Chapter Text
Tim lived in an apartment that, by all reasonable standards, should have been condemned—not for mold or structural instability, but for the sheer, unapologetic invasion of birds.
Every surface was claimed. Not just occupied—annexed. Each corner of his home had been quietly, efficiently reorganized into tiny avian empires. The windowsill? Brat’s command center, complete with tiny pilfered trinkets arranged like stolen military badges. The top of the fridge? Intelligence headquarters, run by Ceecee and Deedee in a whirlwind of chirps and shredded post-its. The rafters above his bed? Sherlock’s preferred observation nest, from which judgment and silent commentary rained down nightly.
The curtain rods had long since stopped being functional. Little had turned them into her personal spy perch, giving Tim side-eye whenever he so much as thought about privacy. And the bathroom towel rack—that had been a losing battle from day one. Lady had claimed it as her private powder room, her reign secured by silk napkins Tim definitely did not remember purchasing. One even had embroidery. Embroidery.
At any given moment, Tim had feathers clinging to the inside of his hoodie like they belonged there, seed husks jammed in his keyboard like cryptic breadcrumbs, and delicate bird feet pressing into his scalp as though his head were just another perch with a spectacular view. His life was a constant flurry of chirping, rustling, pecking, and the occasional dive-bomb when someone felt dramatic.
And still—he wouldn’t change a thing.
Because now, when he looked over to the perch by the living room window, there sat a raven with glowing blue eyes and the kind of smug satisfaction that only came from knowing— truly knowing —you were the undisputed center of someone’s world.
Danny.
His Ghost. His chaotic, flirty, incorrigible ghost bird. The same one who had phased into his life like a glitch in reality and never left. The one who sometimes curled around Tim’s shoulders during mission briefings like a feathered scarf with attitude, sometimes perched right on his chest while he napped, wings tucked tight and head cocked in lazy affection.
And sometimes—to the absolute horror of Lady—Danny would squawk, loud and victorious, “ Tim’s awake! ” the second he yawned in the morning, like a supernatural alarm clock with no snooze button.
Tim had tried to train him. Bribe him. Reason with him.
“Ghost,” he groaned one morning, voice thick with sleep as Danny strutted across his pillow. “Do you have to scream every time I move?”
Danny blinked slowly, tilted his head, then puffed his chest and croaked, “ Alert the masses. ”
Tim had faceplanted into his pillow with a muffled, “God, I hate you,” and a smile he couldn’t suppress.
He’d even learned to expect interruptions in the bathroom. Danny, growing increasingly dramatic in his need for Tim’s attention, had once phased through the shower wall and dropped a sponge on his head like it was a protest sign.
“ You’ve been in there too long, ” Danny chirped, lounging on the counter like a judgmental gargoyle.
“Some of us need hot water to stay alive,” Tim muttered, water streaming down his face as he glared through the steam. “You literally don't have skin.”
“Exactly. I miss yours. ”
Tim had choked on the next laugh—and the rest of his shampoo.
It was chaos. Absolute, feather-filled, ghost-infested chaos.
And it was home.
Danny was still working through his comfort level with being human outside their shared home, but he’d started sleeping in Tim’s bed as a person most nights. Tim never commented on it aloud — not directly. He didn’t want to spook him. Didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that every night Danny chose to be human-shaped beside him was another silent vow of trust. Of safety. Of healing.
And when Danny wasn’t a human?
There was a very affectionate raven curled under Tim’s chin with one wing slung possessively across his collarbone like some kind of dramatic, territorial scarf. Tim had learned to sleep around talons. And the occasional tail feather in his mouth.
Madonna, ever the mother hen (well, dove, but let’s not split feathers), had taken Danny’s night-shifting habits as a personal challenge. Her daily routine enforcement was now legendary. Tim had once watched, bleary-eyed and barefoot, as she boxed Danny in with fluffed wings and a chattering storm of disapproval for trying to drag Tim back to bed before breakfast was done.
