultimately didn’t matter, because no one put on a mask, no one talked about joining the fight and becoming a hero. At the very least, the alternate realities explained certain preferences they had for particular places; like why Dick often visited the bakery branch in New York City, or why Jason insisted they set one up in Star City.

Tim wasn’t sure what he felt about Happy Harbor, but maybe he’d know when he mustered the courage to research about it. Damian was right when he said Tim wouldn’t agree with him, but even if the reasons felt obvious to Tim, he couldn’t form the words to explain it.

The memories typically came in dreams, so sometimes they would only linger shortly after each member of his family and friends would wake up and then never again. Other times, they’d know each recalled experience like they actually lived through it.

Though they didn’t remember everything, they remembered enough. They spoke about it to one another occasionally, intent to not let the merge of memories change anything about their lives. Tim accepted that unsaid agreement, though he personally thought that the reason they didn’t want to talk about it was because they didn’t actually remember enough to share it, or at least remember enough to piece together into something cohesive and explainable.

It might’ve been arrogance, but Tim felt like he had more recollection of his alternate self’s life and memories than everyone else he was close to did. Research had shown that memories were more prominent and more likely to show for individuals who had previously cared about something that was heavily related to the memories even before they came, and Tim had always been interested in the idea of superheroes, even if he didn’t make a show of it in front of his family. He had journals for that, enough pages dedicated to cataloguing theories about the science behind their powers, the symbolisms behind the costumes, and occasionally solutions to apprehending criminals the heroes were publicly known to be chasing after.

Being a hero still wasn’t something Tim was interested in, even if it was cool to think about them, and it was also cool to realize that in another world, he’d been one of them. It came with costs, after all, and he was okay with the lack of what he was paying for with the life he lived now. The dreams were vivid enough for him to get a glimpse of what it was like anyway; swinging through skyscrapers, sifting through case files and information to resolve them in late nights, surviving disastrous relationships and dangerous missions when others didn’t. There were likely good things too—Tim didn’t see why the other version of him would continue that kind of life if it wasn’t worth it to some degree, but it was a life that seemed bleaker than brighter. He was good where he was, with this life, with what he had.

Besides, he liked to believe it was only in this world that he could watch Dick successfully guilt trip Damian into making a better lemon cake to give in recompense to the one they gave Superboy. It was apparently the only thing in the world Damian hated making more than anything because its poor quality was a harsh blow to his pride.

“It was Drake’s fault for giving the Superman clone the lemon cake in the first place,” Damian grumbled, grabbing mittens so he could take the new lemon cakes out of the oven after Dick had launched a long-winded tale about the reasoning behind Alfred's particular fondness for the pastry. “And whoever placed it outside anyway even though the cake did not meet standards. This is pointless, Grayson. He’s not going to come back.”

Superboy came back a week later, when Tim happened to be on shift.

Tim was grateful for it, not because of Superboy, but because he felt sorry for being so nonchalant about giving him something that tasted worse than even he expected. Barbara said the cake was one step away from being toxic waste, the kind that even superheroes probably couldn’t stand, and it was a good thing only one person had bought it before Duke had smartly taken it away from the display cases.

“Here,” Tim said, handing the box to Superboy the moment he walked up the counter; similar to the way he did the first time, like Tim was the only thing he recognized enough to trust. Tim didn’t read too much into it. “It’s on the house—to make up for the lemon cake we first gave you. This one’s definitely better.”

“Do you typically do this for everyone, or is it because I’m a superhero?” Superboy asked.

“My brother would say it’s because you’re a customer, and that’s all that matters,” Tim replied honestly. “But if you ask me, everyone who’s ever tasted that cake deserves some kind of compensation. I shouldn’t have put you through that.”

“So that means saving the day won’t get me any discounts here?” Superboy wrinkled his nose, as if he was disappointed. Tim tried not to let his amusement show, even though he thought that it was something he should’ve been annoyed by. “The cake wasn’t bad,” Superboy said, sincere this time. “It was tangy.”

“You don’t need to be so polite about it. My brother markets The Bat as a place where superheroes can supposedly be as normal as they want. No one will judge you if you admit it was practically evil.”

“Well, I fight evil for breakfast, so.” Superboy grinned, as if what he said was cool instead of corny. Tim tried not to snort. “You’re lucky it was me who bought it. Wonder Girl, friend of mine—she’s as tough as I am, but she probably wouldn’t be able to make it past the first bite. It helps to be half-not-from-here.”

Tim knew that Superboy was half-alien, but he didn’t remember if it was because of the news—he remembered hearing it over the radio during the first year of Superboy’s appearance, that he had was a Kryptonian like Superman, genetically engineered by scientists, supposedly giving an element to humanity that Superman didn’t have because he came from Earth—or because of the dreams.

“Does that mean you actually finished the entire thing?” Tim asked, Superboy’s words sinking in. Superboy startled when he realized the same thing, what his words implied, but Tim didn’t react. He tried not to, because he was surprised by how he found it… charming, despite knowing in the back of his mind how objectively stupid and ridiculous it was for someone to do that; that if it was someone else who did it, he would’ve felt awkward. “I think that’s what made me lucky it was you, more than anything.” He tapped on the box that sat on the counter between them. “Do you not want it?”

“Oh.” Superboy glanced down at the lemon cake that Tim had boxed in front of him. “Not that I’m complaining, but seriously, you really didn't need to. I’m no expert, but it didn’t taste bad—like evil bad. ‘Sides, you could probably give me something inedible and I doubt it’d bother me much. Alien, remember? Kryptonian too.”

Superboy was half-Kryptonian, half-human, the foreign memories had told Tim, and what made him human was more biological than his claim that it was because he was born on Earth. It was one of the few things Tim remembered, albeit foggily, so the words didn’t reassure him the same way it would’ve if Superman himself said it. But Tim didn’t mention any of that, because Superboy’s words made him interested in something else.

“Is this the invulnerability thing?” Tim blurted out. “I always thought it only applied for external forces, but limiting it to that doesn’t make sense. If being hit by bullets leaves you without a scratch, then swallowing them shouldn’t even make you blink...”

Tim stopped when he realized he was rambling, feeling embarrassed even though the only reason he started talking was because there was something about Superboy that just felt easy to talk to. He hadn’t intended to share all that. Superboy had only made a throwaway comment.

But Superboy said, “I don’t know. I’ve never tried swallowing a bullet before.” He wasn’t saying it just to humor Tim, surprisingly. Superboy actually looked thoughtful, like he was imagining the scenario playing out in his head. “It would definitely taste worse than the shittiest thing you can make here. The bullet swallowing would be cool, in any rate, if it actually happened. On TV too! My… hero colleagues, you could say, aren’t really keen on letting other people test the full extent of their abilities, and the government’s not that invested in prodding when we’re saving their asses every day, so all scientists have to go for when it comes to learning more about us is whatever they see while we’re in action.”

