Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim could still hear the echoes of his mother's laughter, could still smell the faint hint of his father's cologne. The house seemed to hold onto the phantoms of their presence, and it was somehow worse than if it was simple emptiness.

They'd been home for barely two days, this time. They'd hit a charity event yesterday afternoon, a whirlwind thing that had involved a fast breakfast and tastefully demure dress. Somehow, the casual, carefully tailored slacks and well-cut jacket were worse than the suits he'd worn before. After the event, his parents had gone to a dinner with potential clients, though they'd never really said who the client was, or what the potential business was.

By the time they'd come home, it was too late for Tim to see them. He'd been awake, of course, but if he'd gone downstairs he wouldn't have been welcomed—he was expected to be responsible. He wasn't given an exact bedtime, not in so many words, but he knew still being up at just past midnight wouldn't have gone over well.

There were many expectations they had, not always said explicitly, but he was the Drake heir, and his parents made it clear he was to behave in a manner they deemed fit. He was to talk quietly, precisely. He was to be presentable, get excellent grades, start making notable acquaintances among his well-connected Gotham Academy classmates.

He wasn't to miss them. He wasn't to expect more of his parents. For them to be around, for them to include him in their decisions.

They'd been here for almost two days, this time. It'd been four last time, just over three the time before, a week the time before that, a couple of hours here and there. Sometimes, they landed, did some business, and were gone before Tim even knew they'd been in Gotham at all.

He wasn't to miss them.

He certainty wasn't supposed to hate them.

His birthday was in three days. His parents had barely acknowledged it.

"Timothy," his mother had said, her hands busily packing her personal carry-on. Her assistant had already repacked both her and his father's large suitcases, but his mother never allowed anyone but herself to handle her personal bags. Her laptop and its protective shoulder bag were already neatly packed and set upon the antique chest at the foot of his parent's bed. "We will not be here for your birthday. Annette has placed your gift on your bed. You are permitted to order yourself any additional school and clothing essentials. Your shoes need replacement. Now, please take my laptop downstairs, the car will be here shortly."

"Yes, mother," he'd replied, and they'd been gone less than twenty minutes later.

There was no use getting upset—it had never helped before but…Tim felt his chest tighten, his throat clog. He…they'd come so close to his birthday and he—

Stupid, to let himself believe they'd stay. Stupid, to think this year would be different.

Twelve years, and Timothy Drake still hadn't learned that his parents didn't care.

Rubbing furiously at his face, trying to stem tears that will do nothing to change reality, he shot upstairs. His parent's room is locked, but he has the sudden, furious need to pick it—it would be easy—and rip it all apart. The fancy, crisp sheets that barely see any use, the art that's barely ever seen, the expensive jewelry locked in a safe he's known the code to since he was six.

He trips past the door. There's no point. They won't notice for months, and when they do, it will change nothing.

He stumbles into his bedroom, chest ripping apart, sobs breaking from his throat. He crashes onto the bed, fingers fumbling for something, anything, to grip. He ends up with a bundle of blankets, part of a pillow, and something hard pressed close to his left wrist.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter.

He doesn't bother to be quiet. There's no one to hear.

It's some time later when he runs out of energy, out of emotion. His throat hurts, and his eyes feel raw. He should get up, shower, maybe grab some food. With his parents gone, Gotham is at his feet again, and it's been a couple days since he's gone out to watch Batman.

But even getting off the bed feels impossible.

He shifts a bit, and the hard thing by his wrist slides, the new part of it cold. Jerking a bit, he tries to remember what he could've left on his bed. It takes a moment to remember that Annette had left his gift, and it nearly makes him break down again to realize it must not even be wrapped.

He pushes up, ready to toss the damn thing across the room when he finally lays eyes on it.

It's a circlet, of sorts, he thinks. It's silver, the metal flowing into elaborate arcs. There's some kind of symbols carved or stamped into the metal, intricate detailing easily visible thanks to the shifting blue coloring that's set into the carvings. At the front of the circlet is a gem Tim can't immediately identify. It looks like it might be aquamarine, or maybe lapis lazuli, but there's some weird inclusions that shift to green among the blue. It's not a very large gem, and somehow the silver seems to encase it in a way that Tim's not sure should work.

What the hell is he supposed to do with this? Tim's not his parents, he doesn't really collect old things. Not like this, anyway. It's not like he can just wear a circlet around, who the hell does that? Other than his photos of the bats, his camera, his skateboard, and his tech, there's not a lot Tim really keeps and cares for.

His parents barely think jeweled cuff links are appropriate for a boy, why would they gift him a circlet?

Tim runs a hand through his hair, faltering a bit when he runs out of hair before he expects. A part of the whirlwind before the charity event yesterday had been a haircut, and Tim's still not used to the shortened length.

"Whatever," he sighs, giving the circlet a light toss away from him. He flexes his fingers—the metal really is a bit too cold.

He falls back into his pile of blankets and pillows. He's so tired of all this. He's just tired. No parents. No real friends. No relatives to speak of.

At this rate, even his soulmate won't have time for him.

He doesn't go out that night. At some point he manages a shower, but doesn't get much more than a couple energy bars for food before exhaustion hits like a train.

He doesn't move the circlet before he passes out.

It's cold. It's the first thing he registers. He shivers, trying to pull at the covers. He can't quite get a grip on anythings though, and the irritation only serves to wake him further.

His throat feels a little raw, and there's a pressure behind his eyes that almost feels like a headache. He's tired, and while he has yet to open his eyes, he's fairly certain it's early.

His arm feels odd, almost numb, like he's slept on it wrong.

With a grumble, he shifts up, rubbing at his eye with right hand, which isn't numb.

Wait.

There's no way. There's no one here.

His eyes pop open, and—

There's too much light in his room. Something's glowing, and it's not the moon through his curtains. In fact—beyond the glow, it's almost too dark in his room.

The circlet is glowing. Eerily, impossibly.

He lifts his left arm, the one that's strangely numb and—

A shimmer, a shadow of a mark, there and gone again. Tim can't move. He can barely breathe.

The circlet continues to glow, and Tim tries to think.

Soul marks are made with skin contact. The only people who have touched Tim in the last week were his parents, and he's known since he was a child that he didn't have a mark with them. Not all parents and their children do—

There's a lot, though, that have something.