“Don’t fight it,” Tim had mumbled into his coffee. “She’s stronger than all of us.”
Danny had responded with a squawk that was definitely profane in bird, eyes wide like he’d just gotten grounded by an actual mom.
Lady, meanwhile, carried herself like Versailles incarnate. She floated through the apartment with the dignity of a creature who expected royalty to bow when she passed — and usually got it. She tolerated Danny, adored Tim, and never let either of them forget which of the two was her chosen consort.
Except once.
Once, when Danny came home from a mission pale and quiet and visibly unraveling, Lady had crossed the room without a sound and rested one wing gently against his cheek. No performance. No drama. Just warmth.
Danny had blinked like the world had tilted. Like the universe had given him a hug. He didn’t cry, not really. But his hand had come up to cup the wing like it was precious.
Ceecee and Deedee ran their surveillance empire like twin warlords in miniature. Tim hadn’t even owned a bird-safe laser printer before they arrived. Now there were color-coded spreadsheets in every room, a biweekly briefing schedule, and at least three confirmed bug sweeps per week — all managed by birds. Fluffy, determined birds.
And Tim knew he hadn’t made those sheets.
“Did you teach them Excel?” he’d asked Danny one night, eyes narrowed at a particularly well-formatted cell formula on the coffee table.
Danny had shrugged, completely unrepentant. “I might’ve shown them conditional formatting. Maybe.”
The crows, of course, had formed a union.
Sherlock now had his own stylus , and somehow a secure line to Tim’s encrypted laptop. The reports were frighteningly detailed. Once, Tim swore the crow submitted one before he even opened the crime scene photos.
Bastard. Sherlock was a bastard.
He also attended every sparring session. Without fail. If Tim missed one, Sherlock would perch on his shoulders and scream at full volume until he agreed to reschedule.
Little and Brat had taken it upon themselves to teach Danny coded sign chirps, and Danny took to them like he’d been raised in a nest. His whole face lit up when he got one right — eyes bright, wings puffed, tail twitching with pride.
“What are you saying?” Tim had asked once, already suspicious.
Danny’s grin was nothing short of impish. “Nothing. Just bird stuff.”
Which, by now, was basically code for chaos .
It was loud. It was messy. There were feathers in every drawer, crunchy seed shells in places Tim didn’t want to talk about, and one time a literal turf war broke out over the bookshelf that ended with Little wearing a bottlecap crown and Brat refusing to land for an hour out of protest.
But in the end — in the quiet moments, when Danny leaned against him in the kitchen, half-phased into a loose-limbed human, coffee-warm and sleep-heavy — he’d brush a kiss to Tim’s jaw and murmur mine like a promise, a declaration, and a prayer all at once.
And Tim would look around their feather-infested, diplomacy-requiring, bird bureaucracy of an apartment…
And remember exactly why he’d let every single one of them stay.
His home had always been a quiet war room. A place of cold efficiency, of strategically organized chaos, of half-drunk coffee and full-loaded tabs and silence as heavy as Kevlar. It had been functional. Controlled. Clean in that sterile, “I haven’t had time to decorate” kind of way. A bunker more than a sanctuary.
Now it chirped. And cooed. And cawed. And bit. And loved.
It vibrated with life in every corner — even in the ones he didn’t want to think too hard about. (He still wasn’t over the bookshelf incident . He’d walked in on Sherlock and Little perched like mafiosos on opposing ends, glaring each other down with a pile of snacks between them like neutral territory.)
And every night, no matter how unhinged the day had been, when Danny curled into his arms — as a human, a bird, or both, because of course he had those now, because ghosts — Tim always felt the tension melt away.
He would press his lips to Danny’s forehead — always a little cool, always a little glowing — and whisper into his hair like it was a prayer.
“You’re mine too.”
Simple. Quiet. Anchoring.
Tim still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Jazz — Jazmine Fenton, former valedictorian, world-class therapist, and terrifying wielder of therapeutic tools — had chosen to settle in Crime Alley of all places.
