Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim gets up for the day.  

His work clothes lay crumpled on the floor, right where he left them the night before. His undershirt splattered over his button-up, his belt and tie dripping from his desk chair, his slacks pooled next to it, his cufflinks sprinkled on the floor. How long has it been since he switched them out? A day? Three? He doesn’t have the energy to do it again, so he puts them on.  

He avoids his own eyes in the mirror. He doesn’t like looking at the eye bags that he doesn’t care enough to fix, and they stand out against his pale brown skin. His toothbrush lies untouched on his counter. His hair feels greasy between his fingers – did he shower yesterday? - but he styles it like he always does.  

Every pile of stuff in his apartment goes ignored. The mess of cases spread in his living room. Every dish he owns dirty in the sink. Wrinkled laundry that needs folded, indecipherable from the ones that need washed. His gear, scattered in the kitchen. The bloody gauze on the counter. He doesn’t even look at them, taking his keys and phone in hand, putting his shoes on, and walking out the door.  

Each turn, stop, and light he hits registers only in glassy eyes. He doesn’t see when it starts to rain, only the water streaking beneath his wipers. He doesn’t remember getting out of the car, but then he’s hitting the button for his floor in the elevator, a coffee cup in hand and a WE employee looking everywhere but at him.  

After he says hello to Tam, he lets his brain slip back, letting his work mode take over.  

He takes calls. He sends emails. He has meetings. Coffee cups he doesn’t remember asking for accumulate on his desk. The day passes in monochromatic flashes. Nothing interesting happens. His hours technically end at six – he stays until eight, trying to ebb the flow of work. It doesn’t do much, but he has nothing better to do.  

It’s still raining outside. It doesn’t matter to him. He can’t feel it. He barely pays attention to the drops on the windshield, barely remembers to turn the wipers on.  

When he steps back into his apartment, he’s already bone-tired. He doesn’t spend too long there, though. This is the best part of his day.  

Now, when he steps out again, he doesn’t feel the rain against the cold, hard armour of the Red Robin uniform.  

He busts a drug trade. He stops a robbery. He gets hit. He takes out a gang hideout. He helps a young girl find her older sister. He finds a murder victim, solves the case, and leaves it for the police. He returns a wallet. He gets hit. He helps another teenaged girl find a good shelter. He helps an old man get home. Why did he ask him? Red Robin isn’t the person to approach for that. He adds another case to his pile – a person, asking him to find their partner. He stops a car thief. He gets hit. He accepts food from an insistent Chinese restaurant owner. He doesn’t remember how it tasted.  

Blood from popped stitches and new wounds mix together to stain his sheets at the end of the night. He’ll take care of it in the morning.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

His skin is sticky and crusted with blood. He wipes it with a rag and bandages the wounds quickly. No one will comment on the open cut on his cheek.  

His work clothes are drizzled on the floor. He puts them on.  

He can’t tell the difference between a black eye and bruising from sleep deprivation. He doesn’t care to look close enough in the mirror to figure it out. He styles his hair like he always does.  

Dishes, laundry, gear, blood, it all goes unlooked at. What’s left of the fried rice he couldn’t stomach last night – little as the portion was to begin with – lies on the counter, and it’s gathered as his phone and keys are on the way out.  

Each turn, stop, and light passes by glassy eyes.  

He doesn’t remember getting coffee, but it burns his tongue. 

He says hello to Tam. Then he lets his mind slip back.  

He takes calls. He answers emails. He has meetings. Nothing interesting happens. Tam makes him leave the building at ten.  

Then it’s the best part of his day. He fixes the holes in the uniform before he starts patrol.  

He stops a mugging. Prevents a sexual assault. Breaks up an altercation. Disarms a bomb in a nightclub. He gets hit. Why do some of them thank him when others ask him not to hurt them? He lets someone steal an expensive set of Legos for their child. He gets someone else to the hospital. Helps after a gang sets a house on fire. He gets hit.  

He doesn’t even make it to his bed. His blood pools on the tile of his kitchen. 

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Tim gets up for the day.  

His work clothes are poured on the floor.  

He doesn’t look in the mirror. He styles his hair like he always does.  

His eyes glance over his apartment. He grabs his keys and phone and heads out.  

He doesn’t remember driving. He does remember that the guy in front of him in line at the coffee shop was cute.  

He says hello to Tam. He lets his mind slip back.  

Does it ever come forward again?  

What’s the difference between work mode and regular mode?  

He takes calls. He sends emails. He argues during meetings. He signs documents. Tam tells him to leave at seven. He leaves at nine thirty.  

It’s the best part of his day. He’s low on gear. He’ll restock later.  

He helps someone find their keys. He prevents an assault. He breaks up a bar fight. He gets hit. He gets hit again. Stops a grave robbing. Helps a man find food. Solves a case and leaves it for the police. Talks someone into rehab.  

He falls asleep against his door.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

His clothes are on the floor. He gets a new set.  

Why does he even have a mirror? He styles his hair the same way every day.  

His keys and phone go into his pocket before he leaves. He hasn’t charged it in three days – it still has fifty percent left. There’s nothing for him to check.  

He says hello to Tam.  

He works late.  

The best part of his day comes.  

He solves two more cases. He helps a cop arrest two armed criminals. He sits with a woman in a back alley as her body fails her. It's okay, she tells him. She’s been waiting for this. By the time the ambulance gets there, her hand is limp in his.  

He doesn’t remember getting home after that. He does remember passing out against his toilet.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

The feeling of death doesn’t leave him after he scrubs his skin raw.  

He gets dressed for work.  

His mirror is torn from the wall. He styles his hair the same way he does every day.  

He leaves.  

He says hello to Tam.  

He works until six.  

He starts patrol early. It’s important. 

He spends the whole night busting a trafficking base. Until six in the morning, he helps make arrests, sort out victims, and find connections. There’s too many people whose lives have been ruined.  

He doesn’t have time to sleep that night.  

He just goes home and puts on his clothes for the next day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

He gets dressed for work.  

He leaves.  

He works late.  

Patrol is the best part of his day. He keeps working on the trafficking case. It’ll take more than a week to wrap up. That's okay. He’s there to help.  

He falls asleep on his roof.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

He gets dressed for work.  

He leaves.  

He works late.  

Someone offers him a beer on patrol. He’s not old enough. He accepts anyway. It still tastes like shit.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

He gets dressed for work.  

He leaves.  

He works late.  

Arkham breakout.  

He doesn’t get any sleep.  

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Tim gets up for the day early. He’s been called into work.  

He gets dressed.  

He leaves.  

He works late.  

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Tim gets up at work, passed out at his desk.  

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Patrol is his favourite part of the day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

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Tim gets up for the day.  