Soul marks aren't exactly uncommon. Friends can have them, lovers can have them, parents and their kids, extended family—soul marks are everywhere. They mean something. They're a link, a connection. They speak of those that will matter. It's not everything, it's not set in stone, it's not always a good connection, but…

There's very few kids who have nothing. There's very few people who make it to twelve going on thirteen with none.

And he's never heard of this before. Of a soul mark that's not quite formed, that's visible but not.

Of course, he's still not sure to be more freaked out over that or over the glowing circlet sitting ominously at the end of his bed.

It's rather pretty, but Tim's lived in Gotham for too long to trust it. It's not a canister of fear gas, or one of Freeze's ice bombs, or Ivy's poison vines, but it doesn't mean it's safe. Gotham has it's villains, but the world has aliens and magic-users and gods.

Is this something he should be getting Batman for?

Tim can almost imagine that conversation. Hello Batman? There's a circlet glowing on my bed, could you come get it?

Is cursed jewelry an actual thing, or has he been watching too many movies? He'd touched it earlier—

He'd touched it with his left hand, and now his left forearm has a weird half formed soul mark.

…if this thing wanted to hurt him, it would have done so by now, right?

Tim shifts forward a bit, and testingly, moves his arm closer to the circlet. As he does, the soul mark slowly becomes more solid, though it's still not immediately identifiable.

The glow, however, gets brighter.

He leans back, and the soul mark loses form, the circlet dims.

What the hell.

Tim's half tempted just to go back to sleep. He's still tired, and he hates the head-achy aftermath of too much crying.

But the room's too cold, and the circlet is still glowing, and there's a part of Tim that's desperate for something, anything. A soul mark means something. Rumor has it that Bruce Wayne has a soul mark with each of his kids, though the most the press has ever gotten is a glimpse of something dusky on Dick Grayson's shoulder. Jason Todd's never even shown that much, and neither boy has ever confirmed or denied it.

His parents share a mark. Thousands—millions of people share marks, and they've all meant something. They're people who, for some reason, in some way, are meant to meet. Are meant to do something together.

Tim's twelve-going-on-thirteen, and no one's mattered that much. No one's stuck around, tried to be anything to him.

Batman and Robin matter to him, but…they don't know he exists.

Really, no one knows that Tim exists.

He reaches for the circlet.

It's anticlimactic, really. He grabs the circlet and it brightens, going near blinding. It's on the edge of too cold, like those nights when Freeze is running around, and the metal of the balconies and fire escapes that Tim climbs numbs his skin, nearly burning with the cold.

His arm goes number, but he can't see if the mark spreads.

And then the light goes out, and the metal begins to warm in his chilled hand.

He's still alone.

He looks at his arm and—

A shimmer, an oddness, a flicker of something that should be a mark but…it's not. Not really. It's half there, if that. He tries, but the mark doesn't react to proximity to the circlet anymore. It feels normal now. He looks at the front gem and even the odd green inclusions seem to have dulled.

Shaking, Tim tosses the thing, and collapses back into his bed.

What a damn waste.

(He was right, not even his soul mate has time for him.)

Dawn comes and he barely notices. It's a brilliant summer morning, and the oppressive heat that's swallowed Gotham almost seems to be gentler today.

It doesn't really matter.

Sometime during the night, Tim had found the edge of his tangled blankets and had wrapped himself in them. When light settles across his face, he merely shifts and blocks it out.

There's no point.

Not today. He tries. He tries so hard. He keeps his grades up. He researches new ways for Drake Industries to turn a profit, he makes suggestions that fall on deaf ears on how to improve their public perception. He spends hours on Gotham's web, verbally flaying men three times his age about the difference that Batman makes. He tries to funnel some of the limited funds he has access to into Wayne foundations and charities. He checks guest lists of the parties and charities and dinners and countless other events that need the Drake Family to attend and makes informed, polite conversation with key players.

He sneaks out in the middle of the night, for all the skill it takes to escape an empty house, and stalks Gotham's roofs, taking pictures of the side of Batman and Robin the world never sees. Tim sees Gotham in ways he doesn't think many people do. It's not an easy city, it is not gentle, and any kindness it gives is rough. But it's there.

People see when Batman dangles a rogue from a roof and leaves them for the police. They see when Batman and Robin fight their way through the middle of the Narrows, chasing any number of rogues or gangs. They see when things go up in flames, or freeze solid, or when a new spat of whatever gas the rogue of the week has cooked up.

They don't see when Batman carefully, gently sets a splint on a kid who broke an ankle trying to keep up with their older brother over a fence. They don't see Robin walking the working girls home. They don't see the way Batman makes himself obvious, the way he tries so hard not to startle the tired father walking home late with groceries. The way Robin can keep even the most terrified calm. The way Batman uses himself as a shield.

They don't know Gotham like Tim does, these people who demand more of a man who has given everything he has, on both sides of the mask.

Tim sees. Tim sees it all and he tries but—

It doesn't matter. It never matters. His parents ignore and dismiss him, vanishing for days and weeks and months. Batman and Robin, Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, have no idea Tim even exists, despite living next door. His teachers simply see another spoiled rich kid showing off tutors and possibly buying the answers.

Tim knows secrets no one could ever dream of, and there's no one here to give a damn.

So what does it matter if he refuses to get out of bed for a day? Maybe two. He'll be thirteen soon, and the only one that will remember to celebrate it is him.

It takes him awhile to hear the doorbell.

The first thing he feels when he realizes what he's hearing is irritation. He hasn't ordered anything and even if he had—

How had they gotten past the gates? There's a spot by road where deliveries are left. There's no reason for anyone to be at the door.

It's certainly not his parents.

Annoyed, curious, Tim drags himself out of bed. He fumbles for his phone, and pulls up the security cam as he walks down the stairs. It's an odd angle, but there's a man standing at the front door. Thick black hair, decent build—for a half instant, Tim thinks it's Bruce Wayne standing there, and his heart kicks up. But…it's not. This man seems a bit younger, and his face is built differently than Mr. Wayne's. At once thinner and stouter, less obvious cheekbones but a stronger, slightly more blocky jaw. His hair's longer, too, a bit on the wild side.

It's not anyone Tim recognizes.

He pauses on the bottom step. Who is this?

The man shifts back after hitting the doorbell again, looking around. His fingers tap on his thigh, and he seems…nervous, almost. He scans again, looking around, and Tim watches the double take he makes when he finds the camera.