“You don’t sound adamant about the idea of people trying to decipher your powers and limits,” Tim noted.

Superboy shrugged. “I mean, I get why most are freaked by the idea, but I still think it’d be cool. Kinda. It’s another way for us to be remembered, since people don’t know much about us past all the fights and property damage.”

“And the publicity,” Tim added like an afterthought. “It reminds me of monuments and museums, everything you’re saying. Information there is usually factual, since the public can’t really get any personal anecdotes unless close contacts of the figure step forward to share them.”

“Yeah, exactly! It’s actually kinda awesome, the whole idea of being a legacy people will remember someday. It’s like living forever.” Superboy puffed his chest, pleased that Tim understood what he was talking about. The excitement in Superboy’s tone made Tim’s mouth curve. He never thought much about it, but it hit him now that they were technically around the same age—or meant to be, based on physiology.

“Kryptonians can’t live forever?”

“Maybe a bit longer than you guys, but—Superman probably could. Not because of physiology though,” Superboy said. “I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but one time, when a reporter asked him if there was a secret to how he was so tough besides the alien biology, he said it was because he takes care of himself. He’s a super boy scout; rests properly, exercises regularly, eats healthy.”

“And that’s not your style?”

“Nah.” He straightened his jacket. “I'm more of a rebel type, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Tim agreed dryly. The Bat didn’t actively make unhealthy food, but they were a bakery, and they mostly made pastries, which cared more about how good things tasted than how good it was on one’s health. “Is that why you’re here?”

To Tim’s surprise, Superboy’s flushed, like he’d been caught red-handed at doing something he shouldn’t have. “Oh—yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat, but the hasty way he replied made Tim wonder if Superboy interpreted what he said in a different way. “Anyway, any recommendations for what I could get?”

“You already have the lemon bundt cake,” Tim pointed out. “It really does taste better than the first one we gave you, if that’s why you’re hesitating. I promise that it’s better, even if I wasn’t the one who baked it.”

But Superboy waved a hand. “It’s not that. I, uh, wanted to get something for a relative of mine too. The cake’s small; there’s no way I’m sharing this with someone.”

“Ah.” Tim couldn’t think of any relative that Superboy would freely talk about with a civilian, unless it was someone people publicly knew. “You mean Superman?”

“Sure.”

“Probably the brownies then,” Tim offered. He smoothly moved to the left where a batch of brownies were laid out on the tray. Superboy accompanied him, and Tim noticed how he was a bit taller than before. He was floating, feet hovering above the ground by a few inches. Superboy didn’t appear to notice, staring at the brownies so intently that Tim thought he was planning to activate his heat vision and disintegrate the food. “Not too sweet, and they’re light on the stomach.”

“Did you make these?”

“Jason did. He’s the ‘main chef’ around here,” Tim explained. “He’s my brother—The Bat’s a family business, technically, but I swear it’s not personal bias when I say he’s good. Same with Damian, the one who made the lemon cakes. You could say you just caught him at a bad time with that. I’m not that big on baking.”

“Oh,” Superboy said. “Alright then.”

Tim didn’t know if he imagined the crestfallen expression on Superboy’s face, because Tim didn’t think Superboy had any reason to look that way. He thought about asking after Superboy had paid, but the hero had zipped away after awkwardly waving Tim goodbye. Tim couldn’t help but notice how he tried to make sure his speedy exit didn’t jostle the boxes too much.

For someone who claimed he cared about superheroes the least because he was in the army for two years, Jason was awfully smug when he found out that Superboy bought the brownies he made. It didn’t matter that Tim was the one who recommended it to him, but Jason did ruffle Tim’s hair in approval. It was a jarring gesture considering that four hours ago Jason kneed Tim’s chin in brutal fashion, but that was a dream—a memory—that slipped Tim’s mind a minute after he woke up because he received a news notification about how the Justice League recently foiled a plan of Sinestro, and that memory would become one among the many he would never recollect.

“I don’t get why who makes what is such a big deal,” Tim said, three hours before they had to open The Bat. “It’s not like we label any of it when we put them out.” But even as the words left him, he thought of Superboy and the strange way he acted when he asked, like it was something it mattered.

“You’re just saying that because you’re mad we still make you bake and you hate getting your hands dirty,” Dick pointed out. Before Tim could reply that, no, that wasn’t why he didn’t like being in the kitchen—it was also because he hated the sweltering heat that accumulated inside and how bossy Jason and Damian got when they were especially worked up—Dick added, “Today’s special is donuts, by the way.”

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed. “Since when did we have specials for the day?”

“Since you met the Superman clone, apparently,” Damian groused, stepping into the kitchen and slipping his apron on.

Two days later, Superboy came by for the third time. Tim mentioned the latest Justice League fight, and Superboy ended up talking about how he missed it because he was helping a retired actress that once starred in an early 2000s show he loved to deal with real-life vampires and werewolves. When Tim finally noticed that other customers were slipping in, he asked Superboy what he wanted to order this time around; Superboy hesitated as his eyes flickered around the bakery before pointing at the tiramisu.

“Did you make this?” he asked.

“Duke did,” Tim said. “It’s good.”

Superboy deflated; it wasn’t something Tim just imagined. But he bought the tiramisu anyway, because there were other customers Tim had to entertain and Superboy seemed determined to not leave The Bat empty-handed. It made Tim smile, but only after Superboy had gone, and he considered that it wouldn’t be so bad to simmer in the heat when it was summer to begin with.

It took Tim a day to make everything, at the risk that it would amount to nothing if Superboy didn’t show up tomorrow because The Bat tried their best to only sell their food when it was fresh out of the oven. But Superboy did show up, unsure what to buy, and Tim didn’t hesitate to ask him if he was interested in today’s special.

“Crepe cake,” Superboy echoed, tilting his head. Tim shrugged, tucking his hands behind his back even though he had a feeling Superboy already noticed how they were stained with pastel red, black, and blue food coloring, the pads of his fingers rough from touching something hot for hours. Superboy was intrigued, looking through the glass at the cake. “So they’re just crepes stacked on top of one another? It looks really cool—and the colors too! They kinda remind me of my uniform. Did one of your brothers make them?”

Tim stopped himself from confessing that the color choice was on purpose. They were arranged in a pattern—red, black, then blue, though the first two were more emphasized. The top was coated with confectioner sugar because he didn’t want it to look so plain, but using something like cream or icing to doodle the S symbol felt a little overkill and way too unprofessional. His brothers would never let him get away with it, nor would they let him live it down. “I did.”

Superboy snapped his head towards him, surprised. There was some awe in there too, but Tim didn’t dwell on it in case it was just his mind playing tricks on him. “I thought you said you weren’t much of a baker.”

“I’m not. I’ve never been that creative when it comes to recipes. This is probably the closest thing I have to a specialty though.”

“Crepe cake?”

Tim smiled before shrugging. “It’s simple in theory, but it’s meticulous in practice. You need a lot of patience to make it. Making a lot of crepes and having to place them on top of each other gets repetitive, but it’s relaxing. Sometimes.”