He gets dressed for work.  

He’s glad his mirror is shattered. He doesn’t want to know how his hair looks when he doesn’t style it.  

He leaves.  

He says hello to Tam.  

Tam says, Why are you crying?  

He says, I’m not.   

His fingers come away from his face wet.  

Why is he crying?  

Tam sends him home.  

Still, he works late.  

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Tim doesn’t get up for the day.  

He stays in bed.  

He feels like staring at his ceiling so much should’ve imprinted it in his mind. He doesn’t remember a single thing about it. 

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Tim gets up for the day.  

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Tim gets up.  

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He gets up.  

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Someone calls Red Robin a psychopath. A fake hero, someone just as mental and dangerous as all the Rogues pretending to be a savior. They tell him he should be in Arkham with the rest of them. That they’d be safer that way.  

It feels more honest than the thank-you's and appreciation he sometimes gets.  

Maybe it’s because he knows they’re right.  

He can’t stop, though. Maybe it’s selfish but patrol is the best part of his day.  

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Tim gets up.  

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There’s a figure sitting on the edge of a roof.  

Don’t do it, he says. It’s not worth it.   

They don’t even look at him. It won’t matter when I’m dead.   

He tells them, It’ll get better . It’s what he’s supposed to say.  

Will it?   

They don’t protest when he sits down next to them. Their eyes track the car lights passing below. His drift down to match.  

How is it supposed to get better? I’m stuck. I can’t change anything. No one’s ever going to be able to change it for me. I don’t want to live like this.   

I’m stuck too, he says distantly. No one?   

I’m alone, they say flatly. Everyone’s left me. It was my fault.   

God, does he see himself in that. Yeah, he says , I get that.   

I thought you guys were a group?   

I thought so too. We’re supposed to be. They still are. I guess they realized they don’t need me.   

Yeah, they mutter, nodding . I get that.   

This building is tall. Straight down to the concrete, nothing to obstruct a fall.  

Do you ever think about it? they ask, looking at him for the first time, inclining their head down the long drop to the hard ground below.  

Does he?  

He remembers facing off Ra’s. He remembers the ache in his bones and the throb of his heart as he fell through the air, shattered glass raining down around him. He could’ve saved himself. He wouldn’t. He’d never expected to be caught before he hit the ground.  

(How'd you know? How did you know I’d be there to save you?) 

(You’re my brother, Dick. You’ll always be there for me.)  

He lied; He didn’t know.  

Yes , he whispers. 

It would feel nice, wouldn’t it? they say. I don’t believe in an afterlife. You’d hit the ground and you’d be dead. That’s the end. No more worries, no more misery. Doesn’t that sound good?   

Yes.   

He sits there, with them, watching tail lights and headlights, for hours in silence. Neither of them move.  

He thinks for too long and too hard about death.  

It scares him.  

“I think,” he says, meeting their eyes, “that we need some help.”  

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He tries.  

For a week, he tries.  

He’s not good at this, though. Getting help. He’s never done it by himself before.  

A text sits in his older brother’s inbox. Right above it is a message that reads, you can always talk to me. remember that. It’s from two months ago. Tim never responded. He doesn’t remember if it was on purpose or not.  

His message reads, know any good therapists?   

For a week, it goes unanswered.  

Tim tries.  

He can’t bring himself to do much. Not for himself.  

Then, after a week, he doesn’t get out of bed.  

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Tim wakes up. 

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He wakes up.  

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He wakes up.  

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He wakes up.  

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Chapter Text

Tim gets up for the day. It doesn’t even matter what happened for the first part of it because something new happens on patrol. It’s been such a long time since he’s had something new.   

He’s sitting on the edge of the top of a water tower. The metal is cold and rough beneath his palms. His legs swing off the edge. His eyes, distant, are fixed on the lights of the cars below. It’s a long way down. He’s thinking too much again.   

Death.   

He doesn’t have the courage. It won’t happen. Still, he thinks about it.   

The night stretches on. He sits with it, waiting. His scanners aren’t going off, not for his patrol area. When it goes quiet like this, it usually means something big is going to happen. The street criminals will always know before him. He’s too tired to not be content to let literally anyone else deal with it. He wonders if death can possibly be any lonelier than life.   

He doesn’t have anything better to do. And now – for some reason, he just wants to go home to his bed. So he carefully drops from the top of the water tower – he doesn’t leave room for slips, so the option doesn’t get too tempting – and prepares to head back to his apartment.   

Someone yells his name when he zips over their head. A curiosity makes him stop – he keeps a cautious hand near his batarangs, ready for a trap.   

Nothing happens when he drops down beside them. Her. She gives him a small smile. “Red Robin. Glad you stopped.”   

“What’s up?” he asks.   

“My girlfriend was walking home from work yesterday with her coworker, we live pretty close to him. She saw this huge storage truck turn down Miller Road – it only leads to a bunch of abandoned land. When she poked around, they were unloading shit into one a’ the buildings. She figured it was some supervillain shit and left. We tried the cops, but they haven’t done anything yet. She saw barrels, and I’m afraid they’re dumping shit in the pipes. Couldja check it out?”  

“Yeah, of course,” Tim says. She doesn’t look like she’s lying. “I appreciate the tip. Have a good night.”   

“Thank you!” she yells as he grapples away.   

Miller Road isn’t that hard to find. The particular building is a little harder – there are a few, and no immediate signs. Still, he finds it.   

The huge storage truck is still parked outside. No plates. A quick scan reveals no heat signatures inside the truck. There are some inside the building, and he doesn’t count them yet, instead turning to the back of the truck to poke around and get more information before he starts a fight. He needs to know what they’re transporting and why.   

The doors aren’t locked or chained. It means there’s nothing important inside anymore, and he expects the emptiness long before he pries the rusty hinges open. He was kind of hoping to get a full truck, a loaded one, but all he gets are wall straps and stained floors.   

Still, he’s nothing if not a detective. There are rings of liquid residue on the floors, sticky and thick, like dried soda syrup. Some is smeared in trails, wheel lines – likely from a folding lifting trolley – leading out the doors. Some is left in footprints, the press of a workboot, but he doesn’t need to examine those any further.   

The residue is blue against the metal – bright blue. He pulls out a small sample kit to take some, given that most substances he can’t identify in Gotham are some sort of toxic. Judging by the diameter and number of circles, there were a lot of them. Obviously not contained very well, given the spillage. He’s not surprised by the quantity of spillage given the rough roads in.   

He feeds one of the two samples he takes into his pocket analyzer, tucking the other into his belt. While he waits for the more complex analysis, he runs a scan over one of the bigger residue stains.   

