Chapter Text
“I have trackers on everyone I care about! It’s how I keep you safe!”
Danny paused, bleeding back into tangibility on the cold Gotham rooftop. Across from him, a masked vigilante paced, domino mask in place but cowl shoved back by the aggressive rake of a gloved hand.
Why were all of Gotham’s vigilantes called some version of bat or bird? Danny squinted at the details on this one’s suit. Robin? No, he looked older. Red Robin.
The man yanked at his hair, dark and clumped from sweat and that hood. “It’s not about control, Kon! Are we seriously having this fight again? You’re invulnerable, but you’re not invincible. How many times do I have to save your ass before you realize that?”
Either Danny’s hearing had mysteriously improved or this “Kon” had started yelling.
“—save my ass? You can’t even keep yourself alive the normal way! How many times have I dragged you to bed because you were about to pass out? How often do you compromise your precious mission by going out on patrol on an empty stomach?”
“Fine!” the vigilante yelled. “I’m an asshole and an idiot and I suck at taking care of myself! But that’s not what we were talking about. Please, Kon—for the love of any Kryptonian god—stop disabling my fucking trackers. They register when they’re no longer active and they freak out and then I freak out because I don’t know if you’re safe!”
This time the reply was too quiet for Danny to hear, but the other man flinched like he’d been struck, hand cradling the comm in his ear.
“I’m not—” his voice broke. He coughed and tried again. “This has nothing to do with my parents.” The words were gritty, almost painful.
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”
It was silent for a while before Danny realized the guy on the other line must have hung up. The vigilante hadn’t moved, shoulders slumped and gaze on cigarette studded concrete beneath his boots.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your boyfriend kinda sounds like an asshole.”
The vigilante whirled around, staff raised, at about the same moment Danny realized he’d spoken.
“Who are you?” the man growled, all signs of vulnerability erased. Sad, the man pulled off the kicked puppy look.
“Just your average friendly neighborhood specter,” he twirled, using a little ghost juice to give the motion his signature flare. “At your service.”
Blank white eyes glared at him, but Danny had seen too much weird shit in the ghost zone for that to freak him out.
“Batman doesn’t allow metas in Gotham,” Red Robin (Danny was pretty sure) snapped, voice uncompromising. Yeah, Danny guessed even without the boost he’d just used, the glowing gave him away. “And we don’t need an overpowered teenager killing people and destroying property because they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Danny squawked. “A teen—? I’m twenty-one, asshole!”
The man looked him up and down. “Uh huh. Sure, kid.”
“I am,” Danny insisted. “And I’m not green. Well,” he shrugged, because he kind of glowed green and white sometimes, “I’m not new. Or incompetent. I’m not even vigilante-ing!”
Red Robin dropped the butt of his staff to the ground, looking like he very much wanted to sigh but couldn’t because he had to act all “intimidating alpha in a cape” Danny kinda wanted to see if he could break that composure. “And the reason for the suit?”
“Eh, who really chooses what they die in?”
The pair stared at each other, and Danny swore as he realized what he’d unwittingly revealed. “Fuck uhhh nevermind! I don’t even know why I said that, haha, you must just be so intimidating that I lost touch with reality,” he babbled, backing away. Time to go, now.
“Wait!” Robin stepped forward, hand outstretched to halt his escape. “Wait, kid, did you come out of a Lazarus Pit?”
A what? There was no way Danny was answering any more questions, though. He’d barely managed to shake of the Guys in White before coming to Gotham and he’d just gotten into a really awesome aerospace engineering program at Gotham U and he’d gotten a cheap apartment and even a couch that only kind of stabbed him in the ass with rusty springs and he could not get run out of town.
“Sorry dude,” he said, trying to grin and only half-succeeding. “No idea what you’re talking about. Best of luck with the asshole, though!” Danny didn’t even wait for the other’s reply before dropping into full intangibility and invisibility and shooting off into the night.