“The edges aren’t that smooth,” Superboy noted. Tim was well-aware of that, but even if he could’ve shaved the rough edges off like Jason wanted him to for a cleaner look, it just wasn’t Tim’s personal style. “I like it. The pastel makes it look cutesy—which is okay, I know desserts are always supposed to look like that, if not classy—but ruggedness gives it some kind of badass vibe, you feel?” Superboy wiggled his fingers at Tim as if that would help Tim understand his explanation, and while it didn’t, Tim kind of understood where Superboy was going with it.

“Yeah, though I don’t know if it’ll have the same effect once it’s sliced,” Tim said, bending down to reach for the boxes and a knife. “That’s why we make the cakes miniature rather than offering them in slices.”

“I’ll buy the whole cake,” Superboy suddenly said.

Tim’s eyes widened. “What? You—you don’t have to.”

“Of course I don’t,” Superboy replied. “But I’ll do it.”

He really didn’t, Tim had stressed once more, but Superboy bought it anyway. Tim couldn’t protest as much as he would’ve when Superboy looked determined and elated at the idea, and something warm spread inside Tim at the sight. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what that meant, but he didn’t dare voice it aloud, and he didn’t want to immediately assume it meant something particularly special. It didn’t stop him from secretly doodling the symbol on Superboy’s chest in the corner of the cake container, adding small spikes to the side that mimicked his leather jacket just to distinguish it from Superman. It wasn’t very professional, but it wasn’t like Jason was there to tell him off for it, and it was the only other way Tim knew how to show Superboy what the gesture meant to him, business aside.

Though Tim made the crepe cake with Superboy in mind, he didn’t expect Superboy to get the entire thing, but he did, so Tim assumed he wouldn’t be back for a while. It made Tim feel a bit disheartened when he found that he got used to the hero’s presence in only three meetings, but he expected nothing else when the cake was so big and Superboy couldn’t possibly return for more in such a short time.

Days after, Superboy appeared right by The Bat’s entrance. Cass spotted him first as she dipped beneath the counter to leave using the entrance door, and briefly turned to Tim so she could murmur, “Heroes must be hungry often.”

Superboy used his flight to quickly make his way over to Tim, and Tim wondered if it was a conscious move on his part. “What else can you make?”

Cass’ words were still stuck in his head. “That was fast. You finished the cake already?”

“Oh.” Superboy scratched his head awkwardly. “It’s Kryptonian metabolism. That’s why I eat a lot. And frequently. I think I get hungry every five hours, so places like these where the food is fresh and always there is a blessing. Fighting bad guys eats up more energy than you realize.”

Tim’s hand hovered over the registrar, as if he was about to pull out all the copies of receipts they had for the month because he was sure Superboy’s purchases were the most frequent ones they had. “And that includes pastries?” It was a bit hard for him to believe that, even if Kryptonians might’ve had larger stomachs or processed sugars differently. Half of Superboy was human, just like him. But Superboy didn’t know that, and there might’ve been something Tim himself didn’t know.

Superboy shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Tim didn’t know how else he could argue, and didn't know if he really wanted to. “I’ll keep that in mind then,” he said. The only thing he really made was the crepe cake, and that was an exception, just for Superboy, even if he could never say it. Most of the time, Tim was just an extra pair of hands to help around. But he couldn’t tell Superboy that in case he’d get disappointed. It was fascinating how much he seemed to care about that detail, what Tim made and didn’t, even if he never directly voiced it out and still bought the food regardless. “Well,” Tim started, reaching for the mini biscuit cookies packaged in plastic cylinders. “I made these with Damian.”

Frowning, Superboy only stared at the package. “What are they?”

“Bite-sized cookies that you can eat no matter where you are. Should help if you get hungry while you’re on patrol.”

Superboy beamed. “Perfect then.”

“Guess who I ran into today,” Jason announced once Tim entered The Bat through the backdoor, not bothering to wait for Cass to finish parking the motorcycle. As much as he enjoyed the rare opportunity to leave the bakery and do other things, delivering orders left and right was more taxing than he expected it to be, even if everyone they spoke to were polite and grateful. It was probably because he let Cass do most of the talking.

Tim gave Jason a strange look as he walked past him to wash his hands. The Bat was only open for another hour, and Jason was supposed to be by the counter today. Even if there were no customers coming in, they always made sure someone stayed there. He wondered if Dick or Steph were out there, but if they were, he couldn’t make out their voices from where he and Jason were. “Someone I should care about, since you’re telling me?”

“It was your super boy.”

“Superboy,” Tim absentmindedly corrected. Then he scowled when he realized the peculiar way Jason phrased his words. “And he’s not ‘mine’.”

“Sure he isn’t.” Jason waved a hand. “Anyway, he came by today, and I didn’t know it was possible for a guy with super strength to look like a pathetic kicked puppy until he spotted me instead of you there. Fucker didn’t even buy anything. Gotta admit, it wounded my ego a little, but then I remembered that photo Babs sent us this morning of him eating our cookies from the most recent news article about his new heroic act of the week, and the only reason he’s making such a big show about it is ‘cause you said you ‘made’ it with the brat.”

“So your ego’s not as bruised now because it took a beating the first time around?” Tim asked, and expertly dodged Jason’s hand that ducked under the sink water to flick some droplets at him. “And I have no idea what you’re trying to hint at, but I doubt it means what you think it means.”

“Nothing raunchy, so don’t worry about that.” Jason ignored the way Tim flipped him off. “I’m just surprised that you two are like that.”

“Like what?”

“Close. For two people who seemingly have literally nothing in common.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Hence the seemingly. Keep up, will you.” Tim rolled his eyes. “I meant what I said though. I’ve never seen you talk to a customer for that long than when you do with Superboy. At first, I thought it was only because you were bombarding him with all your nerdy ‘metahuman’ questions, but he hasn’t been scared off yet, since he keeps on coming back, so it must’ve been something else. Unless he’s also just as nerdy as you are and likes that kind of thing. That makes sense too. Can’t believe you became friends with a Super.”

We’re not friends, Tim wanted to point out, but he stopped himself, because it wasn’t exactly true and because he didn’t want to insist it was. As aggravating as Jason’s opinions were, maybe they were friends. Or as much as one could be friends with a superhero out of nowhere, caught off guard by how easy it was in an indescribably awkward way too.

It was tricky to figure out, but Tim didn’t know how to explain it to Jason when he had a feeling Jason wouldn’t really understand. He didn’t think Cass and his other brothers would either. Tim didn’t know how to even explain it to himself.

(The dreams could help put things into perspective, but it was another thing for him to put it into words. Only some of the memories would stick after he woke up. How he interacted with Superboy now might’ve only been as awkwardly friendly and pleasing as it was because they’d smoothened out the rough patches and wrong footings in another time, another place, another life. The Superboy in his dreams was younger, and more hard-headed as a result . He butt heads with a version of Tim that wore a uniform and hid his identity and knew enough things that it made him inhumane despite his lack of powers, because the two of them had different ways of resolving things and were too stubborn about their decisions to be swayed by the other.