Out of the things he needs to know about substances, danger levels are one of the things he can get quickly. There are a few things that contribute to these levels. One of those things is radioactivity.   

There is a staggeringly high amount coming off of a substance handled with such little care that it’s spilled all over the floor.   

Obviously it’s not like, Elephant’s Foot levels, look-at-it-and-it-kills-you, but he still backs out of the truck because it’s not contained at all . He’s tempted to call radiation protection right this second, but the people inside would run and he’d have no information.   

He’s dealt with this before – radiation isn’t uncommon in Gotham. It’s Gotham . Everything is some sort of toxic. Gotham doctors are actually trained to check for dangerous radiation exposure. Still, usually whoever’s using it knows how to keep it contained for their own safety at the very least. Either they’re stupid or they have no idea what they’re doing. Both are dangerous.   

When his analyzer finishes, it gives him a compound he doesn’t recognize. He mentally moves the situation from the ‘danger’ category in his head to the ‘high danger’ one. He’ll call for backup if he needs to.   

If they’ll even respond.   

For now, he turns towards the building. It certainly looks abandoned – there's a torn part of the roof he scopes out for entry, silently grappling to it and dropping down onto the rafters.   

There are more people in there than he thought. Eleven, if he’s counted correctly. Observing them, he counts five guns, three bats, two of them wrapped in barbed wire. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell if they’re working for someone, but with no gang affiliation to be seen and poorly supplied weapons, he can guess they’re not. It makes it harder for him, with no one to trace back a motive to, but that is solved by wringing information out of whoever put this together. He just has to pick the right one.   

Some of them have to be hired men. It’s hard to split money between eleven people, easier if there’s a wage instead. He’s willing to bet they gave the guns to the hires, so it’s a safe bet to say that the three with bats and the remaining three are going to be the best targets. If he keeps two of them conscious enough to interrogate – he has a statistically high chance of getting all the information from the two of them.   

With this plan, he starts dropping down on the gunmen. They don’t make it hard for him to silently take them out, standing in one place, never turning as they are. They must be waiting for something. That might be trouble later, but for now, he stays undetected, silently rendering them unconscious and then grappling up to the rafters to pick off someone else.   

When someone does finally notice him, he only has one last gunman to take out. Then he just has fists and bat swings to dodge. And the barrels of radioactive blue sludge, but, you know. They’re also trying to avoid breaking them, so it’s not that hard.   

He keeps track of his hits and his opponents, carefully making sure to keep two conscious. He hits one hard behind the knees, dropping them, gasping, to the floor. For the other, he sweeps his legs out from under him and jams the end of his bo staff into his throat.   

“We should probably have a talk,” he says coldly, putting his boot on the guy’s chest and pushing a little harder.   

The guy’s next quick intake of breath is a wheeze. His hands scrabble at the staff but can’t make it move much. “What- Whadaya want?” It’s a distinctly New York drawl, not something Tim had picked up on before.   

“I want to know what’s in the barrels, where they came from, and why you brought them here .”   

The guy won’t stop wriggling , and Tim grinds his boot further just to make sure it doesn’t work. “I- I don’t know ! Some kinda sludge they nicked offa some scientists, it- I don’t know what it is, the guys picked it up, I just offered my truck so I could get a cut of the money!”   

“Sure?” Tim narrows his eyes, pressing a bit more.   

“I’m sure, I’m sure!” The guy wriggles aggressively, eyes wild.   

Tim’s not picking up any common tells, so he steps off. One hit and he’s out cold.   

When he rounds on the other guy, they scramble back on the floor. “Wait, wait, please! I’ll talk, you seem like an understandin’ guy. Just- don't hit me again.”   

Tim regards them carefully. He slams the end of his staff down, inches from their ankle, and leans on it as he crouches. “Fine,” he says. “Talk.”   

“Alright, alright. Look, me ‘n’ the guys are based in New York, right? Well, there was this old scientist buildin’, somethin’ happened an’ it was abandoned for a while. Then the feds decided to clean it up – they were getting' rid a’ shit from some experiment they used on insects, a long time ago, so we hijacked the transport and took it all. We heard it could give ya superpowers , and they were jus’ gonna throw it away. Figured we could make some cash off it, you know?”   

“You... took chemicals from a lab... and didn’t contain them properly.”   

“They’re in barrels,” they point out, like that means anything.  

“It’s leaking everywhere. Are you stupid, or ignorant? Did you even know it’s radioactive?”   

The guy shrugs. “I mean, that sounds like exactly the kinda shit that’d give you superpowers.”   

Tim has to pause for a second to just intake that stupidity. “Who were you selling to?”   

“Whoever wanted it. We got an ask for the whole thing out here.”   

“Who?”   

“Dunno, didn’t get a name, they just said to- to bring it here, to Gotham, and they’d come get it.”   

That’s not good. There are too many people in Gotham who would want superpower-giving radioactive sludge. But- who'd be gullible or desperate enough to believe that’s actually what it does? “How much did they offer you to get down here?”   

“ Huge numbers. Jerry took the call, but it was in the millions.”   

Tim files that away for later. “You haven’t sold it to anyone else? Is all of it here, in this building?”   

“Yeah. We had a few other offers, but these guys wanted all of it.”  

Tim stands up. That’s all he needs to know for now. The guy scrambles back again- “Hey, wait-” but Tim keeps his promise, just yanks their arms up to slap on a pair of handcuffs.   

He takes care of the rest of the guys similarly, leaving one, and starts dragging them outside so cleanup and the cops can work at the same time. He drags the conscious one out last, intertwining their and the previous guy’s chains so they can’t run. Then he steps back in to count the barrels for his report to radiation protection.   

Twenty barrels. Fifty gallons each. A lot of spillage. He includes his scan and sample results in his report. As he sends in the report, he alerts the police-  

There’s a prick at his neck. A small pain.   

He slaps his hand to the spot immediately, and he can feel something – it drops as he sweeps it away.   

His heartbeat spikes. He puts his fingers back on the area – it's already a little itchy.   

Tim scans the floor – there. There, curled up, is a small spider.   

Fuck.   

Long legs, green femurs, black-striped sections of yellow and blue on its abdomen – it's an orchard spider.  

He can’t remember if it’s venomous or not. Fuck.   

A bite from a spider crawling around in a nasty building- It broke skin . He doesn’t have a fucking spleen. If it gets infected or he contracts a disease-   

The thought makes his skin crawl. There’s nothing else he can do here, he can log it all later- Leslie's should still be open.   

He can’t afford to get sick. It’ll take him out of work, it’ll take him out of patrol – he can’t do it, that’s his routine, not because he’s sick . He doesn’t want to deal with this.   

