Hell is Where The Coffee Machine is.

by JunoJuniper_theJupiter

Summary:

Jason glanced up, squinted, and immediately hit him with, “Ugh. Replacement.”
Tim’s whole body froze mid-stride. The word hit him like an anvil someone tried to pass off as a throw pillow. Replacement?? Replacement what? Replacement why? Replacement since when? He stared like Jason had just announced he was a priest now.

 

Tim gets transported to another dimension… again, but this time it’s different. At first, he hopes it’s maybe a mirror of his reality, but the longer he looks, the clearer it becomes: it’s worse. Every familiar landmark is… well, the same actually— but every face he recognizes carries a different version of themselves. The rules of reality feel broken, and everyone is driving him mad. This dimension isn’t just strange—it’s hell. Because why does everyone insist he needs coffee?!

Or alternatively, Tim wakes up in the Fanonverse.

 

Chapter 1: Drake, Replacement, and Baby Bird. (Who the Heck Decided to Call Him That?)

Summary:

Tim awakens abruptly; something feels wrong.

Notes:

wow yet another fic from me and it’s dimension travel again… haha…hah… Guys I think I have a favorite trope here… I’m super original! Also guess who finally figured out how to blockquote and italicize in summary (me)

MAJOR DISCLAIMER BEFORE ANYONE COMMENTS! Please put down those pitchforks, I AM **NOT** SHITTING ON FANON. I LOVE FANON, AND FANON IS A GUILTY PLEASURE I INDULGE ON! By no means is this fic shitting on fanon tropes because “I’m a hater!!” and “I hate ooc fics!”

If anything, as someone whos read tim’s robin runs (from robin 1991 to robin plus impulse and ofc yj98) its just silly how he’s characterized so differently in fanon. I enjoy fanon as much as the next person scrolling on tumblr, because im capable of separating fan media from official material. It’s fanon for a reason! And I AM A FAN!!!

AND ADDITIONALLY, BY NO MEANS HOW I CHARACTERIZE TIM HERE IS *ACCURATE* TOO NOR AM I CLAIMING THIS IS HOW YOU *SHOULD* CHARACTERIZE HIM, this fic is JUST FOR FUN and *SHOULD NOT* be taken as a means that “I am superior for knowing how to characterize x character” OR “Fanon is dumb, this is how x character would act!” I AM WRITING THIS FOR F U N.

I DONT HATE ON FANON TIM FICS. I HAVE SEVERAL OF THEM BOOKMARKED AND IM A SUCKER FOR THEM TOO SO CALM YOUR HORSES BEFORE YALL CHOKE ON ME 😞

THIS IS ALL JUST CRACK AND HOW *I THINK* HE WOULD ACT. I am not immune for writing him potentially OOC too, this was just written as a fun little pastime for me while I’m writing other fic chapters!

Now that we got the disclaimer out of the way, hope you guys enjoy the chapter from here 🫶

Tim suddenly jerks awake like someone hauled him out of sleep by the scruff. His eyes snap open—focused, already triangulating points of interest—while his brain hangs for an uncomfortably long second, like a program that insists on ‘Not Responding’ until you start threatening the keyboard.”

A ceiling stares back. White. Smooth. Crown molding. Familiar enough to stir that particular brand of déjà vu that lives somewhere between dread and annoyance. The feeling he gets right before finding a bug in a case file he wrote himself.

He bolts upright.

This is… Wayne Manor’s south wing guest room?

His eyes blink, gummy and insulted. The room’s smaller than it should be—old guest room small. The kind of small that makes his spine remember scratchy suit jackets and charity galas he was tricked into attending under the guise of “family duty.”

Neutral art.
White curtains.
No personality whatsoever.
Yep. Definitely the “Alfred put a visiting teen here once” suite.

Also: the infamous over-fluffed pillows. Of course. How could he forget that?

But… something’s not right.

The thing is, he has never slept in the Wayne Manor’s guest room. He has a perfectly functional condo near the clock tower and a mattress engineered to cradle the spine of a man with too many injuries and not enough impulse control. Paid for with… well. A combination of actual work and whatever qualifies as “work” when you grew up rubbing elbows with three different kinds of old money.Which it counts enough for his pride!

(Read: which is still technically nepotism, regardless of how many freelance invoices he claims justify it, but the man did NOT work for that condo, thank you very much, and pretending otherwise is just polite fiction.) 

But more importantly—

“I don’t… remember going to sleep,” he mutters. His voice cracks a little, thin and annoying, exposing a vulnerability he immediately resents.

His pulse picks up, a dull, off-rhythm thud tapping insistently at his ribs. Something in him is screaming that he should not be here.

Tim scrubs a hand down his face. Everything behind his eyes feels swimmy, like someone shoved his recent memories into a washing machine and hit “delicate cycle.” He tries to pull the thread of last night—no, the last thing he remembers—through the mental tangle.

He was with Anarky. The first one in particular. Well, obviously—Lonnie Machin, not Ulysses Hadrian Armstrong, his brain supplies reflexively, like a leftover snark macro firing off inside his skull.  Absolutely not, Ulysses. As if he’d tolerate breathing the same air as that guy. He barely tolerates Lonnie already, and that’s on a good day, with snacks and light terrorism.

Right. He was with Lonnie, following up a lead. Something about a—

Nothing. His memory just face-plants. It’s like someone took a pair of scissors and deliberately snipped the film reel mid-scene, leaving a clean, blank gap.

An icy prickle of hostile environmental factors crawls up his spine.

He glances down at himself, already bracing for a disappointment he can’t yet name.

The disappointment arrives instantly, escalating rapidly into personal offense.

The sweatpants are… gray? Maybe? They’re a heavy cotton blend so aggressively average they practically hum at a beige frequency. A color designed to blend into the inside of a filing cabinet. He visibly sneers at the fabric, the contempt as palpable as if the gray cotton had personally bankrupted his parents and then murdered them in cold blood. 

These look like they smell like lukewarm tap water and disappointment, a vicious little voice notes. The aesthetic choice alone is a violation of the Geneva Conventions.  Something Sebastian would wear to prove a point about asceticism.

And the shirt—oh god, the shirt.

Tim slaps a hand over his face again, groaning.

“Coffee Cult? Seriously?”I look like an extra in a low-budget mockumentary about caffeine dependence.

He would never wear this shirt. He didn't even know they sold shirts like this. The lettering is cheap, the graphic is a badly rendered parody of a corporate logo, and the entire thing looks like it was designed by an algorithm trained on ‘things suburban dads think baristas find hilarious.’ Also, where did he even get this shirt? 

He swings his legs off the bed. Cold wood bites his feet. His balance wavers, and yeah, okay, his head hurts. Not quite a concussion, but hovering in the neighborhood, like a raccoon doing petty crimes on the porch. And the whole room has this uncanny, wrong vibe flavor—familiar décor arranged just slightly off, like someone tried to recreate Wayne Manor from memory and missed a few key pixels.

Tim forces himself to breathe slowly and steadily. Externally, he looks mostly calm—maybe a little tight around the mouth, the only tell of the frantic data processing happening inside. Internally? His thoughts are skidding and cross-referencing every threat matrix he’s ever made.

Kidnapping? Maybe.
Memory interference? Probably.
Temporary body possession? You could never know.
Alien parasite? He refuses to rule it out purely because experience has taught him better. And also because Hal Jordan is number one on that list.

But whatever this is, it’s likely deliberate.

Because something is very, very messed up.

And it’s messed up in a way that feels utterly intentional. This wasn't an accident. This was a statement. 

A strange one with unusual fashion choices, but a statement nonetheless.

He stands—slow, deliberate, the exact pace of a man who fully expects the universe to drop an anvil on his head out of spite. His brain immediately starts cataloging exits (not the door, the secret-secret door pretending to be a wall—wait, never mind, that is a wall; the actual secret-secret-secret door is… the window, which is just. A window. Great), potential weapons (extra fluffed pillows do not qualify, even if he glares at them hard enough), and vantage points. Old instincts slide back on like that ridiculously overpriced leather jacket Kon owns, the one Tim has absolutely never borrowed. Ever.

Because if he didn’t lie down here…

If he didn’t choose to sleep…

Then waking up is the first clue in a mystery he absolutely did not consent to; then again, it’s not the first thing he’s been dragged into without consent. He still hasn’t forgiven them for Game Night.

Wizards and Warlocks is staying locked up in the closet until further notice.

The hallway outside the door is silent. Not peaceful-quiet—predatory-quiet. The House Playing Dead kind of silent where “something is either watching you or plotting to fall on your head.” Absolutely never a good sign.

Tim squares his jaw, which is really less a brave gesture and more him trying to physically keep his brain from leaking out in exasperation. Someone moved him like he’s a chess piece—one of the boring ones, too, not even a knight—and whoever did it has a fashion philosophy that could be legally classified as a crime against fashion. Okay, maybe he’s being a little dramatic; sue him. He’s seen better tees than this.

Questions churn like they’ve got somewhere urgent to be, but three cling to the rails the hardest and refuse to be shaken off:
What happened after Lonnie?
Why is last night one big, blinking void?
And most pressing of all… who decided to put him in sweatpants so aggressively mediocre they feel like a personal attack? 

His brain tosses out the world’s laziest theory just to get something on the board:
maybe he sleepwalked. Sure, maybe he did buy these horribly dull pants and tasteless shirt in a fugue state. Maybe he did trek all the way back to the Manor while unconscious and also—apparently—surrendered his dignity to corny stylists.

He gives that thought one full, unimpressed second.
Yeah, right. Let’s file that under “Scenarios That Would Require Me to Have Survival Instincts of a Wet Paper Bag and Negative Taste.”

The real problems—the big, toothy ones—are circling the perimeter of this morning like sharks smelling coffee.

The day is already shaping up to be a disaster, and he hasn’t even made it past the door yet.

His fingers hovered over the handle.

A ripple of instinct crawled up his spine—quiet, precise, the kind of warning he usually trusts without question. Don’t.
No dramatic explanation. No obvious threat. Just that cold, clinical signal his body gives right before something sharp happens.

It should’ve made his decision easy.

Instead, it made him hesitate.

His hand hovered over the knob.

And that’s when it hit him—not a thought, not even a hunch, but an honest-to-god instinctual spike of dread that slammed into his nervous system hard enough to make his breath stutter.

Which… made no sense.

He didn’t get instincts like this. Not the spooky gut-feeling kind. His danger sense normally came from math, deduction, pattern recognition, and the occasional “huh, that shadow shouldn’t be there.” His body didn’t just revolt at random.

And especially not over a door.

In Wayne Manor.
A bedroom door.
A door he’d opened literally hundreds of times since he lived here.

The dread crawled up his spine anyway—thin, electric, and completely unfamiliar.

That alone scared him more than the feeling itself.

He didn’t hesitate at doors. Doors were the easy part. He’d kicked them open, picked them open, and acrobatic’d through them in ways that defied several basic physics principles. He’d walked through doors that had blood on the hinges, scorch marks on the floor, and crime scene tape fluttering like party streamers.

But this one—this innocuous, beige, aggressively normal door—made his pulse trip.

His chest tightened.

A memory flickered hard and fast: Lonnie turning sharply, alley-washed light cutting across half his face. Tim raising the datapad to show him something. A corner turn.
Then static.
White-out.
Nothing.

The dread spiked, sharp enough to raise the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

He almost stepped back.

Almost.

He clenched his jaw instead, irritation slicing clean through the fear.
No. Not happening. He was not letting an interior door psychically intimidate him. He had a brand to maintain. A reputation. A pattern of deeply questionable choices.

He’d literally faked being stabbed once just to get a door open. He can totally open doors just fine, thank you very much.

He rolled his shoulders back, straightened, and forced his breathing into something even.
It’s a door. Open it. You’ve handled worse before already, starting with waking up.

His hand closed around the knob. Cool metal. Solid. Ordinary. Nothing that should’ve made him tense.

He inhaled once—steady, controlled, the way he did before opening crime scenes or explaining expenses to Bruce.

Then he turned the handle and pushed—

—and snapped sideways as a knife cut through the air like it had an appointment with his skull.

It hit the doorframe with a deep, decisive THNK, the handle still quivering from momentum.

Tim blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His voice came out perfectly calm, perfectly flat. “Right. So I wasn’t being dramatic.”

He looked up.

Someone was in the room.
Someone armed, balanced, and already pulling back for a second throw.

Someone who did not look thrilled to see him.

“Damian?” Tim said, already exhausted. “Gosh, it’s too early for this. What is it this time? I thought we agreed that if there are any issues in the family, you don’t try to kill them—you talk it out. You’re usually better than this, so what’s going on?”

Damian scowled like the word communication offended him on a molecular level.
“Drake.”

Great.
Great.
Back to square one. Not even square one—square zero. Square negative two. Early-day Damian, “I’m thirteen and ready to commit homicide on anyone who approaches me” Damian. 

He hasn’t even seen Damian in a while.

Look, he didn’t exactly expect affectionate reunions, but they’d at least reached a mutual, begrudging, non-murder understanding. And now he was getting last-named before breakfast? Now that’s just rude. Retroactively rude.

Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What? What do you want, Damian?" This is Tim's first interaction in the house, and he already wants to get it over with.

Damian responded by flicking another knife at his head with the easy, relaxed motion of someone tossing a piece of popcorn into the air.

Tim didn’t even flinch—just tilted his head half an inch to the left. The blade sailed past, skimming his hair.

It thunked against the wall behind him.

He blinked at Damian. Deadpan. Utterly over it.

“Really? That’s your follow-up?”

For a heartbeat—just one—Damian hesitated.

Not physically. His stance stayed perfect. His grip stayed perfect. But something behind his eyes faltered, like a skipped frame in a video. A flicker of confusion that absolutely did not match the kid who threw knives with the same confidence most people had tying their shoes.

Then it vanished. His expression shuttered hard.

He slid the third knife back into his sheath, precise and controlled—almost too controlled—and walked past Tim without a single insult, jab, or condescending lecture. It was… strange. Damian rarely passed up an opportunity for dramatic irritation.

A small breath.
“Tt. Drake… this farce? Not finished.”

Tim remained exactly where he was, eyes on the two knives jutting out of the wall like punctuation marks in a sentence he couldn’t parse.

His brain began sorting through possibilities with the efficiency of a machine that had been rebooted one too many times today. Every scenario returned the same useless answer.

Okay, so that was weird.

No, wait.

That wasn’t normal.

Damian hadn’t behaved like that in a very long time.
Not since Dick stepped in and did what only Dick Grayson could do: pull someone toward the light without forcing it, without shaming them, and without giving up when things got tough. Tim hadn't been present for the majority of that shift; he'd been everywhere but Gotham, chasing his own impossible threads while the people back home rebuilt themselves.

But even from a distance, even through secondhand observations and the occasional awkward holiday meal, the change in Damian had been unmistakable. He’d grown. Not slightly. Not imperceptibly. He’d learned restraint, empathy, and discipline that wasn’t rooted in violence. He’d learned to choose conversation over escalation. And more importantly, he’d chosen it consistently.

This?
This knife-first, question-never version of him?

It didn’t line up with the Damian he knew. The Damian the family had worked so hard to raise. The Damian who’d already fought his way through years of progress.

And the worst part—the part Tim couldn’t shake—was that flicker of confusion he’d seen in Damian’s face. A moment where even he looked unsure of why he was reacting this way. As if he’d been dropped into a moment that didn’t belong to him.

A version of him that shouldn’t exist anymore.

It made Tim’s skin crawl in a very specific, very unwelcome way.

And Tim's confusion, which was brief but unmistakable, made matters worse. Damian hadn’t just regressed. He didn’t even seem aware of the regression.

Tim exhaled slowly, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. A muted ache throbbed behind his eyes.

If this is a time displacement case, he swears—
He cut the thought short before the headache could file a formal complaint.

Time travel was a mess. Alternate timelines were worse. And meeting younger versions of his family usually ended with headaches, paradoxes, or someone accusing him of ruining everything.

He let his head fall back lightly against the wood.

Please don’t let this be a time travel situation. I am not emotionally equipped to deal with a version of myself making questionable wardrobe choices.

Tim pushed off the frame, glanced again at the knives, and muttered under his breath—

“…something is very, very off.”

The hallway didn’t disagree.

He exhaled through his nose.

He needs a drink immediately. Not for the fear. For the gray sweatpants and offensive shirt choice. 

That and the fact that he is developing a migraine.

So down the hall Tim went.

Every step felt slightly off-kilter, like he was walking through a memory of the manor instead of the real thing. The details were all technically correct but arranged with the wrong intent. The portraits hung exactly where they’d been years ago—before Bruce decided to rearrange the frames so they wouldn’t interfere with the upgraded ventilation ducts. The hallway runner was the one that got replaced after Dick tripped on it during an ill-advised 2 AM sandwich run. It looked new again. Too new. Perfect in a way that ignored how eight years of shoes, patrol boots, and one (1) angry Great Dane had actually treated it.

Little things. Familiar things. All shifted just enough to agitate the part of Tim’s brain that never turned off.

The air even smelled off. Colder somehow. Older. As if the stone had been rolled back to an earlier draft of the manor.

He hit the staircase and started down.

His hand brushed the banister, and the wood was… smooth. Not just well-maintained—practically polished flat. Almost like someone had sanded out the history embedded in its grain. He resisted the impulse to stop and check for fresh varnish with his fingernail.

His memory tugged, sharper this time.
Lonnie standing under the jaundiced glow of the alley lamps. A datapad in Tim’s hand. Strange readings. A look on Lonnie’s face Tim couldn’t name—fear, realization, something almost like apology—and then—

Nothing. Again.

Like a doorway slamming shut behind him.

He reached the bottom step, muscles wired tight. Whatever had happened last night wasn’t gone; it was removed. Cleanly enough that the absence itself felt like evidence.

Which was never comforting.

By the time he crossed the main hall, his mind was already trying to form possibilities. Wrong behavior from Damian. Altered environment. Missing time. Too much nostalgia embedded in the layout. That creeping pressure at the edges of his awareness, the one that whispered that something fundamental was out of alignment.

None of it gave him anything he could use. Just static and discomfort.

He kept walking anyway. Because standing still would mean admitting he was spooked, and Tim Drake did not get spooked by interior decorating choices.

He rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

He had one goal in mind—not coffee, rarely coffee, but something caffeinated enough to keep him from faceplanting into a wall. Also, a kitchen appliance check could tell him a lot more about the manor’s timeline than the hallway décor ever could.

He’d barely put one foot inside the doorway when the universe decided to test his blood pressure again.

Jason Todd.
Helmet off. Sitting on the counter. Eating straight out of a neon-blue cereal box like breakfast was a competitive sport and he was trying to win.

Tim stopped dead.

Jason did not eat breakfast in this house. Jason broke into this house for supplies or arguments, not casual morning carbs. He operates out of a safe house on the other side of town. His presence here, eating breakfast, implies an unacceptable level of domestic comfort. 

Jason glanced up, squinted at him, and then rolled his eyes. The easy familiarity with which Jason had settled on his counter was the sharpest clue yet. Jason hit him with, “Ugh. Replacement.”

Tim’s whole body froze mid-stride.

The word hit him like an anvil someone tried to pass off as a throw pillow.

Replacement?

Replacement what? Replacement who? Replacement since when? He stared like Jason had just announced he was a priest now.

Also, “Replacement”—who the hell starts a conversation like that? He literally just got here.

Tim’s face contorted into the purest expression of judgment and disbelief he could muster, a silent critique so sharp it could’ve been weaponized. Jason, of course, didn’t so much as flinch, blissfully immune to both social cues and the concept of personal shame.

But with all that aside, his thoughts pitched sideways like someone had yanked the floor out from under them. Jason had just spoken to him like they were in the middle of a very old, very stupid argument they had never actually had. Jason had plenty of issues with him, sure, but that particular nickname? That wasn’t one of them. That had never been one of them.

Pretender? Sure, that was a one-time hiccup in a timeline where even he had the decency to let Jason think he was the center of the universe. Replacement? Oh, please. As if anyone with half a functioning brain—or any understanding of social nuance, strategic thinking, or basic competence—would ever mistake Tim for something so interchangeable and trivial as a placeholder in his chaotic little world.

Jason crunched a spoonful of neon-blue cereal, eyes flicking over like Tim was background noise.

Tim stared at him, incredulity flaming through his exhaustion.
“…excuse me?” It came out sharper than he intended—tight, baffled, edged with a quiet, surgical bite. Not anger. Just sheer disbelief that apparently this morning had decided to speedrun all of his least favorite hypothetical scenarios.

Jason shoveled another mouthful of neon-blue cereal into his mouth, completely unfazed, like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade at the continuity of Tim’s life.

Tim stepped fully into the kitchen, posture settling into that sharp, observant neutrality that always made people underestimate how fast his brain was moving.

“Well, morning to you too, I guess,” he said, his tone calm enough to be dangerous. “I see we’re recycling old material. Very retro.”

Jason didn’t look up.
“Didn’t ask for commentary, Replacement.”

There it was again. Lazy, practiced. Like it belonged here.

Tim’s eye twitched.

“You’re really committing to that, huh,” he said, tone flatly unimpressed. “Breakfast of champions and personality regression. Did I miss a memo here?”

Jason gave him a look—half bored, half irritated, and fully unfamiliar. Not the wary détente they’d carved out over the years. Not even the grudge-warm hostility Tim could usually predict. This one was… baseline contempt, like Tim was a stranger Jason already disliked out of principle. “Did I stutter? Replacement. Go brood somewhere else.”

Something sharp and cold twisted in Tim’s gut.

Damian earlier. Now Jason. Both acting like they’d been rewound to some version of themselves he’d never actually interacted with.

Great. Fantastic. Exactly what he needed. A morning where all evidence pointed toward the universe handing him a script for a feud he didn’t remember auditioning for.

He kept the rising dread locked behind his teeth.
He did not voice the string of theories rattling through his skull.
He definitely didn’t say the word “universe.”

He just narrowed his eyes slightly, drew in a steady breath, and forced his voice into something dry and composed.

Something had shifted. Quietly. Sharply. With intention.

Jason finally glanced up, eyes narrowed with that old, brittle hostility Tim hadn’t seen in a while.

“You’re staring,” Jason muttered.

“I’m thinking,” Tim corrected. “There’s a difference. One involves more brain cells. One you don’t have.”

Jason’s chair scraped back an inch. “You wanna start something, Replacement?!”

Tim didn’t flinch. He considered flinching—purely out of self-preservation, given his skull was still doing that faint echo-y drumline from last night—but then remembered he possesses both spite and terrible impulse control. Two natural predators of good judgment.

He knew poking Jason was a bad idea.
He also knew that had never once stopped him.

He opened his mouth—probably to say something inadvisable, add fuel to the fire, they say, certainly to commit to the bit—

—and then footsteps padded in, light and cheerful and catastrophically mistimed. Ending his fun before it started.

Dick barreled in with all the grace of a man who had somehow survived multiple concussions and still believed mornings were a social event.

“Little Wing! You’re actually up before noon!” he crowed, like this was the greatest miracle since gravity.

Jason groaned into his cereal.

Tim felt his soul detach, hover above his body, and consider relocating to a quieter dimension.

Dick’s grin snagged when he saw their faces. “Uh… did I interrupt breakfast violence? Is this a fight? A pre-fight? Like, a warm-up argument? Because you know what I’ve said about kitchen combat—Bruce spent so much on that backsplash—”

Tim blinked at him.

Then at Jason.

Then back at Dick, who was currently radiating sunshine, confusion, and the kind of dangerous optimism that felt like it should come with a warning label. That is completely blinding, mind you. When did they get a lighting crew in here?

Dick’s attention finally landed on Tim, brightening like he’d just remembered Tim existed. “Oh! Good morning too, baby bird!” he chirped. “You look—um—alive? Mostly. Good for you! Did you finally drink coffee?”

Tim went statue-still.

Not a blink.
Not a breath.
Just pure, concentrated buffering.

Baby bird.
BABY. BIRD.

What in the seven layers of continuity hell was that?
Who was out here manufacturing nicknames like they were running a black-market pet store?

He didn’t even dislike it—he rejected it on principle. Dick Grayson principles. Because Dick Grayson nicknames came from very specific eras of emotional turbulence, none of which Tim had lived through in this timeline.

Dick moved in for a hug—arms already spreading like a human octopus ready to ensnare its prey.

Tim took one step back.

Then another.

Then a third, just to be safe.

“Woah—hey!” Dick laughed, lunging forward like he thought Tim was playing. “C’mere—”

Tim sidestepped so sharply he might as well have evaporated.

Dick whiffed the air where Tim’s soul had once been.

From the counter, Jason snorted loud enough to echo off the marble. “Smooth dodge, Replacement,”

Tim shot him a look sharp enough to peel paint.
Jason responded by shoveling more neon-blue cereal into his mouth with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed this universe had always worked like this.

Dick blinked between them, baffled. “Since when do you dodge my hugs? And since when do you eat cereal before lunchtime?”

Tim just stared, heart pounding once—not from the almost-hug, but from the certainty settling in his bones.

This wasn’t just wrong.

This was deliberately wrong.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t a Jason Problem™.
This wasn’t even a Damian Problem™.
This was an as-far-as-he-knows-everyone-is-acting-weird problem.

A house-wide continuity error wearing a friendly smile.

Tim dragged a slow breath in, spine stiffening like he was bracing against an avalanche.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, voice flat enough to be a weapon. “The circus is here.”

Jason snorted. Dick looked wounded in that baffled golden-retriever way.

And Tim, standing there with a concussion, a bowl of neon cereal, and two brothers treating him like a plotline he’d never lived, felt reality tilt again—subtle, unnerving, deliberate.

If the morning kept spiraling like this, he was two steps from discovering Bruce had been replaced with a distant “we’re-not-having-this-conversation” father figure out of a cautionary tale.

And somehow, that possibility didn’t even feel like the worst of it.