…
“There’s a new player in town.”
Bruce—no, Batman—looked up from the Batcomputer, face already set in a scowl. “What?”
Tim let himself fall into parade rest. He was itching to get out of his costume. He’d tripped off the roof and landed in a dumpster after the nosy meta vanished into thin air, and all he could hope was that Oracle hadn’t saved the footage for use at a later date. Still, he stunk and there was an extremely questionable substance drying on his left knee.
“A metahuman. Young, likely between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, although he claimed to be twenty-one. His powers seem to include some ability to float, possibly increased agility, and either intangibility or teleportation, although I’m inclined to believe the former.”
Batman stood. “And how have you determined this?”
Tim refused to acknowledge the way the alpha loomed over him. “I spoke with him briefly. When he revealed—”
“Good lord, Drake,” Damian interrupted, strutting into the room, nose wrinkled. “Could you not be bothered to shower after rolling around in filth? Some of us have standards, including cleanliness, of which you might consider availing yourself.”
Jaw clenched, Tim continued, “When pressed, the meta revealed that—”
“Father,” Damian interjected, “Drake’s presence, while always objectionable, has become offensive. Surely this could be a report, so that he might unburden us of his presence?”
Batman sighed, and Tim saw the moment he became Bruce again. For Damian. Never for Tim. For Tim, he was Batman.
“Damian, I thought you were asleep,” he said, attention focused on his youngest. “Your patrol ended hours ago.”
The boy sniffed. “As your successor, it is vital that I take advantage of all hours to train and elevate my…”
Whatever else he said, Tim suppressed entirely as he slipped out of the Cave. Redwing, ever faithful, was waiting for him. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have bothered to come to the Cave at all. The meta could have been included in a report. Bruce was touchy about metas, though, and Tim had just thought…Well, it didn’t matter. When he touched Redwing, she was still warm.
…
Bruce Wayne looked up from his challenging, traumatized youngest’s face at the rev of an engine. The spot where Tim Drake-Wayne had stood was empty. His son hadn’t even taken his mask off.
…
Tim was so smart.
He groaned as he tumbled under the pounding spray of hot water. When designing his apartment, Tim hadn’t worried much for appearances. Defensible entry and exit points, unshakable internet access, and a microwave. Those were his priorities.
But the bathroom? There, Tim had pulled out all the stops. Pristine white marble with blue-grey veins. A standing vanity with two sinks and plenty of counter space, half of which was covered in fancy bottles of skincare: serums and masks and lotions and scrubs. A massive tub with jets and a separate shower with a bewildering array of settings, including a rain shower. That was for gentler nights though. Right now, Tim needed the water to scrape off at least three layers of skin.
After an initial—violent—scrub over his entire body and then a second one, Tim put his head down and just let the water beat over him. There was enough steam to make him dizzy, and Tim didn’t take note of the moment he sank to the floor of the shower, limp and flushed. Sometimes the shower was the only place Tim could just let go: stop thinking, stop worrying about everything and everyone, stop the dull, perpetual ache that laced every muscle and joint.
He was so tired.
Eventually, he reached out and pressed the button to turn off the spray. Too quickly, the room chilled, and Tim shivered, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs before pulling a plush towel off the (heated) towel rack and wrapping it around himself. He slathered cream on his face, gave his teeth a quick brush and staggered into the bedroom, barely pausing to pull on boxers before collapsing into bed.
He had to be up in three hours to put on a suit and run Wayne Enterprises. Tim closed his eyes and was out like a light.
…
Danny usually liked his job slinging coffee for bleary-eyed commuters and equally exhausted college students, but today had been a mess and it was only 8am.
The expresso machine mysteriously broke at some point in the middle of the night, making a third of their menu useless. Some rogue—Danny hadn’t learned all their names yet—had attacked the main road at 6am in the freaking morning, and the mess still wasn’t cleaned up, meaning everyone was rushing and cranky. Danny had fought homicidal ghost lunch ladies and entities who could control time, and he still wasn’t sure he’d ever been as anxious as he was with a crowd of sleep-deprived, uncaffeinated Gothamites glaring him down as he tried to remember how to make a Frappuccino.
