Chapter Text
Now.
The sun is finishing its slow descent behind the skyline, spilling molten light and painting faces gold.
The haze provides an almost cinematic glow, making the gothic look of the Gotham skyline appear ethereal in the distance. String lights dangle lazily between makeshift poles on Tim’s rooftop, swaying just enough in the warm spring breeze to give the illusion of magic. The neighbourhood hums below, but up here, it’s nothing but music and laughter and the occasional clink of a bottle against a glass.
There are twenty, maybe thirty people scattered across his rooftop now. Most Tim invited on purpose. Others were brought by others with a “You have to meet them, they’re cool, promise.” There are a few of Steph’s college friends, someone Cass met through a Krav Maga class, and a pair of random but inexplicably cool baristas Duke invited. Somehow, it works. Point is, no one’s caring about being conspicuous because for once in his life, Tim has a place that not also a safehouse. It’s just his home. He bought it half on impulse, half on the quiet need to finally put down roots somewhere that didn’t reek of legacy.
There’s laughter coming from the corner with the makeshift bar, and the faint scent of weed wafting from where Bart’s set himself up behind the decks. Whatever, Tim spent a lifetime fighting crime. He can afford to be a tad law-adjacent for once in his life.
The music is nice and chill – just what he asked for. Bart, miraculously not vibrating out of his skin for once, is hunched over his portable DJ setup like it’s a sacred altar. Brow furrowed in concentration, his floofy hair held back by a pink headband. This new hobby of his clearly suits him, and Tim’s not complaining. Much better than a Spotify playlist.
He makes his way over to the makeshift DJ booth, which is really just a folding table with the decks, Bart’s open MacBook, and a disturbing number of sticker-covered cables. Bart’s muttering something under his breath, probably about BPMs and transitions and “finding the soul of the moment” – he’s been insufferable about vibes lately.
“DJ Impulse,” Tim says, leaning in close so he doesn’t have to shout. “You good? You look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.”
Bart startles, then grins up at him, cheeks a little pink from the sunset or maybe the edible he’d split with Cassie earlier. He fiddles with the gain knob and bops in time with the beat. “I am defusing a bomb,” he says. “A bomb made of feelings.”
Tim snorts. “Okay, choppy.”
Bart immediately looks wounded. “Wow. Wow, bro. I play one bad remix one time and I’m branded for life. I thought we were friends.”
“You’re wearing a headband and no shoes. I don’t think your credibility can get any lower.”
“I’m vibing,” Bart says dramatically. “You should try it sometime, Timothy. Re-lax.”
They both know it’s a defunct point – lately Tim’s been the most relaxed he’s ever been. Still, he laughs and slouches onto the milk crate Bart’s labelled ‘VIP Lounge’ and watches everyone move to the music. Some are dancing, some just swaying a little as they carry out their conversation. It fits the vibe – the music is a mix of chillwave, ambient soul, with the occasional disco track thrown in. Bart seems to love his disco.
He can hear Cassie’s laughter over the music, from where she’s lounging on a Papasan chair. Behind her, Steph is sitting up on the brick ledge and doing a particularly shit job of braiding glowsticks into the other blonde’s hair. Tim watches as she leans down to whisper something in Cassie’s ear, before the two blondes lose their shit in giggles. Steph nearly falls off the edge of the roof from laughing too hard. Nearby, Kon is in conversation with Tam Fox not too far off, the former looking almost ridiculously massive as he towers over everyone else. It makes Tim smile though, seeing Tam here. Among all his other favourite people.
Yeah… Tim’s feeling quietly, stupidly happy right now.
The beat picks up a little, and Bart lets out a small whoop beside him. “Hooo boy, you hear that transition Timmy?”
Tim shrugs. He’s never really been able to tell the difference between good and less good mixing – can only pick out the really shit stuff. “Sure. It was, uh, smooth. Not choppy at all.”
Bart snorts. “You absolute square.”
“Hey, we’re on my roof, aren’t we? And you’re using the decks that I paid for.”
Bart shakes his head, already pulling a little tin from the front pocket of his hoodie. “Alright then, Mr. Rich. Keep an eye on things while I roll up will ya?”
Bart starts working quickly and easily, spreading out the papers and ground bud on the corner of the table. Deliberately not using his Speed, which Tim’s grateful for. While most people on the rooftop know who everyone else is, he’s not really looking forward to explaining to those two baristas why the DJ phases through the floor.