“Coffee? ”

“Sure.” Why not?

He needs it anyway. 

 

 

Notes:

So how long will it take for me to get cancelled for publishing this because some people didn't read the tags and beginning notes? I’m just playing! I hope…

I’m gonna be so embarrassed if this is yall’s first impression of me like guys I swear I can write better I’m just braindead writing this one I fear…

Idk there’s just something oddly meta with how Tim gets thrown in dimension travel a lot in fanfiction *OR MAYBE I READ TOO MANY TIM FICS WITH THAT SPECIFIC TAG. but I literally throw him in the fanonverse here.

This is great cause I dont have to stress about others being ooc but only one this time!

As for how fanon I could get away with this fic, there are certain fanons I wont explore in the fic, like Dami demonization ,and I’ll tame down some I personally find problematic (like Mute Cass) cause I’m just combining all my favorite fanon batfam tropes while bullying sad wet cat fanon tim through (attempt at canon)!tim. I don’t think I’ll go through the stupidly angsty fanon route but who knows! this is my horribly self indulgent dip on fanon fanfics so 🫶🫶

ALSO SHOUT OUT TO THE PEOPLE WHO REBLOGGED ON TUMBLR! omg. you guys are the reason i published this in the first place cause I was really scared of putting this on for some reason 😔 YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST! TYSM FOR THE SUPPORT!

Speaking of “Canon Tim”, I’ve been basing the characterization from a lot of his YJ and Robin + Impulse run (It’s my fave run i fear, I just love Bart and Tim and Bart’s personalities there was immaculate) Chuck Dixon’s runs of him are great too! However I might also be taking some inspiration off the new Batman and Robin (2025) by Fraction and Jimenez! Also, just a heads up! I am not characterizing Tim as he was in Red Robin. Okay, minus the internal dialogues those were funny af. But whatever happened in Red Robin STAYS in Red Robin cause most of the stuff he did AS Red Robin were things he wouldn’t typically do!

I also don’t wanna characterize him during his Red Robin arc because it was his lowest point during comics AND he was *highkey* an unreliable narrator who defo had underlying issues that (HIS FRIENDS AND FAMILY TRIED TO HELP BUT HE KEPT PUSHING THEM AWAY.) but people took it as “ah yes, Tim is so morally grey he wouldn’t mind doing all these morally dubious things because-“ or “Wow no one loves Tim hes all alone cause they dont care-“ no honey, I fear grief just got to him cause most of his friend group and support system either died or disappeared through unfortunate circumstances… hes usually better than that guys I swear!

And yes, while Tim has some snark, I’d say he’s still a good boy at heart! (but I don’t think he’s ever held his tongue in his life.) I find it hard to ride on the morally dubious Tim train when he’s so black and white sometimes. (but I guess it could be that hes so black and white it circles back to being grey??)

To me, I like to think of Tim sorta like Peter Parker? They’re both similar in a way, but also just a funny comparison in general because fanon!tim is often hc’d as a photographer, but really I mean in their personalities are kinda similar! Altruistic to a fault characters who puts everyone but them first, struggles to juggle civi and hero life, down to earth flexible and relatable but also likeable personalities? And occasionally quippy to their villians (or even to other heroes?) they’re the best!

Also just generally how different fanon and canon Peter and Tim are often depicted LMAO. I don’t judge, but there’s a reason why I exclude Iron Man’s tags with Peter Parker fanfiction, OR exclusively read fantastic 4 fanfiction with spider-man.

It’s funny how I have preferences with fanon cause Idm fanon Tim Drake (most of the time, if you guys can separate him from canon and not take fanfiction as a main source of info) and I especially LOVE chaoticfanon!tim more than whumpfanon!tim cause I cant stand whumpfanon!tim— BUT I CANT STAND FANON!PETER PARKER URH. I don’t mind tom holland peter fics but theres only so much I could handle with iron dad guys…

Okay that yap aside, I also know Jason and Tim are in good terms but that’s in new52, idm the brotherhood they have in new52 but I personally love pre 52 more, and the general idea that Tim reciprocates the beef makes this fic funnier okay???

Also ngl I'm seriously shoving every comic book reference into this fic just so yall know that I know ball (Idk that much ball, im a GL fan who reads batman stuff occasionally.)

Also I might reference some of my other fic works here, like the W&W comment— id say the Tim is vaguely the same universe as my other fics (but it’s not really that important cause they’re usually throwaway references I put cuz i just like putting my fics in the same ficverse :3)

OKAY BUT SRSLY THO, hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!! Now I go die writing Chapter 10 for disaster squad :’D

Chapter 2: Coffee of Despair. Who the heck is Bear Bear? And why are you guys oddly domestic. FRAGILE?!?

Summary:

After drinking coffee, Tim’s starting to notice some other things he might’ve missed before.

Starting with the fact that he might be a coffee addict.

The kitchen felt too bright, too warm, too… “not” Dick, and Tim’s neurons were doing Cirque du Soleil choreography trying to keep up.

“Coffee?” Dick chirped, voice pitched like someone had assigned him “sunbeam with Wi-Fi” as a character trait.

“Sure,” Tim muttered, because what else was he supposed to say? No thank you, suspiciously cheerful variant of my brother who may or may not be from another universe?
He folded his arms across his chest, bracing himself like his own thoughts might launch him through a wall. His brain was spinning so fast he was genuinely concerned about causing electromagnetic interference with the household appliances.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Replacement.” Tim glared at Jason.

What was going on.
What timeline did he fall through.
Why was Dick whistling.

Dick Grayson did not whistle in the morning. Dick Grayson barely formed nouns in the morning. That was a documented, peer-reviewed, Wayne Manor–archived fact.

Tim watched him scoop coffee grounds like a man possessed by the ghost of a hyper-competent barista. Not a single spill. Not a single sigh. Not a single complaint about life, the world, or Bruce’s refusal to buy a decent espresso machine. It was deeply unnatural. The guy wasn’t glowing literally—but energetically? Absolutely. Radiating golden-retriever warmth like he swallowed a small sun.

And also… why was he here.

“Why are you here?” Tim blurted, the words slipping out before he could sanitize them.

Dick turned, smiling so bright Tim genuinely wondered if he should shield his eyes. “What do you mean? I’m always here!”

Tim blinked. Hard. “I thought you lived in Blüdhaven.”

“I visit! A lot!” Dick chirped. “Besides, I gotta check on my little wings. Especially the littlest one, who can be a little feisty! I know you two still aren’t on the same page yet, but trust me Timmy, Dami always comes around…”
Dick ruffled his hair.

Tim survived it through sheer force of will—or possibly through repressing every homicidal impulse he’d ever developed. Hard to tell.

“And ever since the Joker thing? C’mon, baby bird. I’m not leaving you alone. You know that.”

Tim did not know that.
He carefully tucked that sentence into a mental folder labeled Potential New Trauma (Pending Review) and slammed the drawer shut.

Dick continued his cheerful routine like someone had wound him up and let him go.

“Heeey, baby bird!” he singsonged suddenly. “So how was yesterday with Bear Bear? I know you don’t like to spill, but pleaaaase—just tell us the deets! I’ve been dying to know how your date went!”

Tim’s soul quietly turned in its resignation letter. Third time today. At this rate, he was gonna need punch cards. Ten soul deaths—get one free!

He flinched—an actual whole-body jolt—like someone had hit him with a raccoon fastball.

Then he croaked, “Bear Bear?” with the same tone one uses when witnessing a man commit federal crimes.

Dick bounced. “Your boyfriend, dummy! Or was I not supposed to know that nickname—shoot! Sorry! I know how you get when we snoop on your phone—”

Boyfriend.

A Boyfriend.

MY Boyfriend?!?

Tim stared into the middle distance like he was buffering at 144p. A boyfriend? He had a boyfriend? Tim Drake, whose romantic track record was 90% repressed damage and 10% tactical flings to avoid processing feelings? 

… Actually? Yeah, no.  That checks, he figures he swung that way… eventually… he’s just too dense to realize anything regarding feelings– But Bear Bear? Now who on earth decided these nicknames?? 

Baby Bird was bad enough, Bear Bear however takes the damn cake.

Everything about this interaction points towards alternative universes. And gosh he hates it already.

The last alternate Dick he met wasn’t even Nightwing yet, but at least that guy was cool.

This one?
This was Dick Grayson: Golden Retriever Edition—wagging energy, sunshine smile, and the unstoppable conviction that Tim wanted to be involved in whatever chaotic plan he’d cooked up in the last five minutes.

Tim stared at him like he was trying to decode an alien language.
Dick just beamed brighter.

Somewhere in the multiverse, Tim was positive there existed a calm, composed, fully-functional Dick Grayson.
He just hadn’t met him.
He got the one who metaphorically brings him sticks and expects praise.

 

Tim groans, again. He had not emotionally prepared for this right now.

Dick is staring at him, waiting for a response. 

Right. He needed to answer.
“Right… my boyfriend… uh…” Quick! Make something up, Tim! “It was fine. The date… went fine…”
He palmed his own face in agony. 

Dick gave him a look. That look. The “I Know Everything and You Can’t Hide From Me” special.
“Timmy. He brought you a little panda plush because ‘you seem like a guy who needs one.’ You hugged it!”

Tim stared at the mug in his hands like it might reveal the secrets of the multiverse.

A panda plush? Hugged? Him?

His brain conjured an image of some soft-eyed dude named Bear Bear—probably actually Brandon or Ben—smiling across a café table while Tim… hugged a plushie like it was emotional support wildlife.

He nearly bluescreened.

“…He handed it to me,” Tim tried. “I didn’t want to be rude…”

“Timmy,” Dick said, patting his shoulder with the gentleness of someone soothing a startled cat, “you tucked it into your jacket like it was your child.”

Tim’s soul took a brief vacation, screamed into the void, then returned.

With the amount of soul searching he just did the past minute, he might as well join Secret in the limbo afterlife.

“Dick. Look—just drop it. I’m fine. I just had a rough morning.”
The understatement of the century. Jason had started his day by verbally dropkicking him. Damian had tried to literally dropkick him. (Overstatement.)  And Jason was still eating that cursed cereal, which honestly felt like a personal attack. Which it was.
Next thing you know, Jason would say he unironically loved Operation: Mirror Siege 4.

Dick only grinned harder. This is a crime.

“Aww,but you’re my baby bird! I gotta protect my little wings! You gotta tell big bro what’s going on! You’re just so fragile, I couldn’t help but—” Now Tim tuned out because What. The. heck. 

Fragile.

Tim’s brain made a noise like a shorted-out circuit board.

Fragile.
From Dick.

Dick only used that word to describe antique vases and Jason’s ego. And Dick didn’t do pet names with him. Ever. Also, also also—Dick should not even be here. Dick had a whole city. A job. Responsibilities.
He did not randomly pop into Gotham to perform cheerful domesticity like some enchanted NPC trying to lure Tim into a side quest.

Tim stared at him—full detective mode, the kind of stare that made criminals spill information unprompted.

Dick beamed like a man utterly unaware of the existential crisis unfolding before him.

And Tim, in his sleep-deprived stupor, genuinely questioned why Dick seemed to have a built-in glamour lighting system— Oh wait, it’s just the window.

Yup. He was losing it.

Dick was finally finished brewing Tim’s coffee and… wow. That looks…

Deadly.

Tim accepted the mug like it was a diplomatic gift from a hostile nation. “Here you go, baby bird! Taa-daa!” Dick sang, absolutely oblivious to the existential weight of what he’d just handed over.

Black coffee.
Sure. Fine. Whatever. He could handle it. Probably. Maybe. Worst case, he’d drown it in creamer until it tasted like emotional repression with vanilla notes.

He took a sip.

Then committed projectile betrayal.

He spat it out so hard he nearly anointed Jason with it.

Jason recoiled like a kicked alley cat. “THE HELL, REPLACEMENT—”

Tim wiped his mouth, eyes watering like he’d stared directly into a collapsing star. “What is that?” he rasped. “Did you brew the collective despair of Gotham’s rogues? Did you milk a shadow demon from Raven? Dick, I can taste Bane’s disappointment. This is the coffee of Gotham’s despair.”

Dick blinked, baffled. “Uh… I thought you liked it black?”

Tim stared at him, slow and wounded, like someone had just explained taxes to him incorrectly. “What about me,” he asked, “suggests I would willingly ingest that level of bitterness?”

Jason snorted. “That’s what she—”

“Finish that, and I’ll staple that cereal box to your face.”

Jason shut up. The smirk stayed. Tragic.

Tim lifted the mug again—not to drink, but to hide behind it—when something flickered at the edge of his vision. Metal. Warped. The stainless-steel kettle behind Dick, reflecting just enough light to show—

His face.

Right. His appearance. He hadn’t actually checked it yet. Serious rookie mistake. Normally he’d blame the concussion, but honestly? The manor had been suspiciously free of reflective surfaces this morning. Like someone had booby-trapped it for vampires. 

Gosh, vampires, he hoped they weren’t vampires at least– the last time they had a vampire situation, things quickly got out of hand… and out of hand… well… nevermind.