"Oh, should've figured," he says, just barely loud enough for the security camera's mic to pick it up. One hand pushes through his hair, and he blows out a breath. He shuffles a bit, and then smiles at the camera. His eyes are very, very blue. He waves, and then, not seemingly to realize there's audio, makes a bit of a fumbling move for his phone. He tapes the screen a couple times, and then holds it up to the camera. It takes a moment for it to focus and—

Oh.

Tim's moving before he even registers the decision, nearly dropping his phone. He moves quickly to the door, skidding across the hardwood in his socks.

He rips the front door open and barely registers the man's jump.

"You're my soul mate?" Tim demands, his left hand so tightly gripped on the door it's already starting to go numb under the dull pain.

The man lowers his phone, blinking in surprise.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he says after a long moment. "Are your parents home? We can wait for them to talk."

Tim's lied about where his parents are for nearly thirteen years. He's made up nannies and caretakers, forged signatures for school trips, and more. His parents have been gone for less than a day. It'll be weeks before there's even a chance for them to be in Gotham again—

And this is his soul mate. This is his choice.

"They aren't home," he says, and the man steps back a bit. And no. No. "I don't know when they'll be back," Tim continues, desperate. "They leave. All the time."

Alarm passes over the man's face. His jaw goes tight.

Just this once. Just this once Tim wants someone to see.

"Is there anyone you'd like to have here, then?" the man asks, something Tim can't quite read on his face. "I am still a stranger and I understand if you don't want to be here alone with me—"

He's being logical. Tim knows the man's being logical. He grew up in Gotham, he knows to be cautious. He's seen some of the worst the world can offer but right now he doesn't care.

Someone needs to see.

He moves, unlocking his fingers from the door and snatching the man's left wrist with his left hand. The man jerks, but stops almost seems to freeze.

Numbness spreads, and Tim yanks up his sleeve to watch as color blooms up his arm. The pattern is hard to parse, odd fractal lines and symbols he's not sure he's seen before. The colors though—

The colors are gorgeous.

White, white as the purest snow lays as a backdrop to shimmering silver and thin, nearly iridescent green. Black bursts, contrasting, and giving more definition to the pattern. It means something, Tim's sure, but he's not quite sure what. He's never seen a soul mark like this before, this elaborate, this deep in color. Some of it he can parse—there's snowflakes, tiny, shimmering bits of them between the silver lines. Blue curls through it all, bright like the gem on the circlet that started it all.

The dumbness eases, and the pattern settles. It makes no sense, but—

It's his.

"Well," the man says, staring. He seems to be out of words. He said he was here to see, but maybe he didn't expect it. Especially not with a kid.

"My name is Tim," Tim informs him helpfully. The man lets out a startled laugh.

"Danny," he says, tone wry. "This is not how I planned this." Tim manages something of a shrug. There's always a plan, when it comes to him. A proper role.

He's so tired of it.

Danny shifts, carefully rolling up his sleeve, and Tim realizes he's still got his hand wrapped around Danny's wrist. But it doesn't matter when he gets his first glimpse of his mark on Danny's skin.

It's bright, the colors just as deep as Tim's own mark. It's nearly as nonsensical. It's made of sharper lines, and Tim can recognize bits of coding mixed in with the strange symbols that linger in his own mark. There's silver, but most of it is deep reds and shifting black. His eyes catch on familiar shapes in the pattern—a stylized skateboard, small hidden cameras, something that almost looks like a magnifying glass. The sharp slashes of the lines are almost harsh, but they melt into each other and soften in places.

This is him, painted on someone else's skin. There's places where it almost seems…blank, in comparison to what he saw on his own arm. He skims a finger over one of the emptier spaces, trying to hide his disappointment.

He's not even enough to fill in his own mark.

"It'll fill in more," Danny says, shifting a bit. "I…want to do some explaining before…yeah. My mark isn't going to be like the ones you've seen, or the other marks you have. It'll change. I mean, yours not too much, but mine? You're still growing, so, it'll shift a bit, as you do. You're still figuring out the world, ya know? You're what, ten?"

"Nearly thirteen," Tim corrects, fascinated. He's never heard of marks changing.

"Thirteen," Danny repeats. "I am so bad at this."

Tim shrugs. At least Danny asked.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" Tim asks, shifting his gaze up to Danny's face. Huh, not a trick of the camera. Danny's eyes just are that blue.

The same blue of that's painted on his skin. The same blue of the circlet upstairs.

"You gonna explain the circlet?" Tim questions, before Danny can even open his mouth. "Why it was so weirdly cold and how it sort of made a soul mark? Are you an alien? How did you find me, anyway? Did you track the circlet? How did my parents even get it?"

Danny blinks, and Tim's stomach drops. Crap, crap, crap, this isn't how he's supposed to act. This is why people leave—

Laughter, but it's not mocking.

"Oh, this is karma, I swear." Danny says, mostly to himself. "Alright, Tim, we've got some talking to do. May I come in?"

"Do you need the invitation?" Tim immediately wonders. Danny laughs again.

"I am not a vampire," he says, which…well, that implies he is something. "But it's is generally polite to ask."

Tim shrugs. Does it really matter, if this place is more a space that Tim occupies than it is a home? "Come on, then."

It takes them a little bit to get settled. Tim's not really used to people being here for him. Eventually, they end up in the small kitchen breakfast nook. It's never really had anyone but Tim and a bowl of cereal in it before.

"To answer your questions," Danny begins, fingers tapping on his glass of water. He seems to have trouble keeping still, and some of it seems to be nerves. The rest…just seems to be Danny. It's intriguing. "I did track the circlet. I'm…not sure how your parents got it. They really shouldn't have been able to. It was a gift to me, from a dear friend and father-figure. It's…connected to me, in a way, so that may be why it started to form the soul bond, though I didn't know it was possible."

Danny chews on his lip. Tim waits. He has a hundred more questions burning in him but if his parents have actually taught him anything, it's that silence can be a weapon.

"I'm not an alien," he says, finally, and Tim leans forward. There's a twitch across Danny's face, like he's trying not to laugh. "I'm part ghost. Half, technically."

Danny stops talking. Tim waits.

"How the heck are you only half dead?" Finally bursts from Tim's mouth and Danny laughs.

"Long story, Tim," Danny waves it off. "I'm more interested in yours. You said your parents got my circlet? How'd you get it?"

Tim's much more interested in Danny's story, but sighs and answers.