Tim turns to the decks, not really knowing what any of the buttons or knobs do beyond a baseline level of understanding. So he just sticks with the strategy of not fucking up. Adjusting the bass a tiny bit when he feels it fits. Hopefully.
“Yes Tim!” He looks up to see Kon hollering at him from the back, grin stretched wide. “Let me have your babies!”
It gets a laugh from even Tam, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows dancing in amusement. Tim just shakes his head at his idiot best friend, ignoring the stupid flip of his stomach before turning back to his low effort job.
“Dunzo, you have a lighter?” Bart asks a moment later, holding up his joint.
Tim sighs and fishes one out of his bumbag as Bart takes back over the music. The quality immediately picks back up. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Positively adorable,” Bart agrees, flicking the lighter and taking a long drag, eyes slipping half-lidded as he exhales smoke toward the sky.
Tim watches the plume drift upward, caught in a sunbeam like fog on film. The city stretches wide behind it, glittering in the last dregs of golden hour, and for a second, Tim feels suspended. Not floating exactly, but... lifted. Held. Like the rooftop is its own little world, humming softly on a different frequency. A moment in time, everything else forgotten outside his little bubble.
Bart bumps his hip into Tim’s on the way past, reclaiming the decks with the confidence of a man who once tried to remix a whale song into a club track (Tim was there, it was actually pretty sick). “Thanks for not ruining the set while I was gone,” he teases.
“I literally touched, like, one knob.”
“And you touched it beautifully,” Bart says, adjusting the EQ. “I’d say your talents are wasted, but honestly? You have too much trauma to be a DJ.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Anytime, broski.”
Tim takes his drink back from where he’d left it on the milk crate – something citrusy and vaguely fizzy handed to him by Duke’s friends earlier. He still doesn’t know their names, but one of them complimented his black nail polish earlier, so Tim’s declared them honorary citizens of the rooftop.
He meanders away from the booth, walking slow and easily through the clusters of people. Someone’s laid out an old rug in the middle of the roof, and a bunch of the younger crowd – Jon and Jay among them – are sprawled across it like sleepy cats, laughing at something on Jay’s phone. Jon waves when he spots him, and Tim gives a little wave back, in that friendly way when you see your kid brother’s best friend. Damian himself hadn’t thought Tim’s super awesome rooftop party was cool enough for him. Tim probably would’ve barred his entry anyway, just to be a little shit.
He spots Bernard a little ways off, standing beside Duke near the string lights, deep in conversation about something that has them both gesturing with their hands like amateur philosophers. For a moment, Tim watches him, just long enough to notice the way he laughs at something Duke says, easy and unguarded. There’s no pang in Tim’s chest, no twist of longing. Just a quiet, settled warmth. They’re good now. They made it out the other side intact, not as exes with baggage, but as people who once meant something to each other and now mean something different. It’s enough.
Tim’s friends are all here.
Now that the sun’s beginning to set properly, Steph’s started jumping groups to paint little doodles on people’s arms, using glow-in-the-dark ink. Tim watches as she puts the finishing touches on a mushroom and then a tiny UFO to Kon’s bicep.
Kon catches Tim’s eye and beams. Beams like a goddamn golden retriever.
“Tim, we’re doing shots!”
“We’re absolutely not doing shots,” Tam corrects, pulling a bottle of gin away from Kon before he can pour it into a Solo cup.
“Spoilsport,” Steph coos, but is already making a beeline for Cass. She turns – points her paintbrush at Tim. “Don’t think I’m not coming for you later, Boy Blunder.”
Tim flips her off as she slinks away. Turning back to Kon and Tam, he chuckles. “You okay, big guy?”
“Never better,” Kon says, reaching out to pull him into a heavy-limbed, unbalanced hug. “I love your rooftop. I love you. I love Tam.”
Jesus. Tim knows for a fact that Kon hasn’t had anything other than alcohol tonight – guy’s just high on life, apparently.
He lets himself get dragged down onto one of the outdoor cushions next to them, drink still in hand, warm breeze brushing over his skin. The music changes again – Bart’s layered something new, a steady rhythm over soft horns and crackly vinyl sounds. It’s the kind of thing you could float in. The kind of thing that holds you.