Tim leaned in to see his reflection from the kettle.

And froze.

Thin white scars pulling at the corners of his mouth, as if someone had once taken a blade and redrafted the shape of his smile.

His heartbeat stalled.
Okay.
Alright.
Yeah. That tracked. So it’s likely transmigration. Great.

Fuck his life—

Cool. This is transmigration alright. Which sucked immensely, because he hated this. Alternate universes were already a bureaucratic nightmare. Alternate universes where he was piloting a Tim-body that wasn’t his Tim-body? Even worse.
Technically still his body. Semantics. He refused to unpack that box right now.

And apparently this version of him drank black coffee willingly, which was another cry for help he did not ask for.

He touched the scars. No pain. No sting. Old injuries with histories he’d never lived.

His jaw locked. He set the mug down carefully, the kind of careful that meant he wanted to throw it but was aiming for dignity.

Jason’s face caught his eye next.
Those green eyes. He’d noticed them earlier, but only in that foggy, yeah-sure-that’s-weird-onto-the-next-crisis way.
Up close? They weren’t his Jason’s eyes.
Sharper. Greener. More haunted in a direction Tim didn’t recognize.
And the thin J-shaped scar? Brand new to him. Brand new to his timeline. Brand new to whatever multiversal joke he’d landed in.

He hated that he’d missed it.
Not silly-haha missed it—cold, clinical, the synapses-firing-in-treacle kind of missed it. His brain felt wrapped in a Walmart-grade weighted blanket: warm, heavy, and entirely inconvenient.

“Hey. Baby Bird.”

Dick’s voice of concern cut through the static.
Tim turned to look.

Up close, Dick looked… slightly wrong too. Not the kind of wrong that meant danger—just shifted. Sun-touched in a way Gotham never allowed. Like he’d been somewhere warm and bright and safe, which was absolutely not Gotham. Or Blüdhaven. Or any city in a fifty-mile radius of either. Maybe Metropolis but that’s a stretch.

Tim’s mouth moved before he could stop it. “Did you go somewhere sunny? You look… darker.”

Completely flat. Completely observational. Like he was giving a lab report on Dick Grayson’s melanin levels.

Dick stepped toward him. Tim stepped back. Smooth. Automatic. Muscle memory he didn’t remember having.

Dick’s brows furrowed. “You okay? You’re scaring me, Timmy.” Ignoring Tim’s question earlier.

The coffee buzz finally hit his bloodstream like a power-up in a survival horror game. The room snapped into clarity. The missing reflections. The too-bright hallway. The total absence of anything reflective when he’d woken up.

Someone had engineered this morning like a paranoia obstacle course.

And more importantly, something tells him that this version of him likes coffee. Like a lot. 

Borderline caffeine addict. Because what do you mean he’s starting to function a little better after a sip of that god awful substance! 

And he likes his coffee black too! Which is criminal as is!

“I’m…” He steadied his breath. “I just need a break.” From like literally everything right now.

As close to the truth as he’d allow while being watched by two different versions of his brothers, one who was crunching cereal like a background NPC, and the other totally “mother hen”-ing him right now.

Jason scoffed. “He’s always like this. Don’t act surprised.”

Dick shot Jason a look—one that said No, actually, he’s not.

Tim ignored them both. His thoughts finally clicked into familiar gears: observation, deduction, containment. Order restored.

But the longer he stood there, the more the wrongness pressed in around him.
Like stepping into a room where all the furniture had been moved an inch to the left.
Nothing big. Just enough to trip you.

The irritation that built in his chest was small but sharp. Not panic. Not fear. Just a steady, needling pressure at the base of his skull. He didn’t like missing things. He didn’t like being behind the curve.

Everyone knew something he didn’t.
Every detail was slightly off.
Every interaction felt like he was playing a part in someone else’s script.

That small, sharp irritation settled behind his eyes—the kind that meant he was done being lost in the fog.

He needed info. He needed context. He needed answers.

 

He needed Bruce.
He needed Bruce right now.
Gotham could be on fire, the Batsignal could be drawing eldritch symbols in the sky, aliens could be doing a flash mob in Times Square—it didn’t matter. Tim needed Bruce.

He barely made it two steps toward the hallway before Grayson & Todd LLC: Professional Interference Services deployed like they had pre-written choreography.

He swerved left. Dick slid in front of him with a gymnast’s grace and a traffic cone’s commitment.
He pivoted right. Jason planted himself like a refrigerator with a superiority complex.

“Wait, Timmy—” Dick started, hands splayed like he was talking someone down from a ledge.

Jason added, “Whoa, whoa, hold up, Timbo.” His arm shot out so fast Tim wondered if super-speed was contagious. “You’re not sprinting anywhere. You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird,” Tim snapped. He tried to duck under Jason’s arm. Jason just… lowered it. Like an automated gate. A sass-powered drawbridge. “Move.”

Jason tilted his head, eyes narrowing with exaggerated scrutiny. “Nah. Something’s off. You’re not just weird. You’re being Extra Weird™, plus the limited-edition urgency pack. What’s going on?”

Behind him, Dick hovered—no, floated, like if he moved too quickly Tim might crumble. “Timmy… You didn’t finish your coffee…” His voice was soft. Devastated. Like Tim had personally kicked a puppy.

Tim refused to look at the mug. He already knew the contents tasted like charred misery filtered through swamp water.
There were bigger issues. Focus Tim.

“I’m fine,” Tim said, employing the signature Wayne Family Lie Tone™. “I just need to find Bruce.”

Both brothers stiffened like someone hit pause.

“You need to find—?” Jason echoed.

“Bruce?” Dick finished. As if there were something wrong with that sentence.

Tim’s stomach dropped at the implication,what if Bruce isn’t– gosh he hopes Bruce is here, cause without him… things would be complicated.

“Why? What happened? Did something happen? Did someone happen? Are you hurt, are you—”

Tim cut him off. “It’s urgent.”

Jason folded his arms across his chest, channeling peak concerned-older-brother energy he hid under leather jackets and violence. Which Tim didn’t even know existed till now but now that he’s seen the picture, he wants to get out of this place even more. “Urgent like ‘oopsies, filed the wrong report’ or urgent like ‘there’s a body somewhere and none of us know whose’?”  It’s like  multiversal urgent.

“It’s not—look, I just need to talk to him. Now.”

Unless… this universe doesn’t have Bruce.

Dick stepped closer, blue eyes scanning him like a human lie detector. “Timmy… Your hands are shaking.”

Tim looked down. Traitor hands. They were absolutely shaking.
Maybe from stress.
Maybe from universe-hopping side effects.
Maybe from the knowledge he desperately needed advice from a man who sometimes forgot what food groups were and thought his car was the coolest car ever. (Thirteen gears. He has Thirteen. Gears. In the batmobile.) 

Or maybe this body is constantly stressed. Yeah, he’ll go with that.

He clenched his fists. “Just tell me where he is.” 

Dick and Jason exchanged a glance. A whole novel of silent communication. Plot twists. Character development. Possibly a musical number. Or probably debating on telling him where Bruce is right now.

Tim hated it.

Jason finally said, “He’s at Wayne Enterprises. Board meeting. Something about budgets and quarterly projections and whatever boring capitalist nonsense keeps Gotham from collapsing.”

Tim blinked. “He’s what?” Bruce is in… WE?? 

Dick nodded. “He left at seven. Early! Like, fully awake early! I know. I was shocked too.”

Tim’s brain short-circuited. His Bruce usually avoided board meetings like they were tax audits with a side of dental surgery, because it was usually Lucius’ thing to handle the meetings. (Or even Damian sometimes.) This Bruce somehow apparently went to them. Diligently at that. Stupid universe shenanigans. 

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll drive there.”

Jason’s laugh was so sudden Tim jumped. “With what license?”

Tim froze. Froze solid.
Oh no.

Please don’t tell him that this version of him has no license.

“Can’t drive ‘member?”

He whispered, “Of course.” Of course this guy can’t drive.

Dick perked up immediately. “I’ll drive! I can drive! I’ll get the car! I’ll grab snacks! I’ll—”

“No.” Jason blocked him with one hand. “Absolutely not. Last time you drove on ‘urgent’ mode, you rear-ended a cop car because you were trying to beat the GPS ETA by four minutes.”

Dick gasped. “That was ONE TIME—”

“Two,” Jason corrected.

“Okay, but the second doesn’t count because that cop was texting—”

“The cop was you, Dick.”

“W-Hey! I was texting B about–”

Jason waved him off. “Point is: you stay. Wrangle Little Brat.” He jerked a thumb toward where Damian was—quiet, still, probably plotting breakfast domination or international espionage.

Tim’s eyes widened. “Wait—Damian’s here?” He hadn’t noticed the tiny shadow lurking near the window sill, crouched like a gargoyle with one knee drawn up, a small injured bird cradled carefully in his hands. Not sloppy. Precise. Deadly. But somehow—there. And silent. How had he even gotten there without him noticing? How Tim had missed him was a riddle for future, less-concussed Tim.

Damian’s sharp gaze flicked to Jason. “Todd,” he muttered, voice low, sharp as a blade, “you’re far too loud this morning. Do you intend to announce the world’s problems before breakfast?”

Jason just shrugged, clearly unbothered. “Morning, kid.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed on Tim, flicking between him and the wounded bird. “Hmph,” he said, muttering something about responsibility and idiots being loud. It was… concern, but wrapped in layers of tsundere-level disdain. “Drake. Don’t forget your promise.” Okayyy so Tim also apparently promised Damian something. Great. Yay for him.

Tim’s stomach twisted. He was too busy processing the fact that this universe apparently thought he and Jason were close to notice the subtext in Damian’s grumbles at first. But now? Seeing the way Damian’s tiny frame tensed protectively, the slight furrow in his brow when Tim made a motion as if to rush out… yep. Concern. Hidden beneath a storm cloud of annoyance. He must have misunderstood the earlier feud then. But also who the hell starts the day by throwing a knife at someone? Well this Damian apparently. 

“WAIT!” Dick yelped, then immediately pivoted toward Damian. “Come here you little gremlin—”

He launched himself across the room.

Damian barely had time to hiss an alarmed, “Grayson—!” before Dick tackled him into a full-body bear hug. The bird survived only because Damian’s assassin reflexes kicked in and he lifted it overhead like a sacred relic.

Dick, meanwhile, latched onto him like an affectionate octopus. “Gotcha Bratty Wing!”

“Unhand me, Richard!” Damian barked, kicking wildly—but Dick just laughed, effortlessly holding him in some horrifyingly gentle older-brother headlock-hug hybrid.

 “I’ll take Replacement. Come Timbo, you’re gonna vibrate out of your skin at this rate.” He says.

Tim just stared at Jason, coming to the horrifying revelation that this universe thinks Tim and Jason are… close.
Which is, frankly, worse for Tim’s stomach than any universe-hopping side effect.

Tim stared at him like someone had told him gravity suddenly had opinions.

Jason Todd was…
being nice.
Not condescending.
Not passive-aggressive.
Not pulling rank or throwing shade.

Just… talking to him.
Like they were friends.

The longer Jason looked at him with that almost-worried crease in his brow, the more Tim wanted to kick a wall and then crawl under it.

This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t right.
This was some Twilight Zone fever dream where up was down and Jason Todd was apparently emotionally available.

The fleeting, horrifying thought slithered through his brain:

Were they close here?

As in: talk-about-feelings close.
As in: trauma-dump-in-the-Batmobile close.
As in: “grab dinner after patrol” close.

His stomach churned. Absolutely vile. Physically nauseating.
Not because Jason was terrible—Jason was fine, when he wasn’t annoying him or messing with his cases—but because the idea that he (Tim) had apparently participated in this closeness? Willingly? Consensually?? With Jason?!?

He might actually throw up.

No seriously, he’s gagging right now.

And the worst part?
Jason’s tone wasn’t remotely mocking.
Not even sharp.
It had this weird edge to it, like… concern.

Concern.
From Jason.

Yeah.
Tim was done. Completely done.

He needed Bruce before this universe tried to convince him he and Jason shared inside jokes or, god forbid, hugs.

He was absolutely not emotionally prepared to deal with that, so he wasn’t going to.

“Great. Fine. Whatever, let’s just go—”

“WAIT!” Dick yelped, Tim just closed his eyes, his patience running thin. He seriously can’t believe Dick Grayson of all people, is wearing him thin.

Then—like this was completely normal—Dick fished around in his pocket one-handed while keeping Damian secured. “Timmy—your phone! You left it on the couch, so I charged it overnight!”

He stretched out the phone toward Tim, Damian still trapped under his arm like a very angry cat in a hoodie.

He placed it in Tim’s hand like he feared it might break. Or bite him.

Tim blinked at it.
Seven missed calls from Bruce.
A small novel’s worth of texts from Steph and Kon.
And then—

Bear <33

 So many hearts it looked like an explosion at an emoji factory.

The boyfriend.
The very loving, very domestic-sounding boyfriend.
Tim felt like he’d borrowed someone’s life and forgotten the user manual.

He locked the phone.

Jason nudged him toward the door. “Let’s go talk to Big B before we lose you Timmy.”