He feels like he can’t get to the clinic quick enough.   

When he does, Leslie meets him, looks him in the eyes, and tells him he’s going to be fine.   

“Orchard spiders aren’t venomous,” she says.  

“Could you just look at it, please?” Tim asks. He feels a little weird, standing at her desk like he’s telling his mom he just threw up while she goes through documents.   

She gives him an unimpressed look, but he doesn’t back down. With a sigh, she pushes to her feet – “Come here.”   

Tim turns around in front of her, pointing to the spot on his neck. It’s burned into his brain. Into his skin.  

Leslie pokes at it, humming. “Well, it’s a little inflamed, probably because you keep touching it. Otherwise, it’s fine.”   

“I don’t have a spleen, L, is it going to get infected?”  

“Have you been taking your antibiotics?”   

Tim lets his eyes drift. He... doesn’t remember.  

“Timothy Jackson.”   

“I... didn’t realize.”   

Leslie puts a finger in his face. “If I write you a prescription, I expect you to follow it.” She huffs. “ Now I have to ask if you’ve been taking care of your injuries.”   

The laceration he didn’t have motivation to stitch last night and forgot about drifts to the front of his mind. “Uh...”   

“That’s reassuring.” She glares at him. “Med room. Now.”   

He gets a lengthy lecture about taking care of his body while she stitches him up and inspects his other, older wounds/ Several times, she threatens to handcuff him to a cot. A few more times, she says she’ll ground him herself. Says she’s going to illegally harvest his organs if he runs himself into the ground.   

When she’s done – after he finishes securing his uniform again – she grabs his chin, eyebrow line set hard and a serious look to her eyes. “If you get hurt and can’t deal with it by yourself, you come to me. If I have to ask to get you to tell me about injuries before you do, we have a problem. Clear?”   

“Clear.” Tim blinks, and he almost wants to follow through.   

“Go home.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “You’re done tonight. That’s an order.”   

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, finding he really has no intention of continuing patrol. He kind of just wants to sleep.   

Fresh bandages hit his sheets. He can’t pull the comforter or the blankets onto his body – it's too hot. Anxiety about the stupid bug bite follows him into unconsciousness even after he’s taken the antibiotics Leslie gave him.   

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Tim wakes up in sweat-soaked sheets and he feels awful .   

Not even his usual, foggy, bland, life-sucks awful. No, he’s feeling every sharp sensation, yanked from his nice, half-gone usual state of being and thrown into a body of pure shit.   

To start, he’s exhausted . Every muscle in his body is tired and worn and sore and aching , and every one makes sure he knows it. He has a migraine, a brick wall trying its very best to shove its way past his brain and through the front of his skull. He feels unfocused, and it’s hard to look at things. His head is too light. His joints are too heavy. His stomach feels wrong. It’s hard to swallow, throat too dry, burning- It's hard to breathe, pressure in his nose.   

His skin burns all over his body. Every inch is way too hot. He doesn’t have any layers to take off.   

He almost doesn’t move, but the heat is overwhelming and he- he has to do something about it, it’s agonizing just to lay here. Maybe- His bathroom has cold water, maybe that will help. Relieve the heat.   

Rolling out of bed is hard – and when his feet hit the floor, the room spins around him until he’s on his knees and braced against the mattress. His stomach shifts and a violent wave of nausea crashes over him, room tipping until he leans over.   

When the nausea finally passes, he thinks, fuck .   

He’s sick .  

God, he doesn’t even care about work right now, he just needs to get rid of the heat.   

The room doesn’t stop spinning, but the nausea dies down. When he feels like he might not throw up, he pushes back up using his bed’s side table – or tries to, he’s not actually ready to put all his weight on his knees, and they buckle under him.   

A second try has him shaking, but he manages to stand. His muscles burn unnecessarily, but it’s easy now to stumble to his bathroom on unsteady feet. The world tips again, but he braces against the doorframe and waits for it to pass.   

His medicine cabinet was behind his mirror. He can’t even think about turning the light on. He just fumbles through the contents of the cabinet until he finds what feels like his bottle of ibuprofen. Then his antihistamines. They’ve been his go-to when he feels physically less-than. He’s never been this sick before, not in his life – maybe he needs a double dose?  

He needs to...  

Something. He needs to something.   

What was he doing?  

Heat washes over him, and he knows.   

The water is freezing against his skin, lighting up his nerves like he’s been hit with Fries’ guns – and he needs more , more. Water slips through his fingers, rolling down the sink and dropping into the drain. Why won’t it stay ? Just stay. Stay there, he’s too hot .   

Shower.   

His breath is taken from him when the water hits, blazing against his skin like ice on fire and it feels so good . The heat very nearly recedes a little, and he can almost think again.   

The fogginess in his head... it’s not... good. Resting his forehead against the tile of his shower walls is heaven and hell. There’s a limit to a fever... something- Too hot, and he dies. He doesn’t want to die. Not like this, not with heat, aching pain, too-heavy body floating- thoughts overlapping- no control-   

Thermometer.   

Tile is slick under his skin. Water pounds in his ears, he still can’t breathe. He has a thermometer, right?   

It’s there. His head spins on his shoulders and he sinks to the ground, trying to remember how to use it.   

One hundred and six.   

What? That’s- no, no, too high, that’s too high.   

He needs help.   

His phone is on his bed.   

His skin slides wet against the tile and his muscles shake and give out under him.   

He tries. He tries to get to it. But then his arms don’t move and his legs ache and burn. Then cold crashes against him.   

Then it’s suddenly not worth it, to fight his body and the exhaustion overtaking him. He wants to, but he can’t.   

He’s left shaking on the floor, leaving his own mind to a delirious half-state.   

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Tim wakes up, and he’s in such full-body agony that he succumbs again to unconsciousness gladly.   

----------  

Tim wakes up.   

He’s not dead. He’s not dead- And his head is clearer than it’s ever been.   

Oh, he really doesn’t like that.   

The fog used to let him just roll with wherever he woke up. Now, though, now he’s acutely aware that he’s lying in only briefs on his cold and sticky bathroom floor. He’s also acutely aware of the dried sweat on his body, and how gross and greasy and stuffy and uncomfortable his skin feels.   

Groaning, he slowly picks himself up from the floor. His arms are a little sore with the movement, the kind you get after you don’t move for a while. Everything is resoundingly clear to him – his head is free of pain, body of exhaustion, senses of the dull filter he usually has. He can feel the cracks in the tile beneath his skin.   

The thermometer is on the ground next to him. He picks it up, washes it off, and sticks it under his tongue.   

Ninety-seven point nine.   