"It was my birthday gift from them. They just left it on my bed."

Danny's brow furrows. "Happy birthday, then."

"It's tomorrow, technically," Tim corrects. "But thanks."

"Your birthday is tomorrow," Danny says slowly, like someone's just told him something complicated. "But you're not sure when you're parents will be home?"

Tim just shrugs. It hurts, it's an ache on the inside he doesn't know how to break but—it's normal. There's not a point in hoping for more. He's so tired of hoping, wanting, dreaming of more from them. It's just exhausting.

Danny looks down at his arm, at the pattern that Tim left on his skin, and traces a section of symbols.

"How often do they leave, Tim?" Danny asks, and there's something under the question. A hint of something that curls like ice through the air.

Maybe Tim should ask more about the ghost thing.

"I can take care of myself," he says, a line he's said time and time and time again. It's automatic. He can. He has. He will.

What would he even do, if someone actually paid attention?

But oh, wouldn't it be nice for people to see.

Danny studies him. "So could I, at your age." He leans back, fingers still touching the mark. "My sister and I were pretty good at it, never knew when our parents would remember we existed. We did homework together, planned dinners, made money stretch to get groceries. Sometimes, I forgot what it was like to have parents."

Something sour curls in Tim's gut, even as he thinks finally, someone gets it.

"Money's not such a big deal," Tim says, gesturing awkwardly. "And I have a grocery order…I like school, so homework's not too bad, even if some of it is really basic."

Danny nods, easy, simple. "Still, there's things you have to worry about that you shouldn't. Making food, keeping things clean, and when you do struggle with schoolwork, well, there's no one really here, is there? No one to talk to."

"I can entertain myself," Tim bites out, defensive. He's not a baby.

"I know," Danny says, something deeply sad in him. "So could I. I went out with my friends, hung around town, played at home. With parents that are never around, it's hard to listen to rules, right? The basement was off limits. But why did that matter? The only person who cared really was Jazz, my sister, and if it was so bad down there, why did our parents almost never leave?"

Tim swallows. He thinks of Gotham at night, the wonderful and terrible things he's seen. The close calls. The precious hours he spends in the shadows, feeling like this is the one thing that matters.

"You wondered how I could be half dead," Danny continues. "It's easy, when your parents research ghosts, and build something they really, really shouldn't have. I stepped between worlds, Tim, and each one of them got a piece of me."

The studies, the digs, the artifacts they bring back but there's never any news of their discoveries. The months and weeks they spend abroad, doing things they never really talk about.

There's parallels here that Tim almost doesn't want to see.

There's Timothy, the Drake heir. The perfect, proper, young up-and-coming, scion. There's Tim, the anonymous kid that follows in Batman and Robin's footsteps. There's Tim, the tech nerd.

So many pieces of himself. What's the path he wants to follow?

Who does he want to be?

"Tim," Danny says, after a long silence. Once Tim meets his eyes, Danny taps the mark on his arm. "This means something…but it's up to us exactly what it means. I'd like to be…around, if you'll have me."

It's too good to be true. It's right on the edge of what he thought he'd never have.

"Will you be here for my birthday?" Tim asks, and it's literally tomorrow, but—

That's never mattered to his parents.

Danny cocks a brow. "You mean the birthday that's tomorrow? Of course."

Tim grins.

He might be in a little over his head. It's not the first time, but it's…a little closer than he'd like it to be.

He should know better. Gotham's been quiet, too quiet, but if there's anyone who can actually predict an Arkham breakout, they've never shared the trick. Tim's pretty sure Batman gets caught off guard by it at least as many times as he realizes he's too late.

None of it changes the fact that someone's pissed Riddler off, or that Ivy's got Robinson Park and the surrounding district swallowed in vines. Riddler's scheme somehow pissed off Black Mask, and that's caused a chain reaction in the various gangs and mafias that litter Gotham and now Tim's stuck between a rock and hard place. All the bus lines he needs are down, there's parts of the city on fire—he's not sure if that's Firefly's doing, or if it's something else entirely.

Tonight, Gotham is an ant's nest that someone stepped on, and Tim is caught in the crossfire.

If Riddler, Ivy, and Black Mask are running around, who knows who else is out. He hasn't heard anything about Joker, but his scanner and the online forums have conflicting information on if Scarecrow's loose. Tim has a mask—what Gothamite doesn't—but it doesn't mean he wants to have to use it.

He's out of the line of fire for the moment, but there's literally no where to go. Too far West, and he'll hit Ivy. Too far South—which is the wrong direction anyway—and he's in rival, warring, gang territory. East is the water, and North…

Well, North is on fire.

He's not sure how far it's spread, or if Firefly's there. The information is spotty, as people have to flee.

Tucking himself further into the shadows as a spat of gunfire goes by, Tim reloads his map. Half of it is lit up with warnings, the other half with unconfirmed sightings, and still more with confirmed sightings. The new reload doesn't help him find a route out. It's too dicey in too many areas, and there's more potential sightings of Scarecrow. Either he's really out, or someone's running around in burlap.

Tim's stuck, and with every passing moment, Gotham gets more dangerous. He's already packed away his camera, tightened his backpack as tight to his body as he can. He can jump some roofs, knows a lot of back alley shortcuts, but—

Bristol is far, when Gotham's facing a breakout.

His fingers tap against the metal at his wrist. There's a chance he could have a way out. Ever since he met Danny, Tim's barely gone three days without seeing him. Danny always rings the bell, always asks to be let in, does his best not to intrude, but…they've gotten pretty close. Danny's funny, and he listens. He lets Tim ramble, and does his own rambling. He helps Tim with homework, even if Tim rarely needs it, and has started bringing over more complicated work for Tim to pick at. They've gone out on the Manor grounds, and Tim's showed Danny his camera and the safe nature pictures he's taken. They've spent hours together over the last couple weeks, and it's been nice.

He's tried, several times, to get Tim to send something, anything, to his parents to let them know what's going on. And Tim…has, technically.

He sent an email. That counts. It doesn't matter that they almost never check it. If he tried to send anything to their work emails, they'd be furious. Meeting his soul mate isn't something they'd change their schedule for.

They'd spent Tim's birthday together. Danny had been reluctant to take Tim anymore—something about not wanting to be accused of kidnapping—but they'd had a movie night at the Manor, and Danny hadn't come without gifts.