Tim still couldn’t shake the image of those missed calls.
What was their relationship like here?
What version of Bruce was waiting for him?

And was this going to be comforting…
or catastrophic?

They’d barely made it three steps when Dick sucked in a dramatic gasp.
“Wait, Tim—your coffee! Don’t forget to dri—“

Tim grabbed the mug on instinct, sloshing half the creamer bottle into it like he was trying to perform an exorcism through dairy. One stir. One sip.

Agony. Pure, philosophical agony.

It tasted like someone had distilled regret.

The Coffee of Despair.

His eye twitched. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s go.” For real this time.

Jason, holding the door open, stared at him like he’d just watched a man willingly drink lava. “Yeah. It’s urgent. No one chooses that on purpose.”

Tim marched forward with grim determination—finally, finally ready to confront this universe’s Bruce and whatever cosmic nonsense awaited him.

He reached the hallway.

Dick slapped a hand over his own mouth in horror. “WAIT—TIM!” GOSH, WHAT IS IT THIS TIME— “You’re not gonna change?”

Tim froze mid-stride.
Looked down.
Saw the tragic disaster that was his outfit.

Oh.
Right.

The sweats that wasn’t his.
The shirt that definitely weren’t his.
The whole ensemble radiating “I lost a fight with a laundry basket.”

He groaned loudly, somewhere between dying and dead. Which gosh, he keeps groaning this morning isn’t he?

Without another word, he spun on his heel and took off down the hall.

He slammed into a tall guy carrying a precarious tower of books, almost sending them airborne.
“Oh—!” the guy stumbled, barely catching the stack. “Whoa—hey! Oh morning, Tim. You’re up early—”

Tim’s brain did a rapid-fire inventory: new face. Unknown. Not threatening… yet. He shot the guy a quick, calculating glance, noted the curve of his jaw, the alertness in his stance, the completely unexpected way he steadied the books with one hand like a pro, and filed it away. No time for pleasantries.

He reached out instinctively, shoving the books back into safer alignment as he brushed past. No words, just an almost imperceptible nod—helpful, efficient, neutral. He didn’t know this person, and didn't need to. This was hopefully temporary anyway.  His mind barely registered the stranger’s surprised, slightly impressed expression before he was gone.

Dick appeared at the end of the hall, jogging with Damian still tucked under one arm like an unwilling emotional support cat.
“He, uh—wait, no, TIM! Little Wing! Wrong wing! Your room’s the other way! Oh hi, Duke! Are those from the library? Need any help?”

Tim didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it, because he bolted down the opposite wing at full speed, skidding around corners like a kid on rollerblades who’d lost all sense of decency.

Behind him, the tall guy blinked after the disappearing blur. “What’s… up with him?”

Dick shrugged, hands raised helplessly, Damian squirming against his chest. “Urgent business! Probably W.E. related.”

A distant thud echoed as Tim careened off a wall mid-turn, barely maintaining balance.

Then, just the rapid, determined patter of his own footsteps as he streaked toward the correct wing. Eyes forward. Mind focused. Outfit horrifying. Destination: salvation in the form of clothes he actually liked.

He was going to get changed.
He was going to face Bruce.
And he was absolutely not doing any of it dressed like a thrift store cryptid.

… Oh shit, don’t tell him he stays in a different room here too.

---

Tim changed into something appropriate, which thank god this version of him isn’t completely hopeless when it comes to fashion. Tim just wore a simple dress suit that’s slightly crumpled in a hurry, but Tim won’t dwell on it cause he’s following the standard protocol when it comes to cases like these.

What he will dwell on however, was his current predicament.

Aka sitting beside Jason on the passengers seat while Jason was driving.

The drive to Wayne Enterprises was awful. Not merely awkward, but a dense, suffocating blanket of discomfort that radiated entirely from Tim. It felt like being forced to ride shotgun with an estranged family member who had just won the lottery and was blissfully unaware of the restraining order.

Jason was blasting music. Not anything aggressive or punk, but something Tim’s brain categorized instantly as 'white girl music': highly produced, deeply emotional synth-pop that contained approximately 90% more references to feelings than his standard timeline could handle. Jason was tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, completely absorbed in the beat.

Tim leaned his head against the glass, letting the vibration rattle his skull. Every beat was a reminder that this Jason Todd was fundamentally different.

This Jason is comfortable. This Jason has pop music in his library. This Jason is being nice.

Tim would gag if he hadn’t done that enough already.

His phone buzzed. He didn't even have to look.

Bear <33: Hey, hope you got some rest last night! You seriously scared me last night. D told me you’re meeting with B. Said it’s some important stuff so I won’t bother you for now. Text me when you’re done talking to B! Love you!

Tim’s stomach twisted into a Gordian knot. The sheer, overwhelming domesticity of the message was a physical assault. This Bear knew him. He talked to Dick. He said, “Love you.”

He locked the phone instantly.

“Not gonna answer that, Timbo?” Jason’s voice cut through the synth-bass, casual and unconcerned.

“Nope.”

“Bad date?”

“Not really, it’s just… complicated.” Universe hopping complicated. Tim kept his answer clipped.

Jason gave him a sideways glance, the green in his eyes catching the morning sun. “You know, I got pretty good at navigating complicated. Especially your brand.”

Tim flinched. The implication—that he and Jason were close enough to discuss his dating life, let alone his brand of complicated—was horrific.

“Why’d you need to see Bruce anyway?”

“None of your business.”

“Hey now, I’m trying to be nice here,” Jason countered, his tone mildly reproachful, not aggressive. “If it's a villain thing, I can help. If it's a boyfriend thing, I can definitely make the problem disappear.” He punctuated that with a cheerful, terrifying grin.

“It’s not a boyfriend thing,” Tim hissed. “It’s a who I am and what reality I’m in thing.” He immediately regretted saying that out loud. Gosh, why is he comfortable with Jason of all people?

Jason just shrugged, turning down the volume slightly. “Yeah, that’s just a normal Tuesday for us. We’ll figure it out.”

Tim stared. Did he think I was joking?

“We’re here.”

What? Wait—what?? That was quick. That would’ve taken like at least 15 minutes to arrive, even with speeding, the traffic in Gotham is— 

Y’know what? Nevermind. Universe’s bullshit rules I guess.

Jason hadn't even parked fully before Tim was tearing the door open. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Sure thing, Replacement! See ya later, loser!”

Tim bolted into the Wayne Enterprises lobby.

The lobby was a blur of polished steel and unrecognizable faces. None of the employees looked like the tired, long-suffering veterans who typically gave him the ‘Oh, it’s you again’ nod. That was another thing, the staff seemed different too.

He didn't slow until he reached the marble reception desk, skidding slightly to a halt.

“I need to see Bruce Wayne. Urgent.”

The receptionist, a young woman with a polite, professional smile, didn’t even look up before saying, “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

Tim opened his mouth to recite the standard ‘Wayne Family Emergency’ protocol when she finally looked up, her smile widening in recognition.

“Oh! Mr. Drake-Wayne! Of course.”

Tim froze, the new last name ringing in his ears like a church bell. Drake-Wayne. That’s some useful tidbit of info, he filed that in the back of his mind he’ll use later. For now, he’ll get direct answers from Bruce.

The receptionist continued, utterly oblivious to the internal meltdown she’d caused. “Your father is in the 15th-floor executive wing, having a meeting with Mr. Fox in regards to your status as the current CEO of WE. You should go straight up.”

CEO?

Tim’s mental whiteboard shattered. CEO. Now that wasn’t much different from his universe, where he had to take upon that title when Bruce was presumed dead, but it was mostly CEO in name to prevent Ras’ from getting his hands on Bruce’s money, but Tim was mostly just a majority shareholder if anything. Lucius—Bless him,  did all the hard work really. Besides, he’s not sure how old this body is, but  isn’t giving someone this young the title of CEO a bit… irresponsible? I mean there were special circumstances on why Tim was given that title back at home, but that’s a long story to cover the logistics of it, for this Tim though? There’s a perfectly capable Bruce alive as far as he knows. Heck, Tim hasn’t even gone to college yet (well, he dropped out but semantics.) but this? This universe was downright pathologically unhinged. 

Not that his world was any better but the point still stands.

He managed a ragged, “Thank you.”

He strode toward the elevator, his steps tight and mechanical. Drake-Wayne. CEO. He felt like he was piloting a stolen identity. 

He hit the button for the 15th floor, staring at the flashing numbers, willing the elevator to teleport. He used the reflection in the polished brass doors to confirm his scar was still there, a constant, ugly truth in a world of pleasant lies.

When the doors opened on 15, the floor was silent, plush, and overwhelmingly adult. He followed the signs for the main executive conference room, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

---

He found them in a corner office that had more glass than wall, overlooking a dizzying view of Gotham.

Through the glass, he saw them. Bruce was seated at a massive mahogany table, head bent in conversation with Lucius Fox.

Bruce.

His Bruce was usually rumpled, perpetually tired, and wore the weight of the city like a bespoke suit.

This Bruce was… neat. Crisp. He was in a perfectly tailored suit, his hair slightly damp and impeccably styled, and he was listening to Lucius with an expression of focused, professional engagement that Tim had only ever seen Bruce use when questioning a captured villain.

He was awake. He was competent. He looked healthy.

Thank goodness. Bruce didn’t seem to change that much here as far as he knows, at least appearance wise that is. 

He hopes he isn't any different personality wise though.

Tim didn't knock. He just pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside, the sound echoing in the massive room.

“Bruce.”

Both men looked up. Lucius Fox gave him a warm, familial smile that seemed impossibly genuine.

Tim managed an easy, almost reflexive smile back. “Morning, Lucius. Tell Tam I said hi, oh and that I’ll try to grab lunch with her later this week if you don’t mind.”

Lucius chuckled. “I will, Tim. But you should probably talk to your dad first.”

Bruce’s reaction was what stopped Tim dead.

His father figure’s face instantly softened. The professional mask cracked, replaced by an expression of immediate, deep, and slightly panicked concern.

Bruce shot up from his chair so fast the legs scraped across the floor.
“Tim? What happened? Are you hurt? You weren’t answering your phone last night—I got so worried when Bernard dragged you to Wayne Manor’s door while you were unconscious—” His words spilled out in a rush, urgent and raw, tumbling over each other like a river in flood.

A wave of unexpected relief hit Tim, almost knocking the wind out of him. This Bruce—aside from the mildly terrifying CEO aura—seemed… normal. Functional. Present. And, most importantly, here. Thank goodness.

Also wait hold on a minute— did he hear that right? Bernard? Like… Bernard Dowd?? He’s Bear Bear??
Please, please, please not Bernard Dowd. Not him. Of all people he’ll take a Brandon over him. Tim’s stomach did a nervous flip.

His body reacted before his brain caught up. Shoulders dropped. The tight coil of tension he’d carried since waking—the jittery panic, the caffeine-fueled existential dread—slipped away like sand through fingers. The ease felt foreign, almost shamefully vulnerable. His detective brain made a mental note: this body trusts this Bruce implicitly. A dangerous, disorienting data point.

“I—” Tim swallowed hard, urgency bubbling back up. “We need to talk. Now. Alone.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate. His gaze flicked to Lucius with a silent Family Emergency memo that needed no words. Then he was moving, fast and decisive, his large hand settling on Tim’s shoulder with steady warmth and weight that grounded him in a way Tim hadn’t realized he’d needed.

“Lucius, I’m so sorry—we’ll continue this tomorrow. Something’s come up,” Bruce said, his voice clipped but calm.

Lucius gave a polite nod. “No problem, Mr. Wayne. Take care of your son.”

Bruce’s eyes locked on Tim’s, dark and intense, scanning for injuries, searching for hidden signs of trauma. “Okay. Let’s go. Tell me what’s wrong, son.”

Tim nodded, words failing him, utterly absorbed in the fact that his body actually relaxed under Bruce’s touch. Presence, reassurance, authority—they were all right here. He didn’t care about protocol, explanations, or timing. He was with Bruce, and that alone was enough.

“Let’s go,” Tim said, voice steadier than he’d felt in hours, the tiniest fraction of calm threading through the storm inside him.

 

 

 

Notes:

Once again I think I could’ve written this chapter better but I have no idea how to introduce fanon tropes here. also sorry for the cliff hanger, Im notorious for ending stuff around 4k+ words, give or take. And yes vaguely I referenced Disaster Squad here shhh that fic is my pride and joy (I’ve yet to update it and if you guys are readers from that fic im sorry finals killed me and this fic was pre written so)

For “Bear Bear”. Guys I’m ngl I made that nickname up— there was no fanon or fic to base that off on I just really thought that “Bear Bear” would send Tim to a cardiac arrest. I love Bernard and gosh he’s so funny in the new Fraction run, wished he will stay characterized as that forever (Tim Drake Robin DOES NOT EXIST.) As for my personal ships with Tim? I’m a TimTam truther. THEY GOT THE FAKE FIANCE TROPE DOWN AND THEY WERE MY ENDGAMEEEEE AUGHHEYH THEY DESERVED BETTER. LIKE! DUDE IM STILL SALTY SHE DIDNT END UP WITH HIM AFTER RED ROBIN LIKE SERIOUSLY- also with the amount of red robin Tim fanfics there are, theres a criminally little amount of TimTam here. Jail. (like fym theres only 65 TIMTAM WORKS LIKE GUYS WERE LOSING ANCIENT TEXTS) but she’s my personal pick for a vigilante x civi romance, especially for Tim!