Fever’s gone. Lungs are clear, nothing hurts, he can still think. The sickness must’ve passed. That’s... odd, it’s gone and he didn’t even do anything about it.  

Okay, well. He really wants a shower. Then some food. Then he’ll figure out what time it is. Hopefully it hasn’t been so long that he’s late for work.   

The water pressure of his shower head hurts, drops hitting his skin like pebbles thrown by the wind. Also pretty weird. It’s never bothered him before.   

His stomach yells at him while he’s toweling off, twisting and aching. He doesn’t remember the last time he registered hunger pains. Usually, he doesn’t even notice that he hasn’t eaten, or when he does remember he doesn’t have any motivation to find something. But now, right now, the pain is so sharp it’s distracting, and he throws on some sweatpants and ventures out to find something to eat, taking his phone with him.   

HIs apartment is a mess. It’s not like he suddenly cares enough to clean – but every blood stain, dirty dish, wrinkled piece of clothing, and batarang that needs sharpened jumps out at him. He can see every one precisely in his vision. He ignores them still, beelining to his fridge.   

There’s nothing in there.   

Okay, emergency granola bar time.   

Five left in the box – and he has a need to eat all of them, so he does, not even thinking about it.   

Okay. Time next, so he can go back to his schedule and leave this weird, uncomfortable clarity behind.   

He almost drops his phone when he turns it on.   

Two days . The date is two days past where it should be. He puts in his password, searches frantically – it's not a fluke, it’s been two days . And eight hours. Fifty-six hours incapacitated with illness – how is he alive ? How is he not brain dead? He should be, at least . He’s never been that sick in his life, and he received no medical care – he should be dead.   

The second surprise comes from his notifications. He didn’t expect them – hasn't for a long time – yet there’s still twenty-one missed calls and five voicemails, all from Tam.   

God, he appreciates Tam.   

The latest voicemail was from an hour ago, and Tim opens it to Tam’s raised voice.   

“Timothy Drake, if you don’t call me back I’m going to order a welfare check on you And then I’m going to call Bruce.”   

Something cloudy sets in his chest. He pushes it aside and hits the button.   

Two rings.   

“You got really lucky. You had about two more hours. What’s going on? Don’t tell me it was work stuff, you could’ve picked up your phone.”   

“Not work stuff,” Tim says. “I... got sick. Like, really sick. I couldn’t answer. I’m sorry.”   

“You were sick,” Tam says suspiciously. “For two days.”  

“Yes.”   

Tam sighs, but there aren’t any tells for her to pick up because he’s not lying. “Whatever, Drake. Do you have someone with you?”   

“Yes,” Tim lies. Well. Most of his tells are physical.   

“And you’re okay now?”   

“Yeah, I feel fine.”   

“Okay. I better see you here tomorrow. Not today, you’re probably still contagious. Understand, Drake? Stay home.”   

She hangs up.   

Okay. Well. That throws a wrench in his entire schedule. He can’t turn on work mode if there’s no work .  

Maybe that’s not entirely true. She can’t ban him from patrolling. She won’t even know.   

His underlayers are in a pile next to his suit. When he pulls them on, they’re... short.   

“What the fuck?” he whispers to himself, peering down at the extra four inches of bare skin at his ankles. Did they shrink ? No, that doesn’t make sense. What happened, then?   

Hm. It doesn’t really matter, his boots will cover it. He can fix the length later. He just- He needs out .  

Gear on, uniform a little too tight, he heads out into the night.   

He doesn’t really have a plan in mind, not without checking his scanners, but the radioactive warehouse suddenly shoves to the front of his mind, and he heads in its direction without even thinking about it too hard.   

Two days, and the place has been cleared out sufficiently. There’s caution tape closing off the entire building, and the truck’s gone. It seems pretty standard to him, the cleanup, but he doesn’t know much about the procedure for Gotham’s radiation protection. He does know that the cleanup of the actual radiation – WayneTech, actually – isn’t here. Maybe they’re waiting on authorization? Tim can make that go faster. He makes a mental note.   

Just to check – just to make sure – he drops back in from the roof to confirm they’ve actually done their jobs.   

There are people in here.  

Four of them, and they’re not what Tim would expect. Pristine white and light gray suits , one of them trimmed in gold. Round, white masks, almond-shaped slits in the eyes and hooked, protruding material where a nose would be. He can’t tell, exactly, what they’re supposed to be – and he would call them henchmen of an up-and-coming Gotham villain, if it weren’t for how expensive the suits look. He was raised by Jack and Janet Drake, he knows what expensive looks like. And the way they’re dressed is snobbish old money, the worst kind. Who are they?  

The one in gold trim must be important. Their mask is more detailed, patterns carved into the surface. The four aren’t doing much, just standing. Gold trim pulls out a phone – speed-dials, raises the phone. They turn their face towards the ceiling, and Tim glimpses a better angle of the mask before he ducks closer to the shadows to avoid being spotted.   

“There’s nothing here to test,” gold trim says. “It’s all gone. They cleaned all of it.”   

Pause. “Yes. All physical residue has been wiped.”  

Pause again. “We haven’t found the plate number yet. We’re looking, but there’s no surveillance out here. We may have to go through records, but it’s possible they haven’t logged it yet.”   

Pause.  

“Yes, ma’am.”   

They hang up, the phone disappearing into their suit. “We’re going to go through records. They should at least have which driver they dispatched.”   

They turn on their heel, stalking towards the door. The other three scurry behind them.   

These guys definitely look like they’d buy radioactive superhero sludge. They must be trying to find it. Tim hops through the rafters after them. If he follows them, maybe they’ll lead him to wherever their boss is.   

Gold trim snaps their head around, looking directly up at him, uncannily fast. Before Tim can even blink, there’s a flash of metal and a crack and something screaming at him and a tearing pain in his shoulder and then he’s falling.   

He doesn’t fall far, he manages to catch himself against the rafters, but that and the spiking pain sends his heart into a flurry. Before they can take another shot, he backs into cover.   

His shoulder grows warm and wet. He presses a hand to it – he must be imagining the small green sheen shining in the light against his blood.   

“Wow, rude,” he calls, pulling out a sticky gauze bandage and slapping it onto the wound.   

He’s answered with another crack.   

Tim sighs, pulling out a batarang. “Can’t you guys read? You’re not supposed to be in here.”   

When he tries to get down, he gets stuck . His hand meets resistance – he almost falls, but his hand won’t move from where it clutches the wood of the rafters.   

What the fuck?  

He takes his own arm and yanks , wood creaking and splintering against his palm. It finally releases with a snap, dropping him to the floor in an ungraceful manner that he barely recovers from.  

He tosses the batarang, knocking the pistol out of gold trim’s hand.   