One of which sits on Tim's wrist. It's a bracelet similar in style to the circlet Danny had taken back when Tim had suggested it. It's not like he really needed the thing. The bracelet is heavier, though, thicker, with slightly less detailing. It's not nearly as obvious, and the leather cord that's intertwined with it makes it look much less out of place.

If you ever need me, press the center stone down. I'll be there before you can blink.

Tim had never mentioned his nighttime excursions to Danny…but sometimes Tim wondered if Danny suspected that Tim did something that was ill-advised, even if he didn't know exactly what.

Despite the danger, the fear, this isn't something that Tim wants taken from him. It's not just Batman and Robin he takes pictures of, there's so much more to Gotham than that. But it's an important part of him, something he's worked and worked and worked for. He's gotten pretty good at nighttime photography, of catching the right moment, preserving the movement, the color.

This is his.

What if Danny takes it away? Even with Danny's visits…Tim can't imagine staying in the Manor all the time, with nothing and no one.

An alert pings on his phone.

Scarecrow. Way too close. And, from the alert, with way too much fear gas.

Tim hits the button.

"I am in so over my head," Danny laments, not the for the first time. Sam sighs, and Tucker lets his head fall into his hands.

"Danny, you have to do something," Sam says, also not for the first time.

"Sam, you remember what we were like at that age. You know if anyone had come in, soul mate or not, and said 'your parents suck, I'm adopting you.' we'd be furious." Danny says, and the way Sam's eyes flash means he's got about two more times to repeat himself before she's going to lose it.

"Okay, but your parents did suck," Tucker says. "And it sounds like Tim's do too. They didn't do you any favors, Danny, and they aren't doing him any, either. They leave him alone! He's pretty much raising himself."

"That's the problem! He doesn't know how to handle an authority figure and I don't know how to be one! It'd be a disaster." Danny flops back onto his bed with the type of melodrama he thought he'd left behind once he stopped being a teenager.

"No one said it'd be perfect, Danny," Sam manages, with all the patience she's managed to scrape together. "It's going to be rough. But you know what Tucker found. If the Drakes don't get busted for child neglect—and you know it's possible, even for as bad as Gotham's CPS is—they're going to get busted for their illegal dealings. Tim is going to need someone, and there is no one in that fucked up family tree that's going to help the kid. His parents don't have any siblings, and the one cousin we found would sell Tim out for a fucking corn chip if it got him access to the Drake fortune."

"You need to talk to him, Danny," Tucker pleads. "It's a ticking time bomb—the Drakes are already on several alphabet soup agency's radars, and if one more teacher wonders about Tim's care situation, it's going to get ugly fast. As his soul mate, you'd have a claim. A stronger one than some random foster home, at least."

"And if you tell me that you don't feel at least slightly paternal towards this kid I'm going to call such bullshit." Sam snaps out, and Danny closes his mouth. "You've been pestering Tucker for ideas on more challenging schoolwork, you've bugged me about everything I know about photography, you've pulled out your old skateboard, and you dragged Jazz's books about child psychology out of the attic. Congratulations, it's a fucking boy. Now man the hell up and tell him that."

"Okay!" Danny sighs. "Okay, okay you're right. I've gotta at least talk to him. I'll see if he's open to me dropping by tomorrow."

Tucker rolls his eyes. "I don't think he's going to say no."

"He's totally allowed to say no—" A shiver down his spine, and Danny's off the bed and on alert.

"Danny?" Sam asks, hand inching towards her ecto-pistol.

"Tim used the bracelet," he says, and then he's gone.

"He's such a fucking dad," Sam sighs to the empty space where Danny used to be. Tucker nods.

"Seriously, he's being so dumb about this."

"So, so dumb."

Despite knowing what Danny said about the whole half ghost thing, Tim hasn't seen too much of it. Small things. Danny runs colder than most people, his eyes catch the light, and will sometimes glow green, he's ridiculously quiet when he walks, and he can cool a drink down in about fifteen seconds.

So Danny just appearing in front of Tim, in the middle of Gotham at its worst, scares him shitless.

"It's just me!" Danny says, instantly crouching to be smaller. Tim's heart is about to pound out of his chest, but relief hits like a drug.

"Danny," Tim breathes, and slams into him. Danny barely budges. Tim's used to Gotham, but…he's not usually in the middle of all this. He won't go out if there's a chance of a breakout, or if Batman's actively fighting one of his bigger villains. There's too much risk of Tim being collateral, and if he ends up in the hospital, it won't end well with his parents. On the off time he has been out when a bigger name has been active, there's been clear escape routes.

He's never quite been stranded like this.

"Easy," Danny says, gripping Tim fiercely. "You're alright."

Tim doesn't usually need assurance. If he didn't have Danny, he'd have found another way. There's always another way. He doesn't like the sewers but…without Danny, it'd be about his only option.

"That was fast," Tim says, and they should leave, really.

But Danny's hugging him, and Tim really doesn't want it to stop.

"Of course," Danny says. "What's the use of an emergency signal if it takes me forever to get here?"

Tim thinks of sending an email the time the food order had arrived with half spoiled food, and Tim had known what was left wasn't going to last. He didn't have access to the account to reorder or file a complaint, and at the time, he hadn't had an emergency card.

The email had sat unread for two weeks, despite Tim actually marking it as priority and attempting to call his parents after a week had passed with no response.

He'd managed.

He always managed.

"Can we go?" Tim whispers. Gotham at night is usually his to explore, but right now…Right now it's just too much.

"Yeah," Danny shifts, and for an instant Tim resigns himself to letting Danny go, but Danny simply gets a better grip, and lifts Tim straight off the ground. "Hold on, this is going to be a bit weird. But I've got you, okay? I won't let you go until we're back at your place, I promise."

Tim nods into Danny's shoulder. Maybe this time. This one time, he can trust a promise.

They move, and Danny's right, it is weird. When Tim dares to open his eyes, they're moving straight through rock and pipe and conduit like it's nothing. There's no wind, no real feeling like they're actually moving, but they're obviously making some form of progress. How Danny knows where to go while they're fully underground, Tim's not sure.

Sure enough, though, they end up back at Drake Manor much faster than Tim's ever managed on his own. They float right up through the floor in the kitchen, and—

Tim goes limp.

He's home. He's safe.

Danny kept his promise. He came. He didn't let go.

Tim has no explanation for why he starts sobbing into Danny's shoulder.