As for mlm ships I personally ride on TimLonnie. I don’t even have a good basis for this ship I just thought it was a hilarious concept that could unironically work if it was cooked right— Like Lonnie hates Tim Drake but likes Robin? this is Miraculous identity porn level guys. It’s great. We need more fics of these two! Also how in Red Robin Tim made a virtual reality so that he could defeat the Unternet together with Lonnie was romantic. Idc what yall say, nothing Tim does can be classified platonic in a normal way. Timkon is a mixed bag for me, on one hand I can see *why* people like the ship, I also like it a lot too— but the thing that tips me off is the main reason they ship them is cause of the cloning thing— when Kon legit had a whole arc struggling being cloned and all of that yet somehow it’s seen romantic with TimKon? (Oh and Tim didn’t just attempt to clone Kon, he also did that with Bart—Cassie went to a cult when Kon died: understatement, Bart literally got lost in the speedforce trying to find Kon. They ALL LOVED KON and just focusing on Tim’s cloning in grief does a disservice to the others grief—) I could yap a lot of my problems with this ship actually, I DONT EVEN HATE THE SHIP i just think that a lot of people view Kon as an accessory to Tim as a ship instead of acknowledging Kon’s character most of the time— it defo feels more like a “they look hot and they know each other so I ship it” type of ship in my eyes— I say as I like another TimKon post- but I view them like superbat if anything, cool ship but not my otp, my personal Kon ship is with Kyle tbh but I’m also a KyleWally truther so— TimBart however? Yall are missing out. TimBartKon? The true polycule I’ll die on (other than TimStephLonnie) I just love their relationship in YJ and it saddens me that Bart is sidelined a lot in TimKon when hes an essential relationship with Tim too… they literally formed Yj together guys don’t sideline Bart :((

Also not really a hot take and no shade to Bern but if they really wanted to make Tim have an mlm civilian relationship… SEBASTIAN. IVES. WAS RIGHT THERE! GOSH. Sebastian how I miss you (and also tim’s cast in general— Callie, Kevin, Ariana- oh im gonna reach the character limit atp) Also Bernard is just so different from the early comics too cause he was like lowkey, idk how to describe it… kinda a loser? He literally told Tim his stepmom was hot. (they were both being aholes tho) No shade to Modern Timber but Tim is going to have an aneurysm (if he hasnt already) once he finds out hes dating BERNARD of all people. Bernard “Drake your stepmom is so—HOT!” Dowd. honestly semantics. 90’s Bern and Modern Bern are just entirely different people and you can’t tell me otherwise. Which is a shame cause bern back then didnt really have a fleshed out relationship w tim tbh for us to compare him really.

Now for Bruce. Gosh Bruce, I know I wrote him kinda boring rn but wait till we have galas and thats where he’ll shine. Tim Drake being CEO of W.E. is also so funny to me because when Bruce was presumed dead, Tim was just a shareholder and Lucius was technically the one in charge. Tim was just there in name to prevent Ras from having the company— Tim didn’t even do much work from there cause he was too busy being geeked out in Red Robin. Oh I miss Red Robin 2009… Tamara Fox how much I missed you :(( Also my og plan was making Bruce a deadbeat “Bad Parent” whos only “coworkers” with Tim but I kinda don’t wanna go through the angst route cuz that would cause too many complications and also a lot of plot thinking so I went for chum dad bruce instead cause fanon whump is overdone, the only whump here is Tim suffering from said fanon LOL)

Chapter 3: Oh, I Guess We’re Speaking French Now. (Why French of All Things?)

Summary:

Tim’s about to open up the truth to Bruce… until he starts speaking french?

Bruce’s office door shuts behind them with a soft thunk, and Tim barely gets out, “Uhm, Bruce, so—”

Bruce cuts him off instantly, voice low, urgent, and entirely in French.
« Tim, mon cœur, tu vas bien ? Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe ? Tu es pâle. Tu trembles. Parle-moi. »
(Tim, my heart, are you okay? What’s going on? You’re pale. You’re shaking. Talk to me.)

Tim blinks.
Oh. We’re doing French now. Is this a new contingency? Some privacy protocol? Sure. Sure, why not. Add it to the ever-growing stack of new multiversal facts I guess.

He tries to answer.
The first word catches. The next is smoother.
The third slips out like he’s been speaking this his whole life.

« Je… je vais bien, B. Juste— attends. »
(I… I’m fine, B. Just—wait.)

Tim freezes internally.

Why did that sound right?
Why did that sound native?

He’s American. He took French as an elective. He butchered vowels for a solid semester and never recovered. This should not be happening.

Bruce goes still, his eyes narrowing with recognition.
Not suspicion. Recognition.
Like he was waiting for this.

He sits across from Tim but leans forward, elbows on knees, voice gentle.
« Tu hésites quand tu mens. Tu n’as pas hésité avant de parler. Pas comme d’habitude. »
(You hesitate when you lie. You didn’t hesitate before speaking. Not like you usually do.)

Tim’s stomach sinks.
Of course this version of Bruce would be hyper-attuned to micro-expressions.
 

Right. Okay. Fantastic. This Bruce notices micro-hesitations in foreign-language fluency. Next he’s gonna tell me my breathing cadence is off by 0.03 seconds.

… Which isn’t completely far off from his Bruce, which is honestly a great sign, oddly enough.

Stupid “World’s Greatest Detective” my ass.

Bruce softens even further, the affection still there, but the relief? The relief is sharper now that he knows he's not misreading his son—he’s reading someone else inside his son’s skin.

Bruce steps closer, reading Tim’s micro-expressions like he’s deciphering encrypted files.
Tim does the same, because of course he does. They’re both silently profiling each other like it’s a sport—because apparently some instincts don’t care what universe you wake up in.

Bruce hesitates the way Dick did earlier—arms twitching like he wants to hug Tim but isn’t sure if Tim will evaporate on contact. Tim would absolutely laugh at it later if he wasn’t actively dealing with the “wrong universe, wrong body, wrong Tuesday” situation.

He considers lying, but then his shoulders… relax. Like muscle memory from another Tim who trusted this Bruce without thinking. So he goes for it.
Careful, soft, dry as always:
« C’est… multiversel. Une transmigration. Je me suis fait… déplacer. Je me suis réveillé dans le mauvais corps, le mauvais univers. »
(It’s… multiversal. A transmigration. I got… moved.  Woke up in the wrong body, wrong universe.)

Bruce freezes. There’s a flicker—Batman overriding Bruce for half a second, jaw clenching, eyes sharpening—before the warmth returns.

« Ça explique pourquoi tu n’as pas caché tes cicatrices aujourd’hui. »
(That explains why you didn’t hide your scars today.)

Tim stops.
He knows about the scars—he felt them, catalogued them earlier—but it hadn’t occurred to him that he was supposed to hide them.

« …ah. »
(…oh.)

What on earth happened to him?

He breathes out, softer.

« Je… je pense que j’ai pas vécu ce qu’il a vécu, lui. Le moi d’ici. »
(I… I don’t think I went through what he did. The me from here.)

Bruce’s face shifts—gentle, relieved, sad all at once.

« C’est une bonne chose. Je comprends.  Ça doit être difficile de t’adapter.»
(Thats a good thing. I understand. It must be hard to adjust.)

Tim waves a hand, dismissive.
« S’il te plaît. J’ai déjà vécu pire. J’ai été Jumanji’d une fois, et la dernière fois que Klarion s’est énervé, mon équipe a fini dans une autre dimension. Ça va. »
(Please. I’ve dealt with worse. I got Jumanji’d once, and the last time Klarion threw a tantrum, my team ended up in another dimension. I’m fine.) 

Bruce makes a low, amused sound.

Tim frowns. “What?” Why are you looking at me like that?

Bruce gestures at him—specifically at the slightly rumpled white dress shirt and the slacks that, frankly, fit him too well.

« Tu portes les vêtements de Cassandra. »
(You’re wearing Cassandra’s clothes.)

Tim short-circuits.

He looks down.
He looks at the dress shirt.
At the slacks.
At the subtle scuff on the hem because he put them on fast.

« …mais ils étaient dans MON placard. »
(…but they were in MY closet.)

Bruce gives a soft, apologetic little wince.
The I love you, kid, but the universe loves messing with you wince.

« Normalement, oui. Il y a peut-être encore une confusion dans ton placard. »
(Normally, yes. There must’ve been another mix-up in your closet. ) 

He smiles, clearly amused.

« Ça arrive. »

(It happens.)

He helpfully added.

Tim just stands there, hands hovering midair like he’s trying to reboot his own operating system.

Bruce is teasing him.

“Look Bruce—“

« Le plan du manoir est bizarre, d’accord ? Je me suis réveillé dans une chambre d’amis— »
(The manor layout is weird, okay? I woke up in some guest room—)

Bruce cuts him off gently.
« C’est ta chambre, Tim. »
(That’s your room, Tim.)

« Avec des vêtements sans goût ! »
(With tasteless clothes!)

« Ce sont tes vêtements, Tim. »
(Those are your clothes, Tim.)

Tim groans like he’s been mortally wounded. Seriously? Coffee Cult? Of all the shirts he owns here, most of them looked like bad corporate humor shirts with subpar quality printing.

Bruce watches him with that unbearable, warm-dad amusement.

Then, gently:

« Mon Tim… »
(My Tim…)

He stops himself.
Course-corrects softly.

« Lui, il est très timide. Il ne parle jamais comme ça. »
(He’s very shy. He never talks like this.)

That lands like a pebble tossed into deep water.
Tim feels the ripple: you’re not him, but I still see you.

And then it hits him.

Bruce has been speaking French the whole time.
Tim’s been slipping in and out of it like it’s natural.
And Bruce hasn’t commented once.

So he blurts—still in French—
« Pourquoi on parle français, en fait ? »
(Why are we speaking French, actually?)

Bruce blinks.
Caught.

« C’est ta langue maternelle… non ? »
(It’s your native language… isn’t it?)

Tim inhales through his teeth.

He switches to English with the desperation of a drowning man reaching shore.

“Bruce. I’m from Bristol, Gotham. Why would I be speaking French?” Unless… don’t tell him—

A beat.
Two.
Then Bruce releases the most weary, multiverse-father sigh imaginable.

« D’accord. Différence multiverselle. »
(Alright. Multiversal difference.)

He shifts smoothly into English, voice steady, like he’s done this a million times in a million universes.

“In this world, your mother—Janet—is of French descent. So I just assumed…” he tells him.

Fuckkk—

Tim’s hands shoot up. “No, yeah, no… totally reasonable and… understandable. It’s just—” Just—wow. it’s a lot for him to handle right now.

He sags, glaring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

Tim groans, at this point there should be a counter of every moment hes sighed, groaned and rolled his eyes today. Why French of all things? Out of every possible timeline, why did I wake up in the one where I’m suddenly built like Cass and bilingual by default?

He seriously can’t decide if he should be mad his alternate is French or that he has atrocious clothing choices.

Bruce lets out a quiet huff—something between amusement and sympathy.

And Tim feels the universe’s cosmic chaos looming like a dramatic spotlight.

Bruce’s posture shifts the moment the French drops away. His shoulders settle into that “WE-are-having-a-formal-Wayne-Enterprises-conversation-but-also-I-am-your-father-deeply-freaking-out-internally” angle.

He folds his hands on his desk, voice soft but steady.
“Well now that we got that out of the way, I take it you’re here for direct answers. And I’d give them. But I’m not exactly…” Batman, he means Batman “—right now, and talking about this in broad daylight—inside a skyscraper with a thousand ears—could easily compromise us.”

Tim nods immediately. “Yeah, no, hard agree Bruce.” Not exactly trying to speedrun getting assassinated in a business suit. Last time he did that to throw his scent off, it was not fun.

Bruce huffs—barely a smile, more like a fond exhale—but it softens the edges of his worry.

Then Bruce hesitates. The kind of hesitation that has weight.
“Though may I ask something? If you don’t mind, Tim…”
His eyes flicker up to Tim’s with a quiet, emotional calculation.
“What’s our relationship like… in your universe?”

Tim doesn't even need to think. His mouth moves on instinct.
“We’re close.”

Bruce hums. Encouraging Tim to continue.

Tim voice goes gentler. “Like… whatever this body feels around you? That ease? The trust? That’s basically how I feel around you too. Mostly anyway…”
He fiddles with the cuff of Cass’ shirt. “I just hope he doesn’t worry too much about me back there. My Bruce, I mean. He’s good at pretending he’s fine until he drops.” And god knows what Bruce would do in order to find him right now.

Well that’s one thing they have in common ,for sure.