There are still large wood chips on his hand. Stuck to his glove. Weird.   

He can’t hold his staff like he needs to with the wood, but it won’t brush off; He switches to one hand instead when a fist comes flying at him.   

These guys are fast . They can dodge his swings, his hits – he aims a kick at gold trim, and they catch his foot and twist , making him stumble. It’s a little concerning, the way they can read his movements, how quick they are, how they manage to land a few hits on him that aren’t his fault.   

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who you work for if I asked?” Tim grunts, knocking the first one out with a hit to the jaw.   

Someone hits his shoulder. Pain flashes through him, and another finally knocks him over. Gold trim towers over him, a pristine white dress shoe descending onto his skull.   

“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” they hiss. “You should’ve stayed out of this. Now you have to die. And I am going to enjoy killing you.”   

Tim rolls his eyes. “That’s so cliché. Lame.” He wraps his hand around their ankle and yanks to the side. There’s a strange crack of bone, then they topple to the side, giving him enough time to get back on his feet and duck out of range of the other two.   

Broken tibia.   

Huh.   

He wasn’t even trying.   

Another punch comes and he doesn’t have time to think about it anymore. These two are easier to take down than gold trim, but it still takes longer than it should. Then he leaves them, white suits speckled with dark blood, to call the police again.   

Fuck, the hole in his shoulder hurts .   

He strips the sticky bandage while he calls it in. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly, and it hurts, but it feels like it just hit muscle, not bone. Nothing vital or something he needs to take care of immediately , except cleaning. He has to clean it one-handed, because there are still woodchips inexplicably stuck to his glove that he is choosing to ignore for the moment.   

The police line is a little loud. It hurts his ear to listen to, and he can’t fix it without connecting it to his laptop. He very nearly takes it out entirely.   

Only a few presses of gauze stems the bleeding enough for him to put a heavier temporary bandage on it. Then, he turns to his glove.   

His first thought is to take it off, but his glove is stuck too. Still, he needs the wood off, so he worries at them and slowly pries them off. The wood pulls at his skin like it’s slathered in superglue, and it’s just as difficult to pull.   

Weird.   

He’s not going home because of a bullet wound. The night’s still young, and he still feels wrong . Besides, the pain is already ebbing.   

The weird things keep happening after that.   

A new one – he notices something that yells at him whenever someone attacks him, something that screams until he looks and finds something he couldn’t have known was there. All of his training over the years has led to a sort of sixth sense, knowing what someone’s going to do before they do it – but he can always pick out what led him to his conclusions. A twitch of a hand, the shifting of eyes. Whatever this is – he can’t. He shouldn’t know these things.   

And he keeps sticking to stuff.   

Why is he sticking ?  

It becomes enough of a problem while he’s fighting that he takes a knife to the stomach because he can’t stop sticking to the assailant and he runs back to his apartment with torn fabric stuck to his forearm.   

Tim pulls himself through his window, pain tearing through his stomach as he moves. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it hit something other than muscle. His feet are surprisingly steady as they take his weight. Still, he nearly tips over, his hand sticking to the glass of the window.   

No, no, no- Fuck, why is it doing that?  

Stop sticking .   

He gives a frustrated yank. The glass cracks around his fingers. It tears away in chunks against his glove. Some of his window falls in shards of jagged circles to shatter against the floor.   

Sounds of the night seem too close, following him to his bathroom. Beeping – rubber – voices – clicking – doors – it's all so loud .   

He can hear the lights in the bathroom buzzing when he turns them on. He flicks them off again, leaving the light draping through the cracked door to illuminate.   

The glass cuts through his glove as he yanks it off. He peels his uniform off with bloody hands, leaving it on the floor. He washes his hands in the sink – the water is so loud , crashing against the porcelain like thunder. His towel is already stained with red-brown – it doesn’t matter that new red joins it.   

His med kit isn’t under the sink.   

I left it in the kitchen .  

The lights in the rest of his apartment are suddenly blinding , loud for both his ears and his eyes, so he turns them off. He doesn’t think about how surely he finds his medkit in the dark.   

He pulls himself up on the counter with a pained groan, sliced skin pulling at the movement. The wound has already clotted, so Tim moves to cleaning it, wiping it with a soaked rag. It’s about four inches long, angled to the right of his belly button.   

Huh. Not as deep as he’d thought it was.   

He takes a breath and proceeds with stitches more calmly. It couldn’t have hit anything important, not like that. The needle goes into his skin with more difficulty than it should – and it hurts more, like his sensitivity has spiked when it shouldn’t feel more than- well, a needle. Usually, he can just stop paying attention to the pain, but now it- it hurts .   

Still, he pushes through it to finish the stitches. As he cuts the thread, he figures since he’s already here, he should take care of the bullet wound.   

He peels the bandage from his shoulder.   

Something falls, tinkling against the tile.   

He should have to lean forward to be able to see it from here, but he doesn’t. It’s a bullet.   

The bullet that he thought went all the way through.   

His fingers shake as they slowly rise to meet his shoulder. All he touches is smooth skin and flaking, dried blood.   

It’s a bit of a mess, the blood, yet it’s easy to wipe off to see behind. And what he sees is smooth skin .   

There’s nothing there . There’s no hole, no torn skin, not even a scrape , the wound that he felt, that bled, under the hole in his uniform, is fucking gone.   

The bullet is on the floor. He knows he was shot. Where did the wound go?  

He can’t find any pain no matter how hard he pokes at it. Blood crusts his fingers. He wipes them off on a cloth.   

The cuts on his palm start to seal as he watches them.  

He sees his skin knit together, watches as the cuts heal over into-   

Into smooth skin.   

He fumbles for the stitches Leslie gave him. They're gone. It’s healed.   

This isn’t normal.   

This isn’t normal, and he can’t keep passing it off like it is. Rapid healing – sensitive senses – the sticking – whatever keeps yelling at him – something's wrong .  

Something happened to him. What happened ?  

Everything feels like too much , suddenly. The sounds rush in his ears. He can feel the air move. He can see every detail in his floor. He can smell his own dried blood, the cars outside, the concrete. It’s too much, it’s way too much, and it’s so overwhelming that it sends him sinking to the floor, desperately trying to block as much of it as he can.   

Light from the window makes it past his eyelids. Beeping comes through his hands. Iron doesn’t leave his nose or his mouth, even when he stops breathing. The shifting of his stitches hurts him so bad .   

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, overwhelmed, too overwhelmed to fix it. Too long. Still, eventually the flood of sensations trickles out. It doesn’t leave him, he still takes in every piece of data his brain is sending him. It just... stops feeling so intense.   

Then, when he comes back, the first thing he really registers is the TV in someone else’s apartment.   