Danny sends a message to Sam, Tucker, and Jazz that Tim's safe and sound, but Danny's staying the rest of the night so they can talk in the morning.

Sam tells him not to come back until he's officially a dad. Tucker reminds him to explain things fully, without beating around the bush too much.

Jazz says she's proud of him.

He totally doesn't almost cry. Not at all.

It's probably the longest he's spent in the house without Tim next to him, and honestly, it should feel more awkward than it does but…

It's hard to feel like he's intruding when the place feels like a museum.

While Tim sleeps, Danny goes over everything they've found. It had taken surprisingly little hacking, really. The Drakes really are on borrowed time, and it's clear Tim doesn't know how precarious it all is. Danny's sure Tim won't be completely blindsided by it, he's a smart kid, but there's suspecting your parents might have illegal or immoral dealings, and then there's actually having it happen.

Plus, if the child neglect charges start getting tossed around, things will really get rocky. Danny's pretty sure Tim knows that his parents aren't really…great at the whole parenting thing, but Tim's like Danny, and he won't call it what it is. Neglect. Endangerment.

What would happen, if Tim fell ill without anyone here? What would happen, if the Manor caught fire, or if someone broke in? Tim's parents are nearly impossible to reach.

That's not counting whatever the hell Tim was doing out in the middle of Gotham during one of the worst Arkham breakouts in actual years.

When he'd realized where Tim was, and what was happening…

Well, if Danny wasn't already half dead, that alone would've done it.

Danny sits that kitchen table, and tries to figure out how he's going to do this.

It's a long night.

Tim wakes with a dry throat and eyes that don't want to open. For a long, long moment, he just lies there. Last night was scarier than he'd ever intended and maybe it's a little sick, but he's almost glad of it.

Danny had proved he could keep his word, at least a little.

He's probably gone by now, doing whatever it is he does when he's not at the Manor. Tim can't remember if Danny had said he was going to stay, so it's not a broken promise if he goes downstairs and there's no one there.

He almost starts crying again when he hears someone in the kitchen. There's a low hum of music, and the sound of pots and dishes.

Danny hadn't left.

Swallowing thickly, Tim enters the kitchen in time to see Danny sliding a thick slice of French toast onto a plate stacked with several already done slices. Tim knows he didn't have that much bread left, let alone anything cut that thick, which means Danny went shopping at some point.

Also, French toast after what happened last night seems…off, somehow. Isn't this when he'd get grounded or something? Of course…Danny's not his dad or anything, but he's still an adult, and his soul mate—

Danny looks over and smiles, and Tim's train of thought crashes. It's an easy smile, one he's seen on Danny's face many times now, but the fact that it's still there makes some unnamed emotion shake in Tim's chest.

He'd been expecting a glare. A flat, disapproving face. A lecture, this is not how we behave, Timothy. You are a Drake, act like it.

"Good morning," Danny greets, and Tim blinks.

"Good morning," he manages, a beat too late. Danny grabs the plate of French toast with one hand and turns the burner off with the other.

"There's bacon and eggs, as well," Danny says, setting the stack down on the breakfast nook.

"Thanks," Tim says, sliding into the bench seat. The rest of the food makes it to the table, and Danny pours Tim a glass of water and a glass of prune juice without Tim having to ask.

"Of course, dig in," Danny says, already grabbing some bacon.

They eat in companionable silence for a bit, until the pit of hunger that had bloomed in Tim at the sight of so much food starts to ease.

"Are…I mean…" It's stupid to ask for punishment, right? But…what other option is there? Danny may not have official authority over Tim but…he has last night to hang over Tim's head. He has leverage. Tim's not stupid, he knows Danny could contact Tim's parents himself, tell them who he is, and get him into so much trouble.

(Tim ignores the fact that they still haven't answered his email informing them of Danny's existence in the first place.)

Danny blinks, taking another bite. "Are…?" he prompts.

Is he serious? Tim sighs. "I guess I'm just wondering how much trouble I'm in." Adults never ask why he's done something, or not done something, really, they just tell him to be better.

This is not how we act, Timothy.

Tim hears more than sees Danny lean back, and it's only years of practice that stops him from squirming when Danny sighs.

"I do wonder what you were doing in the middle of Gotham after midnight, Tim," Danny says, but there's no censure in his tone—he doesn't sound like he's already written Tim off. And…Tim waits, but there's no immediate lecture.

He chances a glance up, and Danny's face isn't happy, really, but…

It's not cold.

Tim swallows, leans forward. "It's a long story, really, but…I like to take pictures, you know." He looks up again, and Danny nods, brow furrowed. "I'm good at it, but you can only take a picture of your backyard so much. So I…started going further afield."

"And further afield is Gotham in the middle of the night?" Danny questions, still sounding calm. Tim swallows.

"Uh, sorta?" Tim gives in to the urge to fidget a bit, flipping his fork around his fingers. "It's less Gotham, really. I'm…after a specific subject. Subjects."

Danny closes his eyes. "Tim."

"I'm really careful—"

"Tim," Danny says again, with something like despair. "Are you telling me you run around after Gotham's vigilantes and take their pictures?"

"It's possible," Tim hedges. Danny's face does something complicated, and he seems torn between laughing and collapsing in despair.

Danny mutters something like karma before meeting Tim's gaze again. "And how long have you been stalking Batman and Robin?"

"It's not stalking," Tim protests. "I've just figured out some of their patrol routes." And favored roofs. And maybe found their comm channel.

And you know, figured out their secret identities.

It wasn't like it was hard.

Danny stares. "You are too smart to expect me to believe that you don't know that's stalking."

Tim shrugs. "You can believe whatever."

"Tim," Danny says, but can't seem to follow it up with anything else. He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm going to clean up our dishes and process for a few minutes. And then we're going to keep talking, because this has gone so far off course we're aiming for Mars."

They're going to keep talking? Isn't this the point where Danny says he's banning Tim from stepping foot out of the house save for school and confiscates his camera? Isn't this the part where Danny realizes Tim's too much in all the wrong places and stops coming around?

But Danny does exactly what he says. He cleans up their dishes, and Tim jumps in to help. They don't really talk as they scrape off dishes, pack up leftovers, load the dishwasher and give the counters a quick wipe. Not until they're done, and when Danny seems to have settled a bit.

"Do you want to keep talking in here or elsewhere?" Danny asks after he gives the kitchen one final scan. Tim blinks. He gets a choice?