Not Park Row, with its newly ghost-inclusive co-ops. Not the Upper Triangle, where Danny could at least pretend to be a moody artist with a glowy aesthetic. Not one of the many safer, quieter, infinitely less cursed neighborhoods that boasted both anti-ecto discrimination clauses and yoga studios that Jazz would 100% have dragged Danny to by now.
No.
She’d taken one look at Gotham’s most infamous district, breathed in the vaguely rotting scent of burning plastic and low-level despair, and said:
“This is fine.”
Like she hadn’t just moved into the urban equivalent of a crypt with extra crime.
When Tim had asked why — incredulously, because of course he had — her answer had been simple. So frustratingly, achingly simple.
“I want to be close to my brother.”
And really… what was he supposed to say to that?
Danny might technically live with Tim — eat his snacks, haunt his laptop, sneak into his missions disguised as a bird-shaped accessory — but his core still tugged toward Jazz like gravity. She was the constant, the fixed star in the middle of whatever storm Danny was weathering.
Tim had seen it too many times to deny. Nights when Danny couldn’t sleep — twitchy and restless, half-shifted and too quiet — and Tim’s words weren’t enough. Jazz would arrive ten minutes later, hoodie over her PJs and hair in a braid, and within five minutes of her simply existing in the same room, Danny would be curled at her feet on the rug, asleep and calm and breathing slowly.
Like some half-feral guard dog finding its person again.
Which — now that he thought about it — wasn’t too far off the mark.
Jazz had that kind of energy. Loyal. Protective. A focused kind of calm that radiated competence. The kind of steady presence that made even Tim want to trust her. Which was saying something. She remembered which birds were molting. Knew the sound Danny made when he was suppressing a bad memory. Checked Tim’s caffeine intake without judgment — just handed him water when he needed it, with that knowing therapist smile that said I will wait you out, and you will hydrate.
She was always doing something for someone, quietly, without ever drawing attention to it. A shepherd, in every sense of the word.
One morning, when the birds were napping in strategic piles and Danny was curled against him on the couch — human, warm, just sleepy enough to let his weight settle fully on Tim’s chest — Tim had murmured, mostly to himself, “She’s definitely a dog. Like a herding dog. Shepherd energy.”
Danny didn’t even look up from where he was absentmindedly rubbing behind Ceecee’s wings.
“Yeah. Shepherd when she’s keeping the flock together. Wolf when she’s hunting. You should see her rip a ghost apart mid-session.”
His voice had been so casual, so admiring. No hesitation. No fear.
Just pride.
And Tim didn’t doubt it. Not even a little. He’d seen Jason Todd — Jason, who had once punched a Talon in the face for calling him soft — physically flinch when Jazz turned and looked at him with that slow, evaluating gaze.
She hadn’t even said anything.
She didn’t need to.
Which, ironically, was part of what made what happened next all the more hilarious.
Jason — Red Hood , warlord of the Gotham underground, walking trauma response, master of brooding scowls and skull-themed intimidation — had folded like a paper fan the moment Jazz gave him the puppy eyes.
Tim had seen it happen live. In real time . No rewind necessary. And despite all his training, all his years navigating chaos, nothing could’ve prepared him for that exact moment.
They’d gone to help her set up her garage — or, as Jazz so earnestly called it, her “therapeutic mechanical safe space for underprivileged youth.” It was the kind of phrase that made Tim twitch with the sheer density of earnest good intentions. Jason had rolled in flanked by two lieutenants and a truck full of suspiciously acquired tools, his posture screaming ‘I’m not here to make friends’ . Clearly intending to supervise. Probably also to intimidate.
Jazz, in greased-up coveralls and with a smudge of oil on her cheek like some kind of saintly Hot Rod Madonna, had looked up from under a hoisted engine block, blinked those big green therapist eyes at him and asked—
“You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix the suspension on this old Jeep, would you?”
Tim would never forget the silence that followed.
It wasn’t stunned. It was disarmed .