“...Queens’ very own vigilante made an appearance at the celebration tonight...”   

Who the hell watches New York news in Gotham?  

“...for Alchemax’s new scientific breakthrough was interrupted by a group of assailants of unknown gang affiliation. The police aren’t sure yet what they wanted, and have not released much on the situation as of yet. They didn’t get the chance to make it clear themselves, Spider-man swooping in during geneticist Dr. Chikondi’s speech to apprehend the criminals in question...”  

Spider-man.    

Spider-man. What does he know about Spider-man?  

New York vigilante. Meta, mutant, whatever. No one knows who he is. He’s actually one of the most popular heroes on the planet, even though he generally stays in New York.   

Signature powers: Webs. Super strength. Sticking .   

Spider-man. Orchard spider. Could’ve been affected by the radiation. Radioactive spider... That stuff was supposed to give people superpowers.   

Where did they say they came from?   

New York.    

Tim pushes to his feet, head swimming, and then he’s suddenly pulling his laptop onto his legs and looking it up.   

He feels like Reddit isn’t a reliable source, but, generally, nerds and conspirators online can get super close. He knows from experience. Besides, this post has links to news clips and videos as sources.   

r/spiderman    •   6 mo. Ago  

by iliveinyourbasement  

What powers does Spiderman have?  

edit: it has now been confirmed that his webs are not organic https.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ 

What powers does Spider-man have? Here is my list, confirmed and speculation, of what powers Spider-man has, reasoning below. 

Number one: The most obvious. He can stick to things. We’ve all seen it.   

Number two: Super-strength.   

Number three: Super-reflexes.   

Number four: Super-senses.  

Number five: Super-durability.   

Number six: This one’s a little iffy. I’ve been criticized about this before, but I believe wholeheartedly that he has some sort of precognition.  

Number seven: Super-healing.   

Okay. Most of those check out.   

The user actually has a decently strong, well-put-together argument for themself, but Tim doesn’t care about that. He heads straight for the links.   

He watches Spider-man crawl a wall. Spider-man pulling a school bus back onto a bridge by himself. Dodging bullets. A personal video of someone being found recording him when he shouldn’t have known they were there. Comparison videos of his shoulder, his dislocated and nearly broken arm, and one dated two days later where he’s swinging fine.   

Tim’s hand unconsciously touches his bare shoulder as he swallows.   

Two Spider-men. There can’t be two Spider-men.   

He’s Red Robin. He’s not Spider-man.   

Patrol tonight was a disaster .  

Whatever that spider did to him, whatever it gave him – he can’t control it. And it’s going to make his life hell until he can. He can’t go on patrol like this, not unless he wants a knife to his heart next time. He can’t go to work without making a mess. He has to get a grip on this, and he has to get it fast .   

He doesn’t have time to learn how to control it.   

Spider-man already knows .   

And right then is when the idea plants in his head. He shakes it off, at first – he can’t just up and leave for New York. He has responsibilities. He’s a CEO. He has a city to take care of. He can’t just leave. He shouldn’t. Who knows how long he’d be away?  

His fingers stick to his laptop when he puts it away. It takes him four minutes to pry them off.   

Suddenly, Tim is exhausted .  

Tomorrow. If he doesn’t have it under control by the end of tomorrow, he’ll book a hotel.  

No more blood joins the sheets tonight. The covers feel like too much, so he leaves them off. He hears most of a conversation between two people outside his building as he drifts off.   

Chapter Text

Tim gets up for the day.  

He tries to get through it like normal. It doesn’t work.  

By the time he gets to work, he’s overstimulated, there are finger-shaped dents in his steering wheel, he’s bitten through his lip and had it heal over again, the door of the building stuck to his hands, and he cracked an elevator button on the way up.  

Tam is at her desk in front of his door. He can’t help but rush past her, shutting the door to his office. He immediately kills the lights, drops the blinds, unplugs his stupidly loud computer, and curls on the floor in the corner. Even the touch of his own skin against itself is irritating, but he needs it, needs to clamp his hands over his ears, needs to desperately try to keep the sound out. Needs to squeeze his eyes shut. 

His own breathing is too much. Frustration rushes to his tear ducts and threatens to spill over.  

The door opens. He can hear the metal hinges scraping over themselves, he can hear the doorknob turning, can hear her fingers leaving it. He can hear her shoes sweeping against the carpet, hear fabric brushing against fabric, skin against skin. He can hear her joints shift and he can feel the air move as she crouches beside him.  

“Tim?”  

She says it so softly, so carefully, but it still grates on his ears.  

A low noise of complaint leaves his throat, and it feels like a needle threading through one ear and out the other and pulling tight. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up- ” The small whisper of air moving from his lungs against his lips burns, and the sound of his voice makes his head spin. Water finally slips from his eyelids, stinging his skin. Please, he mouths, lips touching too vividly. Please.   

He hears Tam shifting, hears her back hit the wall, too.  

Then, all he can hear is her breathing. Her heartbeat.  

Somehow, by listening to her, by focusing on that – her heart pulsing, her lungs expanding and depressing again – everything overwhelming drains from him and evaporates.  

When his breathing matches hers, when their heartbeats are in sync, he croaks out, “Sorry.”  

“Are you okay?” Tam’s voice is barely a whisper. He doesn’t deserve her.  

Tim clears his throat. “Sure,” he says neutrally.  

“Tim.” 

When he blinks his eyes open, she’s giving him her signature flat look. “I’m okay... now. I just got a little overwhelmed.” 

Tam hums. He’s had this happen before, once or twice – never this bad, not so bad he couldn’t hold a conversation with her. “Did something happen...?”  

Tim chokes on a laugh. Yes, something happened. “I don’t know, Tam. I got sick, and now weird things are happening.” 

“Are you still sick? Do I need to send you home?”  

Tim shakes his head. “No. I can work.” 

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.” 

“I know. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”  

Tam is quiet for a second. “Fine. But I’m rescheduling your meeting for after lunch. And you’re leaving on time today.”  

Tim sends her a small quirk of the lips – weak, but genuine. “I appreciate you so much, Tam. More than you’ll ever know.”  

“You’d better,” she sniffs, rolling to her feet. She offers her hand – his palm tingles as she pulls him to his feet.  

The rest of his day doesn’t go much better than that.  

He handles himself in the meeting, but he still almost gets caught sticking at least twice. 

By the time Tam comes to make sure he goes home, he’s already so tired. 

“I think,” he says blankly on the elevator ride down to the garage, “that I’m going to take a trip to New York.” 

Tam shoots him a confused look. “Oh? Why?”  

“There’s someone I want to visit,” Tim says.  

“For work?”  

“Not really.” 