But it was also because of those things that they got along. They played off one another’s strengths and weaknesses. They bickered during missions and saved each other’s asses whenever they were in trouble without hesitation. They fought over who had access to the television remote and had friendly matches over pool. They were best friends.)

When the sun rose, most of the details had slipped past Tim like they always did, but what he did remember vividly was this: that other life and the bonds he forged were real, even if they weren’t actually his. And as much as he agreed with his brothers, with Cass, with Bruce, that donning on a cape and a mask wasn’t something for them, not in this life, it was still a shame that the choice stopped him from meeting Superboy earlier, from knowing Superboy in a way he likely never would here.

“It’s not a dig or anything,” Jason had told him earlier, when Tim hadn’t replied and Jason assumed the silence meant he was brooding, the same way Bruce did. “I get that it’s a big deal, regardless if you’re actually friends or not. I mean, how often can you say you’ve known someone like Superboy at least once in your life?”

“Maybe,” Tim agreed, but not in the same way Jason likely meant it, because Superboy could’ve been normal just like him, and he would’ve still been grateful to know him, no matter how infrequently or insignificantly. The reason why was just as hard to explain, so it was a good thing no one asked him.

Tim remembered more practical memories than personal ones—things about the superpowers of heroes and individuals he interacted with in that other reality, when here, he only saw them in tabloids.

In the beginning, Tim couldn’t complain when he didn’t know what he was missing, when all he cared about was that he had more ways to fill up the pages of his notebooks with anecdotes about the difference between teleportation and superspeed, shapeshifting and illusion casting. But when he began remembering more, he started wanting more. Dreams and memories didn’t work like that though, so he tried to find contentment in what he did recall, and made the most out of what he eventually would, building memories himself from his own life. It had been a year since the first memory, and there were things he’d already come to terms with, just like everyone else.

The early morning found Tim on the roof deck of The Bat, giving him a nice view of the skyline of the city. He couldn’t describe the difference between watching the sun rise here compared to Gotham, but he found that he preferred Metropolis more, an unfamiliar sense of safety resting on him like a blanket, telling him things would be alright. He supposed that it might’ve had something to do with how illegal activity in Metropolis wasn’t so commonplace, not with superheroes like Superman roaming the skies and keeping criminals much more cautious about their operations.

At first, he came here to enjoy the how the sun crept over the horizon, but the soft breeze was pleasant and the summer heat seemed to decide that it wasn’t going to be tortuous today, so he sat down with his legs crossed and pulled out his notebooks to update them with everything he learned from the memories. Whether he could accurately fact-check them didn’t really matter to Tim, even if he was sure what he knew was right, because it was written just for him—meant for his eyes alone to enjoy since he found joy in just knowing. He wrote it in a code only he understood, at first so his brothers wouldn’t snoop through his private things with any success, but stuck to it just in case someone got their hands on it and decided to test out his theories.

Tim didn’t know how long he sat on the roof deck, but Dick, at some point, had dropped by to give him a sandwich and coffee. When he heard the door swing open and footsteps approaching him, he didn’t think much of the time until Duke said, “You’re on shift.”

It was noon, Tim found out when he reached for his phone. He glanced back at Duke with a frown. “It’s your turn today.”

“Not anymore,” Duke said, unraveling his apron and tossing it to Tim. “Surprised you didn’t spot him, seeing as you’ve been here all morning.”

Duke was being vague on purpose, so Tim nudged him on the shoulder on his way back down and left the roof deck, only taking his notes with him as he reluctantly slipped on the apron. Duke could have his untouched sandwich and barely-sipped coffee.

When Tim got to the bakery, he spotted Superboy, who immediately brightened when he saw him. Tim shoved his notebook in one of the empty shelves underneath the counter, as if he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes writing his insights on an ability called Tactile Telekinesis that Superboy supposedly had based on the fragments of his memory. Tim pushed it from his mind carefully, surprised at how easy it was for him to do so, because there was a difference between the Superboy he vaguely grasped in his dreams and the Superboy he chatted with whenever he was in The Bat to buy something.

“Is it really okay for you to be here this often?” Tim asked, right after Superboy finished retelling how his morning went; from stopping a robbery to paying a visit to jail to get intel on a villain he was in the midst of pursuing. Tim didn’t ask if Superboy was supposed to be sharing this to him, a civilian. It wasn’t like Tim was going to do anything with the information, and he found it fascinating, hearing these stories first hand rather than learning about it from a distance. “Being a hero is busy work.”

“I’m good at managing my time. I’d like to think it’s an additional superpower,” Superboy reassured him.

Tim rolled his eyes, though it was hard to hide that he found the response amusing. “Is it really okay for your wallet then? Or even your stomach? I get that you're an alien, but it must get tiring to keep on coming back here almost every week only to get sweets. And you always come here right after lunch hour.”

“Of course it’s fine,” Superboy immediately cut in, but that only made Tim frown. Superboy gave him a sheepish look before he raised his hands in surrender. “Though I guess it’d be too cool if I—expanded my palette. Maybe eat something that didn’t scream sweet or dessert for lunch.”

“We do have some bread,” Tim mentioned, even though there was a reasonably priced restaurant only five stores away from The Bat. “It’s not really popular since it doesn’t match The Bat’s theme—” Not that Tim really knew what that was past whatever Jason and Damian were confident in making, but it was Dick who had the vision, not Tim. “—but it doesn’t mean it’s not good.”

“Of course,” Superboy said, like there was never any doubt. Tim tried not to react to that. “What is it, exactly?”

“Not sure if you’ve heard of it.” There was no one inside The Bat but the two of them, though Steph was fixing something right outside. It technically wasn’t allowed, but he let Superboy float over the counter so he could come with him to the room where they kept the extra batches of their food warm and fresh. “You’re not really supposed to be here,” Tim confessed sheepishly, like it was something he just remembered. “But here.” He pulled out a tray and let Superboy take a whiff of the scent.

“Holy shit,” Superboy breathed out. “That smells great.”

“It’s a turnover—empanada,” Tim explained. “It’s just bread with filling, but we use meat, so for something that’s technically classified as a pastry, it’s close enough to an actual meal.”

“I think this might be my new favorite food ever.”

“You haven’t even tasted it yet,” Tim pointed out, but he felt flattered rather than exasperated about Superboy’s immediately positive opinion. He’d never been conscious about whether their food tasted good, but he wasn’t letting Superboy eat something bad ever again, even if his physiology likely meant that even the deadliest poisons would be ineffective against him. “What’s your favorite food anyway?”

“Crepe cake.”