Jason had stammered. Stammered . Like some helpless background NPC in a high school romcom who’d just been noticed by the lead.
Tim’s mouth had fallen open. He hadn’t even realized it until Danny leaned over and gently closed his jaw for him with one finger, clearly trying not to laugh.
Two days later, she was part of Jason’s gang.
No formal invite. No tests of loyalty. No endless silent judgment gauntlets or background vetting. Just one look, one gentle ask, and suddenly she was Red Hood’s Official Mechanic and Emotional Support Big Sister.
The bat group chat had exploded .
Tim and the others had been shook. Genuinely, deeply, existentially shook.
Steph made popcorn for the next time Jazz interacted with him, muttering “this is better than telenovelas.” Damian called it a strategic failure and began drawing up countermeasures “to prevent similar breaches of security in the future.” Cass, ever the oracle of calm truth, had simply nodded and signed “He’s smitten.”
And Jason? Oh, Jason denied everything.
“It’s strictly professional,” he said. Flat voice. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed.
Tim hadn’t even asked him a question.
But Tim had evidence. A growing list, actually. Carefully cataloged and backed up on three secure servers, just in case he ever needed to blackmail Jason or—more likely—use it to end a debate with Steph. Evidence like:
Jason offering to walk her home. Every single night. No matter the weather. No matter the route.
Jason buying her a new hydraulic press because “it was on sale.” ( It was not. Tim checked. )
Jason letting her repaint one of his bikes. In pastels. The man who once called chrome trim “too cheerful” now had a bike with lavender accents and flower stencils.
Jason sitting still — still! — for a three-hour ghost therapy session and saying, “I guess that helped,” like it wasn’t the emotional equivalent of crying in public.
Tim hadn’t dared tease him. Not out loud. But inwardly? Oh, he cherished it. Not just because it was funny — and it was — but because it meant Jason had let someone in. Someone good. Someone who didn’t flinch at his temper or his trauma or his past.
And if Jason’s heart chose a stubborn, wrench-wielding therapist with a monster in her eyes and callouses on her palms?
Honestly?
Tim couldn’t blame him.
Tim had a bet going with Duke that Jason would crack and ask her out within the month. Cass had bet on two weeks.
Danny, meanwhile, had taken to watching it all unfold with the kind of smug, knowing amusement only a sibling could conjure — equal parts entertained and vindicated, like he’d been waiting for someone else to finally experience his personal chaos goblin in full force.
“Told you,” Danny had said one night, nestled in raven form in Tim’s lap, his feathers fluffed up and his glowing eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. He nudged Tim’s palm pointedly until Tim scratched the spot between his wings. “She’s dangerous. Not in the same way I am. Worse. She’s emotionally competent.”
There was a beat of silence as Tim considered that.
Danny wasn’t wrong. Jazz didn’t command shadows or phase through walls or tear holes through dimensions — but she did stare down vigilantes like they were fussy toddlers and somehow convince mass-murdering gang leaders to hydrate and open up about their attachment issues. She listened without judgment and then wielded that understanding like a crowbar to the ribs.
And honestly?
That might be the scariest Fenton power of all.
Tim leaned back against the cushions, idly stroking his fingers along the curve of Danny’s spine. His raven gave a pleased chirp and melted deeper into his lap, soft and smug and entirely too pleased with himself.
“She’s got him good,” Tim murmured.
Danny gave a sleepy kraww of agreement. “Poor Jay. Doesn’t stand a chance.”
Tim winced in sympathy, already mentally preparing for the exact moment Jason realized he was in over his head — and how hard the Batfamily was going to roast him for it.
“Honestly,” Tim muttered, “I don’t know if I should feel sorry for him or start planning the wedding.”
Danny cackled in feathers.
So that’s how Tim was spending all his weeks and months.
He still patrolled. Still ran ops. Still decoded encrypted files and exposed dirty government secrets in between late-night coffee and carefully calculated exhaustion. He still dropped into villain hideouts like a phantom of vengeance, still crossed names off his mental threat list, still got bruised and bloodied and stitched himself back together in silence.