“A kamikaze, please. Make it a double.”
Danny startled, realizing that he’d paused to catch his breath and managed to shut down for a good few seconds.
“A what?”
The young alpha exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He blinked open bright blue eyes, underscored by Gucci bags, and parted his lips to repeat himself when Danny’s coworker, Sara, spoke up.
“Espresso machine’s busted, Drake, and you know you’re not allowed to double a kamikaze. Stop trying to con my trainees.”
Danny frowned at her. “What is that?”
She raised a dark brow. “What you’ve never made this asshole’s death wish of an order before?”
He shook his head.
Sara snorted. “It’s seven shots of espresso and two pumps of vanilla with a splash of milk. Ice, if he’s expecting to have a reallllyyy shitty day.”
“Fuck you, Miller,” the man said, voice dry. Then he grimaced. “I really needed that iced today.” Drake sighed. “Here,” he pulled a couple hundred hundred-dollar bills out of his fancy ass suit pocket and tossed them on the counter. “Fix your machine. Your shop is the only one on my route that doesn’t taste like dogshit and tears.”
Sara snatched up the bills before Danny could blink. “You’re a rich prick,” she said brightly, “but useful. Which is why I had someone run and get you this.” She pulled a tall coffee out from under the table, sliding it across the counter. “Happy Hanukkah.”
Drake’s eyes widened, and Danny had to blink several times as the man reached out rapturously, looking at Sara like she was a god. Danny twitched at the thought, an image of that expression directed at him flashing across his eyes.
Not breaking eye contact, Drake took a swig of coffee and dropped another hundred on the counter. “You’ve saved many lives today.”
Sara rolled her eyes, but the bill vanished as quickly as the first two. “Get the hell out of here and stop clogging up my line.”
After the morning rush, Danny and Sara slumped against the metal counters, winded. Danny thought that he’d be happy if he never made a coffee or talked to a frantic office worker again.
“So,” Sara drawled, breaking the silence. “Got a thing for pathetic alphas, huh?”
Danny choked on his own spit and might have died if not for…you know. “For what?”
Sara raised her eyebrows. She was tall and stocky with beaded twists that clicked softly when she moved her head. A beta too, although she stared down alphas all day long with a kind of fearlessness that said she’d rock your shit, regardless of your designation. “You looked awfully shifty when rich boy Drake got all whiney and sad about his coffee. Or was it just the hundred-dollar bills flying around? Wouldn’t blame you,” she added, tilting her head. “You could do worse for sugar daddies.”
Danny spluttered. “I’m not—I don’t—what—?!”
She sighed. “Well, he didn’t seem to notice you much this go round, but he comes in almost every day, so you’ll have your shot. Just stick your ass out a little next time, spread those omega pheromones around a bit. No one that chronically stressed is getting laid, so I doubt it’d take much.”
“Nope,” Danny shook his head, hands raised in defense. “I’m out, not having this conversation, wow, look at the time! So many dishes to do, talk again never!”
Danny collapsed against the wall of the tiny kitchen, trying to rein in the green-tinged blush on his cheeks.
Today had been a mess, and it was only 11am.
…
Tim legitimately thought he might prefer to simply perish rather than attend one more shareholder meeting. Every single attendee of these meetings was old and rich. They were entitled, selfish, and skewed heavily toward chronically soothed white men who had never heard the word no in their many, many years on earth.
None of them were thrilled to be hearing it from a twenty-two year old nepo baby with only a GED whose “tailored suit couldn’t hide the wet behind his ears.”