Tim rolled his eyes, even if Superboy couldn’t see him. It was a good thing, he supposed, because the muscles on his face had stretched into a smile he couldn’t stop. He was touched that Superboy liked the crepe cake to still remember it, because as much as Tim found it relaxing to make, it was still too time-consuming and exhausting, barely worth the effort most of the time. He didn’t plan on making it again anytime soon unless it was for a special occasion. “You’re not supposed to be here. Let’s go before someone sees you. All of these are technically meant to be the same size, but I’ll look for the biggest one for you.”

Superboy shot him a grateful look. A particular sensation crept over Tim, not something dangerous, but soothing, akin to the way someone would brush their hand against another, shy and comforting. Superboy wasn’t actually doing anything though. This wasn’t Tactile Telekinesis. They weren’t close, didn’t know one another well enough to do that sort of thing, to make that kind of gesture. “You know me way too well.”

In a way, Tim did. But knowing him this way wasn’t too bad either.

“We should permanently slot you for Sunday shifts,” Dick noted, apropos of nothing. “Since that’s when Superboy always shows up.”

“I don’t see why that matters,” Tim said distractedly, wiping a speck of dirt from the display case and frowning when it didn’t get off so easily. Jason and Steph were listening to music in the kitchen. Duke had wandered in and out of The Bat, as if searching for something. Cass trailed after him, not having anything better to do. Yesterday, a giant plant creature had emerged two streets away from the Daily Planet and was blocking the roads, destroying property, and attempting to hold civilians hostage. The situation got resolved within an hour by Superman and Superboy. The Bat was a reasonably far distance away from the fight and didn’t even learn about it until customers came pouring in to talk about it, when everything was already settling down. In another life, information like that would’ve meant something different to them. “It’s not like our food starts tasting better just because I’m there.”

Damian stopped sweeping the floor. When Tim looked up, he saw Damian glaring at him. “Are you daft, Drake?”

“What did you just call—”

“The hero clone doesn’t come here as often as he does because of our food,” Damian hissed. “All we make are sweets, and even Kryptonians can get nauseated by eating the same thing over and over, no matter how many different things we make.”

Dick sighed. “Damian.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “And how would you know that?”

“From my natural-born genius and intuition,” Damian replied coolly, like the answer was obvious. Dick shrugged his shoulders, as if there was nothing else he could do about the situation, and wandered to the kitchen where Jason and Steph were. Damian didn’t even glance at him. Instead, he resumed sweeping, though he added, rather pointedly, “There’s also the fact that he never buys anything if you aren’t the one by the counter despite the fact that you said he needs to eat every five hours."

Damian’s words must’ve bled over his thoughts, because when Superboy came the next Sunday—always on the same day, at the same time, and Tim couldn’t believe he never noticed—he told him, “At the rate we’re going, you might end up eating everything we’ve ever made and we’ll have nothing new to offer you.”

“That’s fine.” Superboy rested his elbows on the counter even though he was still floating. Tim wondered if it was because touching the ground constantly was an effort that didn’t come naturally to him. He didn't have any concrete theories on that yet. “I really like the crepe cake and those empanadas.”

He relented to Tim’s insistence that he get him a drink for today regardless, partially because they didn’t have any stock of crepe cake or empanadas for that day, and mostly because he found it peculiar that they sold beverages in the first place. They technically didn’t, but besides the expected bottles of water, they did have a small section framed in their menu board that said they had coffee. Nobody bought it because it wasn’t anything unique and the nearest coffee shop was only a street away from The Bat; Superboy didn’t complain though, and he seemed content to let the coffee his purchase for the day, because he didn’t mention trying out anything new.

“How did you discover The Bat anyway?” Tim asked, handing him his cup. He added a sugar cookie for good measure, as a freebie. Business was always slow on Sundays, which might’ve been why they were able to talk as much as they did. “There are a ton of bakeries in Metropolis, so why this one?”

Super took a sip of his coffee and didn’t respond. When the silence stretched, Tim wondered if he somehow overstepped, but before he could tell Superboy that he didn’t have to answer, the hero said, “It’s ‘cause I followed a sound all the way here.” He paused. “A heartbeat.”

“A heartbeat,” Tim repeated, not knowing what to think about that. Superboy’s cheeks were growing pink. “Are heartbeats really that distinct?”

“I’m attuned to this one,” he explained. “I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh,” Tim said, realizing what Superboy meant. He ducked his head to hide the redness on his face, and he didn’t voice anything aloud when Superboy wasn’t going to.

The next day, Duke found the backdoor to The Bat already unlocked, made his way to the kitchen, and found Tim there, puttering around drowsily with a piping bag with Jason’s cupcakes he made from last night laid out, designs doodled on top.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Duke asked.

“Dreams,” Tim explained vaguely, standing in front of the cupcakes and absentmindedly twisting the plastic of the piping bag.

“Okay,” Duke said. “Is that why you’re doodling Superboy’s symbol all over the cupcakes?”

Tim stopped and blinked, only realizing in his fourth cupcake what Duke was referring to. “Superman’s symbol, you mean,” he corrected, clearing his throat.

Duke simply looked at him. “Superboy,” he said, in a tone that held no judgement, only understanding. Tim turned back to the cupcakes, wondering if he should finish the rest of the cupcakes or do something to fix it before Jason grilled him for not having a better idea for decor. “He always comes for you.”

Tim groaned. “Duke.”

“Just wondering,” Duke continued, unaffected. “If it’s because you knew each other before. Once. In another life, I guess.”

“Something like that,” was all Tim could say in response.

Though Duke wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t exactly right either. Tim might’ve known Superboy in another reality, as another version of him, but it wasn’t why the first time they interacted in The Bat felt like it wasn’t the first time they met.

The first time they actually met was six months before the memories came, more than a year before the summer when Superboy walked into The Bat. Tim accompanied Bruce on a trip to Metropolis to discuss some business-related matters with Luthor, insisting that Tim go with him if he was going to inherit the company someday, only to tell him at the last minute that he couldn’t go with him to the meeting itself since it was confidential. Ten minutes after Tim was left to his own devices, he snuck out of the building to make use of the chance he had to be in Metropolis for the first time to see if he could find anything insightful about the heroes of the city that he didn’t yet know.

An hour later spent scouring through newspapers and asking some locals questions they were willing to indulge him in, Tim noticed a detail that he was suddenly certain no one else figured out. It was also around the same time that he turned towards an alleyway and got caught in the crossfire of a fight, surrounded by a gang of hoodlums that were shooting aimlessly around them and towards the sky as they ran, like they had no idea who they were targeting or how to hit them.

Tim realized why a moment later. The moment the gun recoiled with the bullet launching off towards his direction, something pulled him back quick enough to avoid getting hit and being targeted by the criminals who finally noticed his presence, putting him behind a wall. As Tim recovered the shock, he was caught quick sweeping motions that knocked the burly men dressed in red, yellow, blue—as if in mockery of something—out cold, and before he knew it, Tim found himself standing in front of a boy his age in a leather jacket, sunglasses, and a suit that had an iconic S embedded at the chest area.