"Here's fine," Tim decides. The sun is coming in the window nicely, warming their little breakfast nook. Besides, it keeps the table between them. Easier for Tim to keep a little distance for when Danny gives whatever excuse he's thought of as they cleaned up.

Danny nods, and they settled back into their seats.

"Alright," Danny says, and here it comes. "We're going to table the whole stalking Batman thing for a moment. That's…that's a conversation we're going to have, but we need to have a different one first."

What other conversation could they possibly need to have? Danny laughs a little at whatever expression Tim's making.

"I swear it's relevant." Danny promises. "So, I thought about how to say this…for weeks, but I know you appreciate people being up front with things."

Tim's gut twists, and his hands go cold. He does appreciate it. He'll appreciate that Danny didn't lie, or make false promises. He'll appreciate that it'll be a clean break when Danny says he's not coming back. At least it won't give Tim hope.

He's so, so tired of hope.

"Tim," Danny says, and Tim jolts. How many times had Danny called his name? A lot, judging by his expression. "Tim, hey, it's gonna be okay. This…it's going to be rough, but we'll figure it all out, okay?"

"We?" Tim manages, his throat tight. Danny nods.

"Yeah, we," he says. "I'm not gonna just drop this on you and run."

Tim has officially lots track of what this conversation could even begin to be about.

"Okay," he says, when it seems like Danny's waiting for a response. Danny frowns, but starts talking, to Tim's relief.

"A little background," he starts. "I have a friend who's very good at hacking. His name is Tucker, and he was very happy to hear I'd found another soul mate. When I told him that your parents still hadn't responded to you about me, he decided to check and make sure everything was okay—and they are."

Tim nods, because again, Danny seems to be waiting for a response. Honestly, the only time Tim would hear about his parents in any form of prompt way would be if something happened to them. There would be lawyers and distant relatives at his doors before the cops could even get here to tell him. He knows his parents are fine. He honestly would've been more concerned if they had answered quickly.

Danny takes a moment, and then clearly decides to keep going. "Tucker's methods on finding people are…unorthodox, to say the least. When he was checking in on things, he noticed that someone else was too. When he looked into it more, he realized that your parents were under some scrutiny from…various law enforcement agencies."

"Drake Industries has excellent lawyers," Tim says, rote. His voice is distant, flat. It's not the first time the company, or his parents have had someone checking on them but—

It sounds bigger than that. Something flutters in his chest. He's wondered, sometimes, about some things his parents have said. Some things they've done. Money that didn't make sense, whispers that sounded off, messages and packages left that were cryptic. Some of the parties he's been dragged to over the years were filled with…unsavory characters. There was a quickly handled, near scandal a few years back about forged paintings and questionably sourced artifacts.

But Drake Industries has excellent lawyers, and an even better PR department.

Lawyers are important, Timothy, his father had said once. But never forget to pay your PR department just as well, if not more. Lawyers handle the paperwork. The public isn't so simple.

Danny leans forward, one of his hands laid near the center of the table. "Yeah, I know. But I don't think it's going to matter this time, Tim. Tucker looked into it, and showed it to me. There's a lot, and it's…it's not so much the company as it is them. I'm not a lawyer, or good with knowing how corporations work but… my friend Sam knows a thing or to. If Drake Industries is smart, Tim, they'll write your parents off. They'll claim to know nothing, use the board to strip them of their titles. It's not going to be pretty."

Tim's heart is pounding. His parents. His parents. They're never here, they've never cared but—

They're the only thing he's got. If. If they go to jail—

"Your friend. Tucker," Tim says, voice thick and shaking. "Have-have him make it go away or something. He's a hacker he can. You-you're just going to let this happen?" He's yelling, when did he start yelling? "W-what's going to happen to me? You're just going to let them go to jail for who knows how long? They-there's going to be a huge deal about who gets me, because I won't be a person, I'll be the only thing with legally binding holdings to a massive company—"

Arms. Familiar arms, a familiar voice. "Shh, Tim, it's okay, shh, breathe." Danny soothes, hugging him carefully. Tim hadn't even heard him move. "Easy, it's okay. I'm sorry, I should've taken it easier on you. Take a moment, Tim, it's okay."

He's shaking, Tim realizes. He can't stop shaking, but Danny doesn't let go. Danny keeps talking, but it's gentle, calming. There's no yelling.

Tim clings, gripping Danny with everything he has. It takes a long time to calm down.

"Keep going," Tim says after who knows how long. He doesn't take his face out from Danny's shoulder. "Please, keep going."

Danny nods. "To answer your question, Tucker can't just make it go away. There's too many people, too much already written down and in motion. It's not just a wire tap or something, Tim, it's an entire operation. If Tucker erases it, it'll just make things worse. They're preparing to arrest them, Tim, and that's not something that's just on the internet." He pauses for a moment, and Tim—

Well, his brain's always worked fast. He'd wondered if it was too late before Danny had even continued speaking.

His parents are on a sinking ship, and there's not a damn life raft. And everyone's forgotten Tim.

"Okay," he says, because what else is there to say? There's nothing to be done. And…his parents made choices. They've always made their own, done what they wanted.

It didn't matter what anyone else thought. It didn't matter what anyone else needed.

"It's not okay," Danny says, voice just a touch sharp. Tim shrinks a bit. "It's not okay, Tim. They've left you here alone while they lie and cheat and steal. They leave you here, and don't think about the consequences of it all. They want you to be their perfect heir but do nothing to actually raise you. This could tank their entire company, no matter how hard the board tries to cut them off, and it could leave you with nothing. And even if the company doesn't go under, they're still leaving you high and dry as every bastard who thinks they have a shot at manipulating you tries to claim guardianship. The entire situation sucks, Tim, and you're allowed to be upset."

Never show them where it hurts, Timothy, his dad's voice whispers. Drake men do not cry, Timothy, his mother scolds. You know how to behave, stop acting like a child, and start acting like a Drake.

Danny's wrong about his parents not raising him. Tim's always known what's not allowed.

"Being upset won't stop anything," Tim mutters. He still hasn't let go of Danny, and Danny hasn't let go of him. He knows what's acceptable behavior, and this isn't it, but…

This is Danny. And Danny's never shamed Tim for anything. And Tim doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to be a proper Drake. He…he just wants to be Tim, for once.