But somewhere in between the chaos and the saving and the almost-dying, Tim had carved a place in the noise — not an escape, exactly, but a sanctuary. A roost, really.
It wasn’t big or flashy or anything worthy of a Wayne headline. But it was real. Tangible. Personal. A space where feathers cluttered the floor like confetti, where the shadows moved with personality, and where soft coos and caws replaced the tense, echoing silences he used to drown in. There was warmth here — messy, unasked for, impossible warmth — and Tim was just now realizing how starved he’d been for it.
Sometimes he’d wake up at his desk with a wing draped over his shoulder, or a small sharp beak tugging insistently at his sleeve. Paperwork got pecked off his desk if he stared at it too long. Holograms got glitched out when spectral wings swept across the console like, Enough. You’re done.
At first, it had startled him. Now it made him smile.
Tim leaned back one evening, stretching out a stiff shoulder, only for a familiar weight to settle against his collar. A low, contented krroo vibrated against his neck.
Danny — in that half-spectral, mostly-raven form he favored when he didn’t want to speak but didn’t want to leave either — pressed his beak lightly against Tim’s skin, warm and present and absurdly soft.
“You’re such a menace,” Tim murmured, not even trying to sound annoyed.
The raven ruffled his feathers proudly.
Red Robin had responsibilities. An entire city that expected him to never falter. A family who trusted him to lead, to coordinate, to carry the weight when no one else could.
But Tim Drake… Tim Drake had a home.
And in that home were his ridiculous, wonderful birds — both literal and metaphorical — and Danny, who somehow made existing easier just by being near. Who turned silence into companionship, loneliness into space to breathe. Who let Tim be , without the mask, without the weight, without the war.
It didn’t make the danger go away. It didn’t fix the world.
But it made it worth fighting for.
That night, patrol had been uneventful. Just him and Nightwing sweeping through the East End, talking nonsense and leaping across rooftops. The usual. It ended with them landing outside Tim’s apartment complex, Dick huffing dramatically as he pulled off his mask.
“I cannot believe you,” he complained, stretching his arms behind his back with a groan. “You’ve got a cuddle of doves that manage your life better than any assistant I’ve ever had. A murder of crows that help you solve crimes . And a hot eldritch bird boyfriend. Hot , Tim.”
Tim unlocked the door with a soft laugh. “Not my fault you went for circus instead of cryptid.”
“I want a fluffy cryptid boyfriend,” Dick muttered under his breath. “A dog. Or a fox. Or a bat. Or—I dunno—something cute and chaotic. Give me a raccoon that becomes a man with abs.”
“You need therapy.”
“I have therapy. I want a boyfriend.”
Tim snorted and pushed the door open—just in time for chaos to punch him in the face.
Not literally. But emotionally? Yes.
In his living room, feathers and fur flew. Danny, in his raven form, was full-fluff and mid-dive, wings spread wide like a shadow with murder in its eyes. Across from him, perched on the back of the couch, was a sleek black cat with glowing red eyes and an expression that said “fuck you specifically.”
They were fighting. Verbally and physically. Wings against claws. Feathers and hissing insults flying.
“You absolute twig-snapping feral excuse for a pigeon—”
“Don’t dare touch my preen gland again, you flea-ridden void rodent—”
“You sleep like a corpse!”
“I am a corpse, asshole!”
“ Well you aren't special! ”
Tim blinked. Dick blinked. The birds blinked. The cat froze mid-lunge, back arched and fur fluffed. The raven hovered midair, wings halfway flapping.
Total, absolute silence.
“…what is going on,” Tim asked flatly.
Raven and cat turned their heads in perfect tandem to stare at him.
Dick, beside him, choked on a laugh.
Tim rubbed his face with one hand and sighed.
Then he looked over at Dick with the weariness of someone who accepted that his life had permanently exited the realm of normal.
“You wanted your own familiar?” he said dryly. “Guess what. You just got yourself a cat.”