“Man, what the hell were you—either you’re crazy or you’re not from here,” Superboy told him, arms crossed as he lifted himself a few inches off the ground. “This whole street is under construction because of the last alien fiasco Superman had to deal with, so criminals are infesting this place more than usual. Don’t you know how to follow instructions? That’s why tapes and blockers exist, you know.”

Tim knew that; he just elected to ignore it, too wrapped up in the conclusions he discovered the more he analyzed the latest case the heroes of Metropolis were currently investigating and having trouble with. Hero activity was pretty much public information, though not so detailed unless you asked multiple sources, and it was only especially prominent for Metropolis. It was one of the many ways this city stood out from the rest.

“Isn’t Superman in space right now?” Tim said instead, quickly checking himself in case anything about his outing had revealed that he ran into some trouble to fix it. He didn’t need Bruce to worry about him.

“He is. But I’m here, so he can afford it.”

“I wasn’t insinuating that you couldn’t,” Tim commented, ignoring the way Superboy’s eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. “I didn’t come here to pick a fight with you. It’s not like that.”

“So why are you here?” Superboy asked. “You want an autograph or something?”

“No,” Tim said, even if a part of him thought it could be cool to have Superboy sign one of the pages of his notebook despite how it wouldn’t offer him anything useful. Then he had to remind himself that he didn’t come here to get a closer look at seeing Superboy’s powers in action, even if that would’ve been useful and it had been his initial intention when he snuck out. He shook his head. “The criminal mastermind you’re in the midst of tracking—”

“He’s not a mastermind, he’s a—”

“—I’ve been analyzing the information I gathered from the case and found something that could be helpful to you.”

Superboy frowned. “If it’s his whereabouts, then I already know them. I’m going after him tonight since chasing down his cronies might eat up most of my day and I need to make sure they don’t cause anymore trouble.”

“It’s not about that,” Tim insisted. “It’s about what he likely has.”

“Which is…?”

“Kryptonite,” Tim said. “Since his name got outed, I recognize him as one of the regular clients of a known smuggler back in Gotham who works for a crime boss named Falcone. The smuggler escaped prison a week ago, and the local police are still tracking her, but there’s a chance that the two were in contact, and since the weaponry looks Gotham-based too…” There were other factors that let him connect the dots, that made him more certain about his claim than letting it hang as a possibility, but he didn’t see the point in telling Superboy all this if he wasn’t going to listen, when it was information for him.

Tim didn’t really know what he expected, but it was likely something that veered closer to doubt than acceptance, because when Superboy said, “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind,” Tim could only stare at him, taken aback by how easy Superboy apparently believed him.

“Oh,” was all he could say. “Really?”

“I mean, I normally wouldn’t,” Superboy admitted. “No offense, but I don’t know you, and you’re clearly not from here, so that gives me less reason to trust you. You’re also kind of weird, ‘cause I’m guessing that’s the reason you came here even though it’s dangerous—because you knew you’d find me. That isn’t a superpower, by the way; I’m just good at picking up these kinds of things.”

“Right,” Tim said.

“But I also can’t think of why you’d go all the way here just to tell me this, and you don’t look like you have bad intentions,” Superboy continued, lifting himself off the ground by a few inches. He looked at Tim curiously, and the scrutiny felt different from any kind he dealt with before. “So I’m guessing you’re telling me this because you’re a detective, or maybe the intern of one, and I’m still working on my investigation skills, so. Thanks, I guess. For the tip.”

“I’m not—” Tim started, because he didn’t figure this out because he wasn’t a detective—not even training to be one; he figured this out because he happened to like picking open cases to decipher in his spare time because these were cases that heroes he was interested in were handling. But he couldn’t finish the rest of his statement, partially because he didn’t see how confessing that he was something less cool would give Superboy a better impression of him, and mostly because Superboy had already taken off before he could say anything more.

By the time he rejoined Bruce and returned to Gotham, he was half-convinced the entire interaction never happened. Eventually, he forgot about it entirely, and it was only when Superboy made his way past the doors of The Bat and said detective like it meant more than what people thought it did that everything came swimming back, as foreign and familiar as a memory he didn’t actually live through. What Tim didn’t know was if the way detective sounded the same as best friend, as lover, was a result of what the other version of him felt and experienced or something that, for once, was from him entirely.

“Is that empanada I’m smelling, Jay—” Steph sing-songed, her voice floating in the kitchen as she walked in, only to stop when she saw Tim instead. “Since when did The Bat become a bread bakery?”

“It’s just empanada,” Tim replied. “Besides, we need a little diversity anyway.”

Cass emerged from behind Steph and quietly snagged a piece laid out on the tray. “It’s for the Superboy,” she explained to Steph, ignoring the accusing look Tim gave her so she could slip out of the working area.

“Interesting,” Steph commented.

“It really isn’t.”

Steph laughed, then she eyed the dough and the filling on the tables. “Let me help. Are we doing Jason’s usual flavors or…?”

“Always. I can’t think of anything else,” Tim said. “I’ve already made enough empanadas for the chicken filling. There’s just cheese and chopped sausage left.”

“Mind if I switch the sausage out for something a little more... ‘diverse’, as you’d say it?”

Without even looking at her, Tim reached for the ice cream scooper to get a dollop of cheese. He placed it at the center of the circular dough sitting at the palm of his hand. “You’re just saying that because you’re hungry.”

“And because Jason will never budge when it comes to this,” Steph supplied shamelessly. “C’mon, Tim—chocolate. I swear it’s a thing! I think they do it in Italy.”

He had a feeling she was leaving some information out, but whenever filling was involved, Steph always wanted a chocolate flavor regardless, and Tim had never been good at refusing her. “Just pray no one finds out.”

“Good thing Cass is good at keeping secrets then.”

The hour was late, and his brothers had already retired for the night because Barbara had stopped by in their shared Metropolis apartment for Dick, so Jason was insistent that the rest of them join to ruin what was meant to be a date. Cass was here to make sure the shop was closed and keep Tim company since he wanted to stay late and do something, but she had unexpectedly brought Steph with her.

By the time they made twenty empanadas with cheese filling and Tim was reaching for the chocolate, letting Steph take the bowl of sausage to cook by the frying area so she could have her hearty midnight meal, she suddenly said, “You should just ask Superboy out.”

Tim accidentally scooped up air. Over the sizzling of the sausage and with how Steph’s back was turned to him, there was no way she noticed that. Small blessings. “We’ve never even talked outside of The Bat.”

“Why don’t you then? You make it sound like it’s so difficult.”

“That’s because it is.”

“Uh-huh,” She sounded unimpressed. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s because Superboy is Superboy, and I’m me,” Tim said slowly. “He’s… a hero. I’m not. So many things about us are just, you know—different.”