"No," Danny agrees, running a hand through Tim's hair, without a care of messing it up. "But it's a natural response, Tim. You're a kid, not a robot. This…this is a lot, and I'm sorry I have to tell you about all this."

Tim manages something like a shrug. "You're honest. You talk to me." For all that his parents demanded he act like an adult, they'd never liked it when Tim questioned things, or tried to get too involved in things they deemed he was 'too young' for. Old enough to be left alone, to feed himself mostly, to go to school and do homework, but not old enough to know anything real about the company, or question their trips, or be talked to, rather than talked at.

"Well…yeah," Danny says, confused. "What else am I supposed to do? I can't stop what's happening to your parents, but I can at least give you some warning."

Tim slumps a bit. His fingers hurt from how hard he's been gripping Danny's shirt. "Thanks," he says. How long does he have, he wonders. Surely enough time to gather some emergency cash, important papers, and some supplies. Maybe even get a couple stashes out in Gotham proper, before his parents are arrested and CPS comes knocking.

Any family he has will only want his money, and foster homes are out of the question.

"So that's the bad news," Danny says, clearly aiming for a joking tone. Tim snorts anyway, even if he can't quite find real humor.

"And the good news?" Tim asks, the sarcasm think. There really isn't any good news.

"I…well, there is something, that is…" Danny fumbles, but before Tim can wonder too much, Danny keeps going. "As your soul mate, I do have the right to apply for guardianship. If…if you wanted."

Tim stills. Danny could—

"I can't access my trust fund or any of the Drake Industries stocks until I'm 18." Tim says, because surely, surely that's what Danny wants. "In fact I think most of my trust fund is locked until I'm 2—"

"I don't care," Danny says, and Tim finds himself with Danny's hands gently gripping each shoulder as Danny looks him in the eyes. "Tim, I don't want your money, I have enough myself. I sued my godfather for patent fraud the second I turned 18 and took his entire company out from under him. I'm not quite up to Drake Industries level, but I'm a rich man. I don't care if you've got 50 million or 50 cents. You—I—"

Danny closes his eyes, visibly collecting himself. Tim…Tim doesn't know what to say. If Danny doesn't want his money—

"Tim, I've got a couple different soul mates, and every one has changed my life in ways I never thought possible. It's not always been good, or at least, it's not been good in the moment, but it became something good. Expect for one exception, but that doesn't matter." Danny keeps going before Tim can even start to question. "But I never expected how much you'd change my life. Tim I was so bad at school, and I've been looking up everything I can about how to help challenge you without burning you out. I love spending time with you, I can't shut up about you. I stuck your last aced math text to the fridge at home. I've been driving my friends nuts worrying about you, trying to figure out how to tell you what's happening. I…Tim I want to be there for you. I'm not your father but…I'd really, really like to be your guardian, however that works for you. I…haven't really thought about having kids, but…"

Danny shrugs a bit, seemingly out of words. Tim stares. Danny doesn't want to leave. Danny cares.

"You'd…you'd take me in?" Tim whispers, disbelieving. Someone who doesn't want his money or status. Someone who actually listens when Tim talks.

Danny has done more for Tim, been there more for Tim in the last few months than his parents have his entire life. Maybe it's a low bar but—

Tim knows when people are faking…and Danny's not faking.

"In a heartbeat," Danny confirms. "We've looked into the laws, and soul mates are considered for guardianships, if they're suitable. I've gotten the paperwork in order, got a lawyer on standby. You're old enough to have a say, and I'll support you, even if you don't choose me."

"You," Tim says, and now his voice is choked up for an entirely different reason. "You, Danny. Please."

Danny smiles, relief and joy on his face. "Of course, kiddo."

Tim moves, locking his arms around Danny's neck and holding on.

Danny doesn't tell him to let go.

"Now, this talking Batman thing—"

"…You can ground me now," Tim realizes with horror.

"I can, but…how about we talk about it first?"

"I plead the fifth."

"Karma…this…this is so much karma."

A year later…

"Hey, you never did tell me what this rune meant," Tim says, scowling at the infuriating language etched on his skin. His soul mark is just as vibrant as the day it appeared, but if looks could wear it away, it'd be gone by now. He's worked out some of the letters, and some of the sounds, but Far Frozen script is probably the hardest thing he's ever tried to translate. Danny had warned him but…

Tim wanted to know.

Danny glances over, and then smiles softly. "It's a dual rune. You can't translate that one because you're looking at it separately from the second half."

"Dual runes suck," Tim mutters, and Danny laughs.

"They do," he agrees. "But that one is my favorite."

"Still doesn't tell me what is means." Tim pouts, flopping backwards onto the overly blush recliner. They're still in Gotham, because it's home, but they've long left Drake Manor behind. The year's been rough but…

Not nearly as rough as it could've been. Danny had never left Tim's side, no matter how much Tim had lashed out or lost it or sobbed or yelled. The day his parents were sentenced was horrid, but Danny's kept every promise he's ever made.

Danny rolls up his sleeve, and holds his arm out in front of Tim, pointing to one of his own lines of runes. "We share it, see?"

Tim blinks, and looks. Huh, they do.

"It doesn't translate well," Danny continues. "It's…well, it references a bond. I guess the best way to describe it is…parent," he points to one of the runes, and then the other. "Child. But it's more than that. It's…" he sighs. "Frostbite's better at explaining this, but yetis form their children, or find them in the ice fields. Parental bonds are…a mutual thing. They're guided together, in yeti myth, by the ice and the winds. It's not about relation, or blood, or ectoplasm, or even cores. It's about choice. It's about intent. That's what this rune is—it's the choice to be a parent, but it's also the choice of the child, in a way."

Danny laughs, rueful. "Sorry, I guess that doesn't make much sense."

Tim, whose gaze is still locked on the rune, shakes his head. "No, no it made sense. We…we both had to want this."

Danny smiles. "Yeah, we did."

Tim shifts, pulling a bit at Danny's arm. Danny leans down, easily sliding into a hug. Tim clings, because it doesn't matter that he's fourteen, Danny never tells him he's too old for hugs.

"I'm glad," Tim whispers. "I'm so glad you found me."

Danny's grip tightens. "I am too, kiddo."

They stay silent for a long moment.

"I love you, pops," Tim says, softly, shyly. He's never said anything other than Danny before, not out loud, and rarely in his head.

Danny swallows hard. "Oh, kid," he runs a hand through Tim's hair. "I love you, too."