Bruce’s expression melts—full relief, full fondness, full Dad Who Has Been Holding His Breath For Hours And Is Finally Letting It Out.

“Well I’m glad,” he says quietly. “I’m glad I don’t have to… change anything between us. For your adjustments here that is.”

”Can’t say the rest with the others but… yeah Bruce, I’m glad too.” Tim lets out a small smile.

Bruce listens closely, that focused-but-soft look he only gets when he’s trying to understand a Tim who is both his and not his.
He tilts his head a little. “So I gather that… things are… different with your brothers back home?”

Tim groans like Bruce just asked him to list every mistake he’s ever made. To be fair, that question is a mistake.

“Different? They’re at the very least normal back home.” Calling Jason normal is a stretch, but it’s better than whatever he is here— “They’re weird here.” Which, is downplaying his current predicament.

Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. “Walk me through it.”

Tim points at the air like he’s conducting a crime reenactment.

“Dick? He’s… doting. Not that he wasn’t back home but he’s like–Like full helicopter-parent mode here? Hovering. Smiling. Checking in. He didn’t even throw anything at the wall this morning. Not even by accident.”
He narrows his eyes. “He’s happy. Suspiciously happy. And I know that should be a good thing, but also it’s freaking me out. It’s uncanny!”

Bruce’s smile softens. “He cares deeply for you all.”

“Yeah, he cares about me back home too,” Tim fires back, “but this version is acting like he’s auditioning for ‘Supportive Older Sibling of the Year.’ I swear he almost helped me change my clothes. It’s seriously creepy Bruce.”

Bruce chuckles. Tim pretends not to catch the fond glint there.

“And Damian?” Bruce asks.

Tim looks personally offended by the question. Which he isn’t, don’t mistake his scowl for that, his personal distain is reserved for Jason Peter Todd and Jason Peter Todd only.

“This kid here—“ he gestures wildly “—is acting like we’re back at square one. Square one! The way he threw knives at me first thing in the morning? The whole “Drake” thing with his signature scowl? That was basically vintage Damian. Year one Damian. Threatened about his place Damian. I haven’t had to deal with the ‘silent-stare-of-concern-that-feels-like-a-threat’ in ages.”

Bruce’s eyes crinkle, amused. “So you’re close back home?”

“Decent,” Tim corrects sharply. “We’re decent. We respect each other’s space. We don’t do… close. He doesn’t do close… not with me anyway, which I totally respect– He hasn’t even chucked a knife at me in a long time and doesn’t say cryptic shit for us to decode. He’s mellowed out. Like a lot back home, but I don’t spend enough time with him to decide if we’re on great terms. Good, maybe? Great? Debatable.”

Bruce nods like this is the most reasonable complaint he’s ever heard.

“And Jason?” he asks, just lightly enough to hide a smirk.

Tim reacts instantly—face souring like he bit into a villain monologue.

“Jason Todd gets on my nerves,” understatement of the century, he says flatly. “Every time he walks into a room, it’s like my blood pressure files a complaint. And ever since Titans Tower?”
He flicks his hand dismissively. “Yeah. No. Won’t ever let him live that down.” Because those Yellow Tights were atrocious. Curse Tim for having eyes, that image is forever in his nightmares.

Bruce’s eyebrows lift. “Titans Tower?”
There’s something sharp in his eyes—recognition, maybe—but he doesn’t push.

“And yes,” Tim adds, already annoyed, “Don’t get me wrong, I do respect him. I really do. Dying tragically does wonders for your reputation. But alive? He’s… ugh. You know when someone is technically good at their job but you still want to shove them down a flight of stairs just a little?” He’s not even technically good at the job, he’s just the job himself. The job that Tim has to deal with every once in a while that is.

Bruce smiles, because he is a menace.
“You and Jason are very close here.”

“That’s disgusting, you know that right?” Tim deadpans.

The smile grows. “He cares about you, you know.”

“Well,” Tim fires back, “he can un-care immediately. Besides, what's the deal with the whole “Replacement” thing anyway?!?” Like seriously? Replacement? Of all the things to call Tim. As if—

Bruce just shrugs, “Probably an inside joke between you two.” he smiles.

“That’s bullshit Bruce. You know that.” Tim rebutted. “I want very little to do with anything regarding him.”

Bruce coughs into his hand, absolutely hiding a laugh.
“You two really aren’t close at all, huh?”

“Closest we get is me not throwing a batarang at his head. That’s the bar. And I maintain it.” Or rather Tim tries to.

Tim makes a face so visceral it could curdle milk.
“Listen. I just really don’t like whatever’s going on with Jason in this universe.” Or everyone else really.
He gestures vaguely, like waving at an invisible crime scene.
“The idea that we’re close? Me? Jason? No. Absolutely not. I’m rejecting this timeline. The idea that he’ll ever get close to me to give me a hug? What next, we have late night patrol talks? He just asked me about my dating life with my not-boyfriend! Next thing you know, he’ll officiate my wedding!” Tim mock gags that might as well be a real one.

To clarify, Tim has no real grudge against Jason, he didn’t even know the guy before his death— he’s just some guy he knows, really. But establishing that he doesn’t like Jason to Bruce might help him create some distance from Jason here. Also because Tim’s manipulative like that. Ethos, Pathos, Logos baby. (Even though he didn’t use any of that today, he just really wanted to quote that.) Besides, rule of thumb; Never take a dimension traveler’s words at face value, Bruce should’ve known that, he wrote that down in the contingency plan after all.

Bruce pauses.

Then he laughs.
A real one. Low, surprisingly warm, edges crinkling around his eyes.

“You’re definitely not my Tim,” he says. “Because it’s hard to separate him from Jaylad here.” Jaylad, interesting. These nicknames are gradually getting cornier. What next, Dick and Dami go by Big D and Lil D?  “He follows Jason around and Jason dotes on him. They’re practically orbit-locked.” Oh right the conversation—

Tim’s expression twists into scandalized betrayal. He. WHAT? ORBIT-LOCKED?
No. No way. He would rather work with Ras’ again that be friends with Jason. 

Okay maybe he does have a teensy bit of a grudge but hey, he broke him out of prison before, Jason can’t say shit.

“And he would never scowl at the idea,” Bruce adds, teasing, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Not like that.”

“Well, too bad for you Bruce,” Tim fires back, crossing his arms, “because you’re dealing with this version. My factory settings include scowling and complaining.”

Bruce lifts an eyebrow. “Snarky.”

“Try ‘traumatized but well-hydrated,’ thanks.” Well, barely hydrated but it counts.

Bruce chuckles again—softer this time, like he’s savoring having a Tim who talks back instead of swallowing everything whole.

Bruce shakes his head, still smiling.
“Hmm, How about Cassandra? How is she like in your world?”

Tim’s face goes gentler. Remembering the last time they teamed up.
“Oh—Cass? She’s incredible. She… showed up when I was at my absolute lowest. Stayed even when I tried to push everyone away. Dick tried too, but— I just wasn’t letting anyone in back then.”
He swallows. “Cass didn’t care. She stayed anyway.”

Bruce’s expression warms in that quietly glowing, father-shaped way. “Glad you share the same sentiments as the you here too.”

“Yeah… The change can be a little jarring but, I’m glad you’re at least familiar, Bruce.” Guess some things don’t change that much in the universe. Tim crosses his arms. Looking through the window.

Bruce looks like he’s about to ask something more—maybe compare timelines, maybe dig into that Titans Tower detail—but—

A sharp, polite knock hits the door.

Both of them freeze.

Tim’s eye twitches. Seriously? In the middle of his melodramatic staring at the window view moment? 

Bruce sighs, glancing at the door like it personally betrayed him. “Yes?”

Tim stares at the wood like it’s the final boss of this universe.
Who knocks during a Do Not Disturb with the CEO and the CEO’s father?
Who has that level of audacity?
Who possesses that death wish?

The knock is too perfectly timed.

Too clean.

Too “the-universe-has-a-writer-who-hates-me.”

Tim files it under Problems To Actively Ignore Until They Explode.

He mutters, mostly to himself, “Is timing always this horrifically convenient here, or am I just spiraling creatively?”

Bruce hums, thoughtful in that I’m-actually-calculating-six-possibilities way.
“It happens more than I’d like. You never had moments like that back home?”

Tim opens his mouth—then closes it again, because, well… fair.
“Okay, yeah, fine, sometimes. But this is like? Statistically aggressive.” Not that his dimension is any different but let him have this, okay?

Another knock.

Tim calls toward the door, “What is it?”

A voice answers through the door, “Mr. Drake-Wayne, Mr. Wayne, apologies for interrupting your conversation but the files for the new Wayne Initiative have arrived. Shall I leave them here?”

Wayne Initiative. Of course. The universe’s timing is not just bad—it’s theatrical.

This universe really went all-in on realism DLC. Gross.

Tim glances at Bruce, who gives a small tilt of his head that translates to, Go on. Handle it.

He opens the door, takes the folder, mutters something vague and CEO-adjacent, and returns to Bruce’s desk.
The thing weighs as much as academic guilt. Not that Tim had much anyway, he was a drop out.

“What even is this project Bruce?” Tim asks, dropping into the chair.

Bruce’s expression softens in a way that makes Tim sit up straighter.

“It’s for victims of the Joker,” Bruce says quietly. “Support systems. Long-term rebuilding. Access to care. Specially those who were victims of Joker Venom.”

Tim’s spine prickles. A whole universe where that topic is openly handled… different.

Tim exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay. While we’re… comparing timelines and trying not to implode,” he says, “I kind of need the rest of the résumé of the Tim I’m borrowing.”

Bruce doesn’t answer immediately. His expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Caution. Consideration.

“There are things you should know, some which I’ll explain back home regarding our night lives, but with your civilian life?” he says carefully. “Some of them are… difficult.”

Tim snorts. “I woke up in the wrong universe wearing Cassandra’s clothes. I think we’re past ‘difficult’, Bruce.”

That earns him a faint smile.

“Joker,” Bruce begins, and his voice lowers almost imperceptibly, “is a very sensitive subject here. For you. For all of us.” Bruce gives him a look, Tim understands, it’s regarding his scars most likely.
A pause.
“And following our previous discussion, your closest sibling in this world is Jason.” Bruce continues.

Tim’s mouth twists instantly. “Yeah, I got that impression.”
He makes a vague, dismissive gesture. “Still deeply opposed to that by the way.” Not as opposed as he’s exaggerating it to Bruce, but he still is opposed nevertheless. 

Heck, being close to Damian would’ve been a better choice, at least he’s been seeing him more eye to eye lately back at home, even if their interactions are far and wide between, at least Damian had development. 

Bruce’s smile lingers, amused in a restrained, parental way. “You’ll be fine, Jason won’t hurt you.”

Tim grimaces. Fantastic.

Bruce continues, gently but without sugarcoating it. “You also have a partner, a boyfriend to be specific— Bernard Dowd. You two were highschool sweethearts.”Shit— Tim had a hunch, not that he knew any other Bernards anyway— but man that sucked. 

“I figured, have a Bernard back at home but I wouldn’t say I kept in touch with him after high school.” Tim says at once. Bernard, what a funny choice to date here Tim.

This version of him really has zero taste.

Bruce studies his face—searching, careful. “I mean… You’re attracted to men… Right?”

Tim shrugs. “Maybe. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack that. But if I was, I’m not really surprised.” Not after whatever he had with Kon that is.
He hesitates, then adds, dryly, “Though frankly? I’m just avoiding him for now. The last thing I need is to accidentally commit to an emotional milestone with someone I am very literally not dating.”

Bruce’s brows knit, concern softening his expression. “That must be… disorienting.”

“That’s one word for it,” Tim says. “It’s less ‘culture shock’ and more ‘identity whiplash.’”

Bruce nods slowly, understanding settling in.
“This world is asking you to wear a life that isn’t yours,” he says. “That would be difficult for anyone.”

Tim lets out a quiet breath.
“Yeah,” he admits. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Bruce doesn’t push further. He simply stays there—steady, present, offering the one constant Tim hadn’t realized he was leaning on until now.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

Bruce glances at the folder on his desk, then at the clock—Wayne precision kicking back in.

“We can go over the rest later, sweetheart.” he says. “At home. For now, I need to take care of this. You may leave now Tim.”

Tim nods, agreeing. Already half-turning toward the door—then stops.

He has one last question left unanswered.

And it’s really important.

“…Bruce?”

“Yes, Tim?”

Tim hesitates, like he’s standing in front of a door labeled Absolutely Not and fully aware that opening it will make his day worse.

Still. He opens it.

“I’m the CEO here… Right?” 

Which, honestly isn’t the most jarring part of this universe but he still needed to confirm—

Bruce answers immediately. No pause. No hedging.
“Yes. Why?”

Something in Tim’s chest clicks—not panic, not shock. Suspicion. The kind that settles when the numbers on the page technically add up, but the conclusion is still wrong.

He just stares at Bruce.

Deadpan. Unblinking. Like his brain has blue-screened and is waiting for someone like Bart to reboot reality. Again. 

Bruce tilts his head a fraction. “Is there an issue?”