Everything around him hums with quiet, lazy joy. People leaning into each other, shoes kicked off, cups half full and glowing in the fading light. Conversations drift in and out like birdsong. No one’s trying too hard. Everyone is just there.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but god, it’s good to be here. Good to be this version of himself. No cowl, no strategy. Just Tim, in baggie clothes and scuffed boots, surrounded by the people who know him best.
And for once, he’s learning not to wait for the moment to end.
Then.
He’s always had critical moments in his life. Ones that can be looked back on as a clear nexus for change. The day at Haley’s Circus. Knocking on Bruce Wayne’s door. Even the decision to not kill Captain Boomerang. All of them and more, key moments in forming who Tim is, making him the person he is today.
The most recent crucible for Tim? That’s come with a lot of alcohol.
Tim’s drunk. Kon right there with him. Bart and Cassie too. And yet the mood is kinda shit, mostly because as it turns out, Kon is a bit of a sad drunk.
It’s still kind of a good time, though? Tim’s not sure. What was originally meant to be a long-awaited catch-up between the four of them has instead become something else. The main perpetrator of that has been Tim, to be fair. There aren’t a huge amount of positives he can say in response to, “How’ve you been”. He’s also (mostly) the one to blame for why they haven’t all hung out together recently. Because, you know, Gotham.
Fucking Gotham.
“I think you’re burnt out, sweetie,” Cassie had said earlier in the evening. Tim hadn’t refuted it.
It’s not like he hasn’t realised it before now, even if Tim hadn’t necessarily put the thoughts into words yet. And it makes sense. Gotham definitely hasn’t gotten any quieter. If anything, things seem to be going downhill, even with more and more vigilantes showing up to join the fight. And after a month of trailing Two-Face, getting attacked by ninjas (again), and helping deal with yet another mass Arkham breakout, it’s safe to say that Tim’s not exactly feeling his best.
“Do you guys ever wonder when this is all gonna end?” They all look up when Bart asks the question. He’s upside down on the sofa. Legs up in the air and head hanging off the edge. Hair all fluffy and long. It’s a cute look. Bart’s such a cutie.
“Like, life?” Kon’s eyebrows twist adorably.
“No, bro. Us.”
“I don’t get it.”
“We’re, like, in-between. Don’t fit in to the grand scheme, you know?”
“In, like, the world?”
“In superheroes,” Bart elaborates, but then frowns. “But also in the world. Yes.”
Kon’s nodding along now, but Tim’s still having a hard time following along. He usually does with Bart, especially when the guy gets all philosophical. A quick glance at Cassie shows that she’s on her phone. Probably tuning out the idiot-boys. Which, fair enough.
“… golden generation, right?” Bart’s saying. “Nightwing and all the Titans. They’re basically the Justice League, these days. Then there’s the kinda evil peeps. Red Hood and his delinquents, y’know? And then we were meant to be the next generation. Except now the next next generation has, like, hopped over us.”
Oh. Ohhhh. Tim can kind of see where Bart’s going with this. Even if he is shitfaced and slurring his words. It’s not something he himself has voiced into actual verbiage before, not to his friends. But the shift with Damian back in Gotham is impossible to deny. Especially given that the kid’s tenure as Robin began with Dick kicking Tim out of the role. He’s been replaced from day one.
“Pretty sure Jon is actually older than me, now,” Kon mumbles.
That has Cassie drawn back into the conversation. She’s looking up from her phone at them. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah. There was this whole time dilation thing. He was in a volcano with Ultraman. It’s weird. We actually don’t really know who’s older out of us. Lois and Clark are pretty torn up about it, so I haven’t pressed about finding out.”
Tim’s heard all this before, of course. Not just from Kon, but from Damian too. Because contrary to what most people seem to think, he and Damian do have some kind of working relationship. At least a bit. In between throwing ninja stars at each other. But it’s clear that Cassie and Bart aren’t in the loop. That’s probably intentional, given how recent it is and how the Kents are still adjusting.
Cassie’s eyes are wide. “Fuck. I bet.”
“And I think he’s going to take on the role of Superman,” Kon continues. Tim watches as he frowns. “I get it, right? He’s Clark’s son. Of course it was gonna go to him. But…” he pauses, then sighs and flops back into the couch. “Forget it, it’s stupid.”