Steph stopped. It took Tim a second later to realize it was because she had finished cooking the sausage despite the short time, likely turning the heat on extremely high even though Dick had repeatedly told her not to do that. She hauled the pan over and grabbed a fork before returning to Tim’s side, sitting on the other baking table behind him, the metal making a sound as she rested her weight on top. She had already begun eating. She wasn’t looking at him, but that didn’t make him feel like he was being judged any less.

“What?” Tim finally asked.

“You know,” she said, setting her fork down. She looked like she was about to impart something wise to Tim, and just like every other time this happened, he didn’t know what brought it on. “I used to think that the reason none of us ever talked about the other people we were—in another reality—was ‘cause we didn’t remember enough to share it. But later on, I figured it was because of something else. It was ‘cause we had no reason to cling onto the memories.”

“Steph,” Tim began.

“Not you though,” Steph continued. “But Dick and Jason said their memories told them that they were friends with Roy Harper, but they already knew him before that since they all went to the same boarding school, and none of them had to be ass-kicking heroes to get there. And Cass said Damian told her about a Jon, but he didn’t know enough to identify who Jon was and what he meant to him, and he was okay with that. It was all about destiny—Cass kind of lost me on that because even she didn’t get it much herself, but Damian just wasn’t worried, because if he was meant to know the guy, then he would eventually. I think that’s the most mature thing he’s ever said in his entire life.” Steph made a face when she recalled the conversation. “But you’ve always been the most stubborn one here, Tim. And you’ve always been more into the hero business than anyone’s ever been, even before we got the memories, and that might be why you remember more.”

These were things Tim had already figured out, but it was still startling to hear, because it also meant there were people who knew him well enough to piece it together. He swallowed, realizing how dry his throat had gone. He didn’t know if he was nervous or tired, anticipating or resigned. “Maybe,” he considered. “What are you getting at?”

“I know we aren’t the same as our ‘other reality counterparts’, the people who gave us all these memories they experienced themselves, but it doesn’t mean some part of us isn’t,” Steph told him. Her words reminded Tim of something Damian once said, only reversed. “So you shouldn’t sell yourself short like that thinking you’re too Tim, too ordinary for Superboy, because in another world, you were anything but.” She went back to forking over her food, the metal of the utensil scraping against the pan because she sometimes liked using forks to spoon and scoop things. Tim idly wondered if the Steph from the other world had the same quirk.

“It’s scary,” he eventually confessed. “To think that the only reason you could care about someone is because a version of you did.”

Steph looked at him. “I don’t know if it was a coincidence that Superboy showed up in The Bat at the start of summer, since you never really talk about it, but he kept on coming back, and that was because of you,” she finally said. “And even in the off-chance that it had something to do with the memories of that ‘other life’ we all had, memories can only get us so far, and he’s still here, showing up to see you. Call me optimistic, but I’d like to think that it means both of you are reaching a point that’s more than just the memories. Or at least, a point where you’re open to the possibility. Superboy probably is.”

Tim couldn’t help but laugh. “Since when did you become some Superboy whisperer?”

“I’m a boy whisperer, mind you,” Steph corrected him proudly. “And he may be a superpowered alien hero, but he’s also just a boy, and so are you. That means it’s simpler than you give it credit for. You would’ve figured it out yourself if your head wasn’t so far up your ass with all your angsty feelings.”

“That’s fair,” Tim conceded. “Thanks for noticing that I needed that.”

“Of course. Though if you really want to show your gratitude…”

“I’m already handling the chocolate filling for you.”

Steph waved a hand. “That’s another thing entirely,” she insisted. “If you really want to show me your gratitude, you should do something about Superboy soon.”

“Because summer is ending?” Tim asked.

“Well, that,” Steph said. “And the fact that it made headlines a few hours ago that Superboy was seen accidentally punching an ATM machine. Reporters say it’s because he’s been growing broke, and as good as The Bat is, nothing ever comes cheap here. It was embarrassing to watch, so you’re lucky you didn’t see it, but I think you’re the only one here who can save him.”

“Oh god,” Tim said, and he didn’t need to read the news article to already feel horrified—both for Superboy and himself. Steph only grinned, and she went back to eating.

Duke was right; if Tim paid attention, he would’ve noticed it before. There was nothing subtle about how Superboy descended from the sky to the street where The Bat was in, though Superboy was still two shops away and already smoothening out anything in his attire or look that appeared disheveled, like he wanted to look his best, and this was something he did so often it became something like a habit. Tim peered over the roof deck and was surprised that Superboy didn’t notice his presence despite his supposedly heightened senses, making his way towards the bakery like he always did and stopping when he saw the closed sign on the door and the lights dimmed, void of people.

It was impossible to miss the way Superboy’s shoulders were hunched as he turned around and began to fly. Trying not to think too much about it, Tim called out, “Superboy!”

Superboy turned to the voice, and his eyes widened when he spotted Tim. “Tim?” He floated down towards him, standing in front of him on the roof deck. “What are you doing up here? Why is The Bat closed today?”

Tim sat down on the cemented surface of the roof and swung his legs over the ledge boldly. “Summer is ending,” he explained. “We’re packing our things away from The Bat since we need to get back to Gotham and let the actual employees of this branch run the place the way they always did.”

“So that means you’ll be leaving soon,” Superboy said slowly. “Since you’re a Gotham kid.”

Nodding, Tim said, “I have university classes too.”

“Right.” Superboy didn’t even try to hide the disappointment in his tone.

Tim prayed that the amusement was more clear in his voice than the nervousness when he said, “The Bat isn’t opened, but... are you free?”

“Always,” Superboy immediately replied. It must’ve dawned on him how quickly he responded, because he hastily added, “I mean, only on Sundays—shit.”

He winced, but he didn’t have to hide his embarrassment when Tim felt just as flustered at the implication of Superboy’s words. “Uh,” Tim managed, clearing his throat. “Cool. Wanna sit beside me?”

“You know,” Tim started, after they had fallen into surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, only staring at the city landscape before them. Tim had been on dates before, and this was beginning to feel a lot like one of them, which was why he had to ask. “All this time, all those times we talked, and I never got your name.”

“That’s because it’s supposed to be a secret,” Superboy answered, almost teasingly. His tone quickly turned solemn. “Then again, you probably know it already.”

For a beat, Tim said nothing. Then, “Kon.”

It was the closest Tim had ever come to talking about the memories, the ones that belonged to his other self, but the experience wasn’t as earth-shattering or surreal as he expected it to be. The world still looked the same a blink later. The temperature was still ridiculously humid. The ground was still missing when he tried to feel it through his feet. Kon was still sitting beside him.

But Kon took a deep breath, as if the wind had gotten knocked out of him despite how he barely moved a muscle, and Tim could only watch him. Eventually, Kon combed through his hair with a hand. “To be honest,” he started. “I was expecting something more than that—reaction-wise.”

“I get what you mean,” Tim said. He always knew, because it happened to everyone, and Steph said it herself, but it was another thing to hear it entirely, another thing to have it confirmed right in front of him that no, he wasn’t the only one who lived a life different from his own, entwined so tightly with another. The next question came out harder than the previous one did. “That’s why you showed up in The Bat, right?”