“You’re literally working right here, right as we’re speaking.” Tim says slowly, carefully, like walking around a landmine. “In the building. Handling a Joker-related project.”

“Yes.”

“Personally.”

“Yes.”

Tim gestures between them, then vaguely at the room, the tower, the whole corporate empire. “Then why am I the CEO?”

Bruce considers this. Actually considers it. Like it’s a reasonable question but not an alarming one.

“Most Joker-adjacent initiatives fall under my oversight,” he says. “And just because you’re not my Tim doesn’t change that. I did say Joker is a sensitive subject for you—my Tim. And it would be strange to have you handle this project, not that I doubt your skills, but this is usually my forte.”

Tim rubs his temple. There it is again—that sense that something’s being explained without actually being answered.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that Joker is radioactive for me,I understand the security logic,” he says. “But that doesn’t explain why I run the company. Why did you give him the position Bruce?”

Bruce pauses.

Then, evenly: “Well, why not?”

That’s it. That’s the answer.

Tim exhales through his nose. “Bruce. You cannot be serious.”

“You’re very good at your job. It’s only natural to have you handle the company.”

That… lands wrong. Not insulting. Not flattering. Just wrong in a way Tim can’t immediately articulate.

“…Bruce,” he says carefully, “how old is this body?”

“Seventeen,” Bruce replies without hesitation. “Why?”

There it is.

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, slow and deliberate, like if he applies enough pressure the universe might reset itself.

Seventeen.

Seventeen-year-old CEO.
Of Wayne Enterprises.
But this time– while Bruce Wayne is alive, present, and actively running Joker containment initiatives.

Tim’s long past that age so why on earth would he be sevente— Nevermind, another thing to add in universe’s bullshittery.

"Bruce how long have I been seventeen?"

A beat.

Pleast don’t say it, please don’t say it, please don’t—

"A while... why?" He said it. Gracious. Never-fucking-mind, No drinking for him I guess.

He lowers his hand, staring into the middle distance. “Okay. Cool. Thanks Bruce.” That explains absolutely nothing and raises several red flags.

Because apparently that sentence makes sense here.

How casual is it to just have a seventeen year old be a CEO— I mean he knows why he was CEO, but this? “He’s good at his job?” Something’s not adding up— Like seriously who’s deciding these occupations— actually scratch that, they had Joker be Iran’s ambassador once, Tim just shuns down his thoughts before he starts thinking about how Wonder Woman was once a fast food worker.

Bruce watches him with quiet amusement—and something else underneath it. Not concern. Not confusion.

Expectation.

“Like I said, we’ll talk about everything later, Chum. No worries.” Bruce says gently.

Tim sighs. “Of course we will, Bruce.” Starting with why give a seventeen year old responsibilities on top of vigilantism…

… Wait, Tim’s still a vigilante here… right?

Fuck he’ll need to ask Bruce that later too— last thing he needs (wants) is that he’s perma-benched because of whatever happened to him with the Joker. 

He’s an adrenaline junkie for Peter Todd’s sake! He yearns for the Gotham rooftops. And the near death experiences that comes from falling off them.

Because whatever’s going on here—whatever version of Tim made these choices—it clearly wasn’t an accident.

Bruce lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional.

Then, casually—like he isn’t dropping a grenade into Tim’s chest—he says,
“Oh and before you go, Love you Tim. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Tim freezes.

Not flinch-freeze. Not startled-freeze. Full system halt. Like every process in his brain just queued behind a single error message: That was not in the script.

He turns slowly, one eyebrow lifting despite himself. “You’re very bold today, Bruce.”

Bruce only smiles. Soft. Certain. Completely unembarrassed. Like this is a fact, not a gamble.

Tim exhales through his nose. “Well… Love you too, Bruce. And yeah, see you at dinner.”

The words land strangely solid in his mouth. Familiar, even. That same wrong-right feeling he’s been getting all morning.

Bruce nods once, satisfied, and turns back to his desk like he hasn’t just rewired Tim’s emotional circuitry.

Tim slips out of the office before his brain can demand an audit.

The hallway outside is too bright, too normal. Wayne Enterprises hums around him—phones ringing, heels clicking, the machinery of capitalism grinding on like there isn’t aseventeen-year-old CEO quietly existentially imploding two floors up.

He walks on autopilot.
CEO at seventeen. Stupidly irresponsible. Who’s seriously approving this? He can’t even drive here. And he’s CEO while Bruce is still alive—thankfully alive, still hovering over Joker containment like it’s a personal hobby.

Jason’s his closest sibling. Gross.
Dick’s hovering like an anxious golden retriever. Somehow, maybe even grosser? …Eh, nothing tops Jason. Jason’s gross.
Damian’s in full silent-knife-concern mode. Honestly, that’s the mildest of his disasters.

A new face he doesn’t recognize in the Manor. Right, him. Alfred? Hasn’t seen him this morning. He’ll check that out later—if he survives the rest of this.
He also apparently shares the same measurements as Cass. Which makes no sense. But it doesn’t matter.

Speaking of Cass, he hasn’t seen her around too… maybe she’s off somewhere, though hopefully he’ll run into her soon, he just hopes she’s normal.

Joker. Off-limits topic guy. Geez, how many strays can one get in one lifetime?

Not to mention, he’s French. Which is arguably worse than having Jason as his favorite sibling—

And then there’s a boyfriend he’s actively dodging like a landmine. Barely helpful. That’s generous.

He needs Batman. Tonight. Somewhere dark, private, and brutally honest. Bruce-as-Batman can fill in the gaps Bruce-as-CEO keeps skating over.

He’s halfway down the corridor when—

Thunk.

Tim collides with a solid chest.

“Oh—sorry—” slips out on reflex, automatic politeness firing before his brain catches up.

He looks up.

…Okay. Unknown civilian. Male. Between seventeen to nineteen , give or take. Blonde hair—soft, a little unruly, like it’s been run through nervous fingers instead of a comb. Eyes warm, hazel maybe, the kind that crinkle when he smiles. He is smiling. Open, hopeful. No visible weapons. Casual jacket, lived-in jeans. The posture of someone who expects to be welcomed.

In his left hand: a bouquet of roses. Real ones. Slightly wilted at the edges, like they’ve been clutched too tightly.
In his right: a box of chocolates. Expensive-looking. Untouched. Nervous purchase.

Tim blinks once.

This man is holding courting supplies.

For him.

Oh no.

It’s Bear Bear. Or—well. He assumes it’s him that is.

Blonde hair? Hazel eyes? Yeah, no. 

This has got to be Bernard. Even if he… looks a little different.

Shit he can’t believe he’s meeting Bernard. Or well– The Bernard here anyway.

Bernard Dowd, in all his unfortunate domestic glory, stands there holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other, smiling like this is a romcom meet-cute and not a multiversal ethical crisis happening in a hallway.

“Hey Babe,” Not Bernard says, a little too bright. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”

Tim does not respond. He couldn’t respond. His heart is beating like drums right now.

The guy’s smile falters just a hair, like he’s reading something off Tim’s face and not liking the math. “Uh—Babe? Sorry. I know this is kind of… a lot.” He lifts the flowers a little, then the chocolates, as if presenting evidence. “I know texted you earlier. Literally just a while back, actually… but you didn’t respond, so I thought maybe your phone was dead or aliens abducted you—” He stops himself, exhales. “Anyway. I didn’t mean to just show up.”

Tim continues staring, mind clicking through possibilities at high speed. Like how to get out of here as soon as possible without looking like a bad boyfriend.

The man shifts his weight, suddenly self-conscious. “If this is a bad time, I can totally leave. Like. Immediately. I just—” A small, sheepish laugh. “I just hope you weren’t mad at me.”

Oh. Great.

This is just great.

Tim’s gaze drifts back to the man’s face, cataloguing again. Familiarity without recognition—muscle memory’s ghost. This body knows him. There’s an ease there, an expectation. A fondness hovering just under the surface that Tim himself does not feel, like a coat he’s been draped in without consent.

Bear— Bernard clears his throat. “So. Uh. Sorry about last night. Flowers— I got you flowers. And chocolates— I mean. I—“

Tim opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Somewhere in the back of his skull, the universe laughs softly, hands him flowers and chocolate, and waits to see how he explains that he has no idea who this man is—or why he’s standing here like Tim is supposed to let him inside.

The universe, apparently, has jokes. And they are seriously not funny.

Notes:

Wow another update? I’m on a roll today guys! (Guys dont get excited I had this chapt drafted and I’m just posting the semi beta’d stuff now) MY BREAK JUST STARTED SO YAY. IM FREE TO WRITE MORE FANFICTION NOW! also I wanna apologize belatedly for my Bad French… I also don’t know ANY FRENCH PEOPLE TO CORRECT ME IN THE FRENCH PORTION SO PLEASE, If anyone is french, you have every right to cook me for potentially butchering your language— I really tried… also SORRY FOR THE FRENCH SLANDER. I DONT HATE FRENCH PEOPLE IM SORRYYY. ITS ALL JUST A JOKE *gets shot in the head

Tim being Jason’s no. 1 hater is a truth i will die on (jk i feel like that portion is a bit ooc cause im lowkey projecting on tim on bumson todd, but tim defo wasnt a fan of jason in pre 52 LMAO) Also is every chapter gonna be me introducing another set of fanon to tim? HAHSHS YES. Because he deserves the headache >:D

Anyway, back to the fic, can I just say that French Tim is unironically one of my favorite fanons ever? Like we seriously decided that teenage dirtbag is french and rolled with that? Hilarious. (I know Tim went to Paris to train under Shiva though so I guess I could justify why he knows a bit of french but we don’t exactly have a confirmed list of what languages the Bats are fluent of so I was sorta winging that section ngl—)

Oh and I’m not that big on the Cass and Tim twins fanon though but I felt like it would be fitting for this fanon tim! this fanon universe is literally a blend of every fanon I’ve stumbled upon on and it’s only a matter of time the fanons I choose will start clashing and contradicting itself— hybrid fanons go brr

Im ngl I was worried about pacing and how everything’s been too fast and convenient but then I remember this is fanfiction. Oh and that also comics itself also got some questionable pacing (Dude there were literally flashbacks EVERY FEW PAGES IN RED ROBIN 😭 the council of spiders segment ALWAYS GETS ME) and even Tim’s self aware that his universe is absurd so he can’t say shit LMAO. Comic expositions were also so funny cause sometimes they straight up are so on the nose with everything- “no worry guys! with my tactile telekinesis—“ “In brightest day in blackest night—“ every few pages gets me, oh I miss the old comics <|3 (until I read origin runs and get so confused with the formatting cause I swear I tried to read Ronnie Raymond’s firestorm origins and I got SOOOO CONFUSED MAN. Sighs… Ronnie and Jason… I wish they were more popular <<|3)

Oh yeah now we also got Bear Bear here LMAO. Sorry for cutting the interaction short, I didn’t know where to go with Bernard’s “surprise visit” but we’ll see! As for why Tim didn’t recognize him at first, well— Bernard is very different from modern comics than his initial debut after all! Tim didnt even recognize Duke from the last chapter because Tim hasn’t met Duke yet so :)) Uahfueb I’ll end the yap here cause I didn’t really have many stuff to say for this chapter, once again thanks for the support <33 and if you guys have other fanons to suggest, I’ll see if I could sneak it in if Im familiar with it! (I don’t read fanon that much, but I do pass by them here or there so I’m familiar with the game! I’m not really a fanon connoisseur, but wfa is my guilty pleasures so <3)

Oh and is this a good time to come out that Tim *ISNT* my favorite character? I mean he’s my favorite objectively in the Batfam, but my fave DC character ties between Hal, Bart and Lonnie— (I’d say Klarion is up there too! I literally cosplayed him HES MY BLORBO GUYS) I just read a lot of Tim’s stuff funny enough because of Bart and YJ, but my Roman Empire will forever be Spectre Hal… Sighs… Its one of the few physical issues I own and I will never MOVE ON from my bi-gender highness i fear… Bart and Klarion are up there cause they’re lowkey my Kins (ugh theyre blorbo to me, no one talk about Klarion to me cause I get a little kookoo at the mention of that witch boy, i once ranted about how his lore is actually kinda sad for the little guy in a disc call but because hes “underrated” he tends to be overlooked— NO ONE TALK TO ME IM FINE. Cheetah and Cheshire Rob the Justice league aufhrihuege *sobs) and then Lonnie is there because he’s objectively (okay fine, not objectively but personally) Tim’s best antag/rival/friend(?)/supporting cast as Robin and I think his design is sick (woth the big hat and mask aughruhdb hes so good.) Ulysses could suck dick I don’t give a dang about the general, GIVE ME BACK LONNIE MACHIN DC PLEASE. (And whats a grown man his age doing beefing with Tim?? Dude. Get a life seriously. If general has no haters IM DEAD.)

That aside! Hope you guys had a good read! And let me know of your thoughts so far! Now once again, YJ disaster squad time *im gonna update it tom cuz i don writing the chapter :3 (yes i keep soft promoting it, plsplspls check it out guys plspslpslsplspsl-)

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Tim Drake’s Universe Shenanigans