“No it’s not,” Tim finally speaks up. “You feel like he’s taken your place.”
“Tim!”
“It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault. Definitely not Jon’s. What happened to him was horrible,” he continues. It’s true. Regardless of what happened, the shift has been more evident of late. The elevation of Jon and Damian. Not to mention Wallace West, and even Yara or whatever that new Amazon’s name is. Tim’s pretty sure she’s using the name Wonder Girl these days too. He doesn’t know how Cassie feels about that. He hasn’t had the guts to ask.
“… Jon used to be so small,” Kon says eventually. “I helped him with homework.”
Bart grunts and rolls over on the sofa. So that he’s at least partially the right way up. “Dude, there’s two Wally West’s now. So now I gotta live up to one that’s older than me, and there’s another one that’s younger. Barry already calls him for all kind of shit.”
“Someone I saved the other day asked me who I was,” Cassie adds. She takes a swig of her beer. “And for a moment, I hesitated, because I actually wasn’t sure if I was meant to be Wonder Girl anymore.”
The silence settles over them. Tim wonders what they’re thinking. If it’s the same as what’s jumping into his brain.
Eventually, Bart coughs. “I dunno, guys. I love being a hero. Or at least, I did? And now I just think sometimes that I should, I dunno…”
“Retire?” Tim adds.
And just like that, every head in the room turns to him.
He’d been kidding. Kind of. In the way where Tim had been daring anyone to push back on him. Because he’d have been lying to say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind previously. Especially in the recent past, with everything from Dick taking the Robin mantle from him, to losing his spleen. A lot’s happened, and it’s been adding up. Hell, Tim’s not even twenty-one yet, and he already feels like he’s burning the rope from either end.
Some days, it doesn’t feel like there’s much rope left.
And it’s not like Tim ends up retiring, properly. But after a long heart-to-heart with his friends and a lot of booze, something changes. He’ll never be able to just stop being Red Robin. But it’s clear that the way things are right now? They’re not sustainable.
So Tim sends Bruce an email the next day, providing two weeks’ notice that he’ll be stepping down as CEO of Wayne Enterprises.
He moves out of the manor shortly after. Not dramatically. No slamming doors or shouting matches. Just a quiet exit, a few boxes shoved into the back of a rented van, and Alfred passing him a cookbook that Tim will probably never touch, with that quiet little nod that says I understand, but I’ll worry about you anyway.
Burnside isn’t far. Just across the river, if you squint. But it feels far. There are fewer gargoyles, for one. More oat milk. Everyone has tattoos and rents their bedrooms out as podcasting studios. And Tim gets to disappear a little. Not completely. Just enough. Babs had been right when she’d recommended the area – Burnside suits him. It’s weird and alive and aggressively full of gluten-free bakeries. People rollerblade here unironically. He loves it.
The building he buys is old and creaky, which only adds to its charm. Brick facade. Plants growing out of the gutters on the roof above. It’s perfect.
And Red Robin? It becomes a part-time gig. Two nights a week at baseline. Maybe a third if Damian’s out of town and there’s a gap in the patrol schedule. But most nights, Tim doesn’t touch the suit. He makes dinner. He reads actual books. He leaves his comms offline and goes for walks without looking over his shoulder.
Some people in the family – mostly Dick – are worried, Tim can tell. But the plus-side of moving to Burnside is that it’s on the opposite side of Gotham to Bludhaven. And Tim’s trying something new: it’s called not being constantly having to put out fires. Or more accurately, letting other people handle a few fires while he maybe learns to make toast.
(It’s not that he couldn’t before, it’s just that toast is really easy to burn when you’re sleep-deprived with minimal life skills while also trying to review corporate contracts at the same time).
Still, it’s nice, this version of life. Quiet. Unstructured. Full of strange little things that don’t involve blood or death or debriefs. There’s a bakery down the street that sells tiny, over-glazed croissants shaped like bats. His neighbour’s cat keeps sneaking into his windows and sitting on his keyboard like it pays rent. He listens to music now, sometimes just for the hell of it. Last week, Tim spent forty minutes reorganising his spice rack (he has spices, now!) and felt a profound, almost sensual feeling of control.
It may not be perfect, entirely. But it’s a start.
Now.