Tim didn’t let it show how much he hated these meetings, how exhausting he found them, or his anger every time they belittled WE’s projects in city infrastructure and public health. Tim couldn’t defend these projects—his projects—because he needed a seat at the table. He couldn’t have a soft heart, so Tim wore his mother’s face. Janet Drake, a vicious businesswoman who commanded respect in any room she entered. Jack Drake was nothing, an heir and a name, but Janet was a powerhouse that few were willing to cross.
When these old farts stepped out of line, he reminded them which parent he took after.
Not today though. Today, he took it on the chin because working with shareholders was a matter of give and take. He’d gotten most of what he wanted—continued funding for WE’s charity and innovation departments, primarily—even if he’d had to compromise by allowing a no-doubt useless, entitled niece to fill a recent vacancy and by reducing WE’s transparency policy. The latter grated, as Tim had been working hard to distinguish WE from companies such as LexCorp, but giving in was the only way to divert attention from Tim’s pet project, funneling ex-cons and other individuals with rough pasts into WE’s ranks.
This was his own initiative as Red Robin. He’d seen too many people fall back into crime because of poverty and discrimination. WE hired people with felony convictions, disabilities, and more. Tim had implemented free childcare—very difficult to sell to the board—and generous benefits. All of it was valuable. None of it was especially profitable which meant Tim walked a very thin line to keep it all from tumbling down.
He chugged the last of his coffee. Thank every god for Sara Miller, local coffee shop goddess that she was. Tim was going to overpay for coffee until the day he died, just to make sure that next time their machine broke, she though of him again. He would not have survived today without caffeine.
The new barista was cute, Tim mused for all of a second before the guilt hit him. He was dating Kon-El. He shouldn’t be thinking about anyone as cute.
Tim let out a groan that veered dangerously close to whine territory. Gods he needed sleep. And a cuddle. Kon had been off world for a month, and then he’d gotten back and immediately blown up at Tim for the numerous trackers laced within his clothes, shoes, and various belongings. Tim, wisely, withheld the fact that he’d seriously considered infecting Kon with nanotrackers inserted into his food. Tim wasn’t sure how well they’d work with Kryptonian biology, but he’d been more than willing to find out. It was Dick who’d put an end to that.
“Whatcha working on, baby bird?”
Tim barely looked up from the workbench. “Nanites.” Why was Dick even in the Tower?
“Coooool, cool cool.” Dick perched his ass on the table, mere inches from Tim’s tools. “What’re they for?”
“So I can know where Kon is at all times.” Tim replied honestly, only half-paying attention because the nanites were freaking tiny and Dick’s big blue ass was blocking his light. “Could you move?”
A silent pause. “Uh, Timmy. Does Kon…know about this?”
Tim frowned, glancing up. “I don’t know. Probably not. Why?”
Dick’s grin looked a little forced. “Baby bird, you know you can’t do that right? Not without checking with him first.”
Tim blinked. “Yes I can.”
“No,” Dick said, taking a deep breath, “you shouldn’t. It’s an invasion of privacy. How would you feel if I tracked you all the time without you knowing?”
Like you cared about me.
Tim shrugged.
“Right…” Dick trailed off. “Well, uh, good chat. No nanites inside of Kon-El, agreed?”
Tim could tell that he wasn’t really asking. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Great!” Dick hopped off the table, nearly toppling a nearby set of tools. “Wanna come back to Gotham for awhile? Damian and I were gonna go to—”
“I’m busy,” Tim interrupted, eyes focused on the delicate machinery so Dick wouldn’t see the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“Right.” A quiet sigh. And then Tim was alone again.
So all in all, Tim was twitchy, sleep-deprived, and touch-starved. He knew Bart was always down for a little platonic snuggling, but the speedster got stir crazy ever few minutes, and Tim just knew that if he actually managed to settle down with someone and then they tried to leave, he’d either cry or rip their face off.
He could try and work out the tension at the gym—that was how most alphas dealt with any wayward hormones—but Tim had always found that that method had just left him angrier and more exhausted.
So heating blankets and suppressants, it was.