“I showed up because I felt like I was missing something in my life,” Kon answered, and despite how cautiously Tim asked the question, Kon’s reply was firm and unafraid, as if it had been something he thought about often enough that any sense of doubt had been shed. It made Tim dizzy, and it had nothing to do with the height. “It wasn’t a bad thing, and I probably could’ve gone my whole life without having it because it didn’t feel like something I needed, but I wanted it, whatever it was. So when the memories came—Superman calls it the Memory Merger—I finally understood what that thing was, and it all made sense.”

Tim felt that way too; just maybe not with the exact same thoughts. Kon had a way with his words, as much as he seemed to stumble over them. Tim wondered if he was like that in the other reality too.

But even then. Or because of that.

“Kon,” Tim said. “I don’t want you to want if it’s only because of something our alternate selves had. We’re our own people, even outside of versions that are still supposed to be us.”

“So... you don’t agree,” Kon said. “You don’t… feel the same?”

“It’s not that.” Tim shook his head. “There’s a difference between not feeling the same and not wanting that to be the reason. I thought you were interesting even before the Merger. That’s why—that first time we ever met in Metropolis? That was why I was there. That was why I tried to look for you and give you that tip,” he confessed. “It doesn’t mean I don’t acknowledge that if we feel… this way—connected—it has something to do with what the other us were to one another. But someone told me that those memories can only get us so far, and it’s up to us, from this world, to figure out if we make something that’s ours out of it or not.”

It was weird to admit all this when he never let himself verbalize it to anyone, but he found it relieving that he finally could. It wasn’t exactly like a weight had been lifted off his chest, because that weight wasn’t there in the first place, but something about the atmosphere now gave him a sense of ease that he didn’t know he was missing until the words came spilling out. It was a cathartic feeling.

“Tim,” Kon began, and Tim thought it was a bit ridiculous how much he liked Kon despite how he knew there was still so much about him to learn about, because the swell of affection bloomed even in the way Kon simply said his name. “It’s never been that deep for me,” Kon said honestly. “I always pride myself as a guy who knows what matters, and the origin of it has never been one of them. And even if it’s how every other version of me also thinks and that makes you think I’m—compromised, or something like that, because that makes it a little less, somehow, then I can work with what you want too; that solely ours thing you were talking about, whatever it may be. ‘Cause I like you. A lot. It makes me feel like an idiot, sometimes, but I don’t hate it.” Kon scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “But you should know it was pretty cool when I found out you weren’t actually a detective when I saw The Bat, but a baker.”

“I’m not a baker,” Tim interrupted. “I think calling me that is an insult to people who actually enjoy doing it.”

“It was different from everything I knew,” Kon explained, ignoring Tim’s comment, though he was grinning broadly. “Being a hero has practically been my life, you know, and I talked to a lot of non-heroes too, but the distance was always there so long as I was wearing this.” He gestured towards his attire; the suit, the jacket, the sunglasses, like it was a mask he wore as much as it was part of who he actually was. “So it was new to me, suddenly caring about all this, when you weren’t a superhero and I still don’t know how to talk about anything that isn’t about that for a long time. I liked how you didn’t mind, and whether it was because of the memories or not didn’t matter to me.” Kon took a deep breath. “I guess I just want you to know that everything I did, it wasn’t only because of the memories. So I hope that’s enough.”

Suddenly, Tim recalled Damian and the conversation he had with Cass; that reality influenced them more than they influenced reality, that everything large had already been set in stone, so all they had left were decisions that made minimal impact. Damian was right when he said he knew Tim would disagree, because Tim turned over every time Kon walked into The Bat just to see Tim, just to talk to him, and he thought about how tiny decisions like those had accumulated over time to create life-changing shifts. He thought about how Kon’s small efforts to visit him and small efforts he made in turn when Kon came still meant something big, and it eventually led to something that embodied that feeling. He thought about what he had with Kon—in this world and life they lived in—was a testament of that. Could be, because things weren’t actually set in stone.

Tim turned around and bent down to pick up the basket sitting behind him. There wasn’t a lot of space between them, so he placed the basket on his lap and opened the lid, revealing the empanadas he had made from the night before. “Something I made—it's on the house, today’s special,” Tim told Kon. “You’ve been the bakery’s most frequent customer for the entire summer, and I heard that your bank account hasn’t been so decent to you. It feels only fair.”

Kon’s mouth had parted open in surprise, but no sound had come out. Then, as if he suddenly snapped himself back into reality, he groaned loudly. “God, I can’t believe you heard about that.” But Tim only laughed, and Kon picked a random empanada from the basket. “Thanks though,” he said. “These are really good, and as much as I like all the other pastries you guys sell, I’ve never been much of a dessert guy.” He took a bite, and looked satisfied when he saw the cheese filling and tasted it in his mouth. “Does this count as a date?”

“It could be. Though I was hoping we’d do something that didn’t involve food for once to make it special.”

“Food can be involved in everything if you try hard enough,” Kon said confidently. He nudged the basket, an unspoken gesture for Tim to eat with him. Tim acquiesced, realizing that it was the first time he ate with Kon despite how often they were surrounded by food. He got the empanada with chicken filling, and there was an unspoken agreement for them to exchange it with each other every so often to share since they were different flavors before getting new ones entirely. Tim had a feeling Kon never shared his food with anyone like this until now. “Do you like arcades? I think it’d be a cool place to hang out.”

Summer was ending though, and Tim had to leave Metropolis soon, so there was that. But Gotham wasn’t as far from Metropolis when Superboy could fly and Tim came from a family with enough money to afford traveling frequently, so the distance wouldn’t stop them from seeing one another—as friends, if not something more; people who slotted into one another’s lives, intent on staying.

“Our first date should be in Gotham. There are good arcades,” Tim said. “It’ll be your turn to stay on my turf since I’ve been in yours this whole time.”

“Gotham’s a hero-less city, isn’t it?” Kon drummed his fingers against the cement thoughtfully, in the small space between them. They weren’t holding hands, but Tim was leaning in his space, and Kon’s body was angled in a way that reciprocated the proximity, something invisible but ever-present wrapping itself around Tim comfortingly. He didn’t ask if this was Kon’s power, because he already knew. The afternoon sun was still bright in the sky, and the moment felt nothing like the dates Tim was familiar with where the darkness overshadowed the day, nothing like the nights spent crime-fighting and case-solving alongside inhumanly-powered friends, all these adrenaline-rushing things that happened to another him.

Tim thought that was okay, because this moment was different from all that, and it was just for him and Kon. It was all he could ask for: something that was theirs alone, regardless of who they were to one another in another place, another life, because what mattered was who they were to each other now.

“It is,” Tim agreed, and he thought about the next time he could find a free day to mix batter and patiently stack up freshly made, multi-colored crepes. It was for a special occasion, after all. “Though I think we could use having a hero pop up every once in a while.”