The wind’s sharp tonight, which is unfortunate, because it means Tim can actually feel the sides of his head. His freshly buzzed mullet fade doesn’t do much for warmth. The faded cut above his ears is not in the slightest bit insulating in the winter chill, not to mention it looks plain stupid, in Tim’s personal opinion.
It’s Cassie’s fault. Technically, he lost a bet – Tim still maintains that Kon used his TTK to bounce the bottle off the rim of the bin – and so now he has a mullet. With a fade. Certainly a choice.
He grapples to the next rooftop over, landing easily. Burnside is quieter than Gotham proper, which honestly works perfect with his cut-back patrol schedule. Less mob wars, more crimes of passion and hobbyist villainy. Honestly, kind of refreshing.
Which is why he’s not even surprised when someone screams, “Hand it over!”
Tim glances over the edge of the rooftop and is suddenly unable to hold back a grin. “Oh my god.”
Best. Night. Ever.
There he is: Killer Moth. Full rig and everything, glowing compound eyes, wings flapping all majestically and shit. He’s standing on top of a parked food truck, ranting at a confused couple holding bubble tea.
Tim gives it a beat to properly absorb the scene. Then, over the comm, he deadpans, “Oracle, I’ve made contact with Killer Moth. Requesting a flyswatter.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before dropping down behind the food truck. Then vaults up to the roof in a blink. Moth sees him and immediately strikes a pose. Behind him, the couple he was ‘mugging’ simply turn and walk away, bubble tea intact.
“Well, well, well,” Killer Moth says, voice all nasal. Bro should really invest in a decongestant pray. “If it isn’t the bat brat with a bird complex.”
Tim tilts his head. “You sound like you practiced that in the mirror, Drury. How many takes?”
“Sh-shut up!”
“Right,” Tim says. “Also,” he gestures vaguely at Moth’s helmet, “did you happen to get a haircut under there?”
Killer Moth blinks, thrown. “What? No.”
“Shame. Could’ve been twins.”
“You’re mocking me.”
Tim grins under his mask. “Sorry, force of habit. Occupational hazard. It’s good to see you in the wild again, Drury. Honestly, I was getting sick of Condiment King.”
Killer Moth lunges with a shriek that’s… not intimidating, actually.
Tim dodges easily, ducks under the swooping punch, and rolls behind him. He taps the button on his staff, extending it with a satisfying snap.
“Listen,” Tim calls, spinning the staff lazily in one hand. “It’s not personal. I’m just very tired, slightly hungover, and stuck looking like a Hot Topic reject until my hair grows out again. Let me have this.”
Killer Moth whirls with a flurry of wings, firing a sticky orange glob from his wrist launcher. Tim flips sideways, the goop splattering harmlessly on the roof behind him. He lands in a crouch and frowns at it.
“Is that liquid cheese?”
“It’s adhesive resin from my cocoon gun!”
“It smells like Cheez Whiz.”
Moth snarls. “Fuck you!”
Tim springs forward, sweeping his staff low and catching Moth across the ankles. The man flails, hits the rooftop hard, and starts writhing like an overturned beetle. Tim plants a boot on his chest and leans down.
“Any final buzzwords?”
“Eat shit, bat brat!”
Tim squints. “Damn, okay. That was a letdown.”
He hits the button on his gauntlet and calls in the GCPD pickup. They’ll take their sweet time, not that it really matters. Tim’s pretty sure the bubble tea couple had Moth covered in the first place. Still, he zip-ties the man’s wrists and ankles, before double-checking that his wingpack is deactivated.
As he does so, Killer Moth grumbles, “Can’t believe I got taken down by some jackass who looks like a queer-coded video game side character.”
… Damn. Killer Moth from the top rope. Tim doesn’t even have a comeback for that one. You know what? He’s gonna let Drury get the last word in. Guy deserves a break. Besides, the police lights start to paint the far buildings in red and blue. It wouldn’t be the best look to get caught insulting Killer Moth in front of the boys. Talk about stooping low.
“Well you got me there, man. Make sure to tell the folks in Arkham that mullets are back in, will ya?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before firing his grapple gun, shooting back up to the rooftop to watch the GCPD take the rogue in.
Tim’s halfway through filming Moth’s tantrum (like, actual kicking and screaming going on) on his phone when he feels it. That prickle down the back of his neck. That shift in pressure.
He sighs, doesn’t bother turning around.
“Hey, B.”
A pause. Then Bruce’s voice, low and emotionless from the shadows. “You left a security feed running from across the street.”
“Right.” Tim winces. That explains the text he just got from Alfred about ensuring the family’s public image remains marginally dignified. He wasn’t trying to be mean, honest.
Another pause.
“You’ve gotten a haircut.”
Fucking dammit. “Don’t you start too. I can only sink so much lower after Moth.”
Bruce steps into view, his cape catching on a gust of wind in the way that’s always just the right side of fucking awesome. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looks down at the street below, no doubt taking in the ruined food truck and cocoon-goop still steaming on the asphalt, then finally back to Tim.
Tim sighs again. Points at his hair. “I lost a bet, okay?”
“I can see that,” Bruce says, calm. Observational. That subtle, judgment-free Bat-hum that means noted, but I’m not mad about it. Damn, Tim had been hoping for a better reaction. Still, they fall into a comfortable silence, perched side by side on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce stands like a statue. Tim leans on his staff, no doubt looking like someone a little more short on dignity.
“Burnside’s quiet lately,” Bruce says after a while.
“Quieter than the Narrows,” Tim agrees. “But, like, in a good way. More aggressive dating app crimes than organised crime.”
Bruce nods slowly. “I noticed you’ve been patrolling less.”
There it is. Tim braces for it – the concern, the lecture, the “you’re letting your training go to waste” speech. Damian had definitely levelled him with that, which had actually been kind of cute. Showed he cared, in his weird little fucked-up ninja way.
“Yeah, I have,” Tim says eventually. He doesn’t elaborate. Just lets the weight of that yeah hang in the air. It’s not defensive, not apologetic. Just real.
Bruce surprises him by saying nothing at all.
They listen to the sirens. One fades off. A dog barks in the distance.
Tim, unable to take the silence any longer, side-eyes him. “What, no follow-up interrogation? No twelve-step plan to get me back on nightly patrols?”
Bruce’s mouth twitches. The faintest trace of something that could be a smile or gas.
“You seem... content,” Bruce says finally. As if he’s testing the word on his tongue.
Tim blinks. “I, er, yeah? I guess I kind of am.”
“Hn.”
Another silence. This one easier.
“I bought the building, you know,” Tim adds, not sure why he wants Bruce to know this. “Not just my loft. I own the whole thing. Converted the bottom two floors into co-working space, opened it up to local kids. No cameras. Just free internet, coffee, power strips. And chairs with backs. I, er, wanna build something here.”
Bruce turns to look at him now, properly. “That’s good,” he says. Quiet but full of approval. “That’s… really good, Tim.”
Tim shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but his ears are turning red behind the edge of his domino mask. He spins his staff once, mostly to fidget.
“I’m not quitting,” he says, more out of reflex than anything. “Just… changing things up, you know. Focusing on other stuff and making sure I don’t go crazy in the process.”
Bruce’s response is immediate. “You don’t have to explain yourself. The way things were previously… that’s not what I wanted for you. For any of you.”
Tim swallows. Suddenly his dumb haircut feels like a non-issue. “You saying you’re proud of me, old man?”
Bruce grunts, which Tim will absolutely interpret as yes and please never make me say that word out loud.
They sit in silence again. Gotham spreads out below them, cracked and glittering. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails, then cuts off mid-tone like even crime itself called it a night.
“I was patrolling with Cass tonight,” Bruce says eventually.
“Oh my god, don’t believe whatever she-”
“She says you and Impulse are quite friendly these days.”
Tim slaps a hand to his face. It’d been one quick kiss. One. And Bart kisses everyone. “I hate this family. Full of gossips.”
Bruce doesn’t say anything to that. But Tim sees the smile. Just barely, but it’s there. The kind you have to know him to notice.
Eventually, Bruce claps a hand lightly on Tim’s shoulder – brief, grounding, warm – then steps back into the shadows. “You’re doing well, Tim,” he says before disappearing fully into the night.
Tim stays on the rooftop a few minutes longer, watching the sky, cheeks warm under the mask.
He presses a finger to his comm. “Oracle, cancel that flyswatter request.”
A beat. Then Babs replies, amused, “Copy that. Also, Alfred says he saw the footage. He’s sending you pomade recs for your hair.”
“Fucking great,” Tim mutters, and fires his grapple.
Even so, he’s smiling all the way home.