“So... like a vacation?” 

Tim considers, then shrugs. “Yeah, about as close to one as I’m going to get.” 

Tam nods approvingly. “When are you leaving?” 

“I was hoping tonight? If that doesn’t... put too much stress on you.” 

“That’s... kind of quick, but me and my father can handle everything. Bruce used to do that all the time. Are you sure?”  

Tim sends her a teasing smirk. “Do you want me to stay?” 

She hastily backtracks. “No, no, it’s just- Never mind. Do you want me to book a hotel for you?” 

“You’re off work now. I’ll do it.”  

“Alright. You’ll call me when you get there?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Okay.” The elevator door opens. “Have fun, I guess.”  

Tim snorts. “Bye, Tam.” 

He books a room the second he gets home. 

After that is a mess of packing. He throws stuff he needs in his suitcase, then throws that in his car.  

Then, a few hours of uncomfortably overwhelming driving later, he’s in New York.  

It’s only when he’s swiping a key to the door of his hotel room that he really pauses to think about what he’s doing.  

Spontaneous trip to New York to talk to a hero he’s never met before about his newfound superpowers. It’s not the weirdest thing he’s done – but it is, somehow, in an entirely new category.  

He’s tired, though, even when it’s only eleven. He shoots Tam a text, telling her he’s there as he drags in his baggage. Then he collapses on the hotel bed, out within two minutes.  

---------- 

Tim gets up and he’s starving.  

The hotel he’s staying at serves meals, which is great because he’s not willing to navigate through New York at noon. So, he gets dressed – stitching thread falls from his shirt, wound completely healed, and that is so weird – and heads down to the lobby, taking his laptop so he can work out a game plan.  

Tim opens his laptop with a jelly-spread bagel in one hand. He needs to find Spider-man – preferably while he’s on patrol, he doesn’t have time to figure out a secret identity. He doesn’t know how to do that, though. He’s never met the vigilante. The Justice League allies and the Avengers allies don’t mix, there’s never been a reason to. He doesn’t know much about the guy, and while he probably should, probably would’ve known everything when he was younger, he’s just never cared that much before.  

So – as everyone should when researching someone who has dedicated fans – he turns to the internet again.  

The first thing he looks up is Spider-man's patrol routes. Except it doesn’t seem like he has any. 

Others figure that he listens to a radio scanner and loosely follows that. It’s a good strategy, to not have a route – but it means that Tim can’t find him. He digs for an hour, and he doesn’t find anything, no sort of solid routine and especially not for today – Tim, king of routines, can’t imagine it.  

Then he finds the Spider Tracker Twitter account, and his day gets one hundred percent easier.  

The last updated spotting was posted forty minutes ago. So – location already mapping out in his mind – he takes a bag with his uniform in it and heads out.  

It doesn’t take long for him to scale a wall and change on a rooftop – away from eyes, of course, physical or digital. It feels a little weird to be out in broad daylight – makes his skin crawl with all the eyes he knows are going to be on him – but it’s necessary. Spider-man doesn’t go out much after dark. And indeed, the first few people who see flashes of him grappling through buildings gape at him. He does his best to ignore them.  

Tim checks his phone every few minutes as he heads over. Spider-man wouldn’t have stayed in one place. He looks around the last area for a while before he gets an update.  

A few swings later and he catches first sight of the red-and-blue vigilante.  

Spider-man sees him. He knows Spider-man sees him. Yet – several rooftops away, farther than Tim should be able to see in such detail – Spider-man swings away.  

Tim takes off after him. Not with as much urgency as he would a villain – he's not chasing him. But it is fairly easy for him to keep him in sight.  

Then there’s a gunshot. 

A combination of his new hearing and whatever keeps yelling at him turns his head to the exact location it came from. When he looks back at Spider-man, his head is turned in the same direction. Mid-air, he turns, swinging towards it. Tim follows, but the other gets there first.  

It’s a jewelry store robbery. Spider-man jumps right in, but Tim pauses to categorize.  

Four men. Each has a gun, each has their face covered. Different than Gotham thugs – look less like they were built for crime, but maybe a bit more competent. He’s almost ready to jump in to help, but then his head screams at him and he watches five more guys pull out of a can that pulls up. He jumps on them instead.  

Three manage to make it past him into the shop. As soon as he gets the first two on the ground, he jumps inside. And, wow- He was trained to work with others, adjust his style to fit with theirs, but this is the closest to seamless he’s ever gotten. It’s like he knows what Spider-man is going to do before even he does, and he reacts accordingly without thinking. He wonders if the other sees it, too.  

When Spider-man yanks a guy’s feet from under him with webs, he works in enough time to say, “Hey, some help! Nice. I thought you were a supervillain.”  

Tim grunts, slamming one to the ground and holding him for Spider-man to web. It seems to be his preferred method of neutralizing them – the three that he’d taken on are still conscious. Tim’s in his city, might as well to it his way. “I’m here for your help, actually.” 

“Are you from-” 

There’s a spray of bullets, and his head yells at him to move. He dodges three different bullets.  

“Aren’t you from Gotham?” Spider-man says, yanking the gun from the guy with a web. “You came all the way here for my help? Should I be honoured, or afraid?” 

“Your experience is incredibly specific,” Tim admits.  

“I will take that as a compliment, then. Hold on, let me-”  

He yanks the final two out of the shop with his webs, then attaches them to the pavement.  

Spider-man dusts his hands off. Tim drags the other ones outside – the other’s mask lenses widen, how does he do that? “Oh, thank you. Your name is- Wait, hold on, let me do it.” 

He presses a palm to his forehead, holding his hand out as if to hold Tim’s words. “Is it- Gotham hero, it’s- You’re Red Robin, right?”  

Tim blinks as he cuffs the two he got first. “Yeah, actually. How did you know?” 

Spider-man shrugs. “I’m a fan. It’s hard to recognize you when there are no pictures.” 

“Hm,” he responds. His fingers stick to the cuffs. 

“So, what do you need help with?” Spider-man asks, hands on his hips. Tim lifts his head to look at him. He can feel their eyes meet, and then-  

His head is screaming at him.  

We’re the same.   

He’s like me.   

“You’re like me,” Spider-man breathes quietly.  

Tim scowls, lifting his hand – dragging the cuffs and, consequently, the guy’s arms with it. “I can’t control it.”  

“Man, that was so annoying,” Spider-man says. Then he shakes himself, tone dipping down into something more serious. “You have to relax to be able to unstick.”  

“How?” Tim asks.  

Spider-man shrugs. “Stop thinking about it.”  

His first instinct is to want to snap, How helpful. But he came here to learn. If that’s how he says to do it, then it probably works. So, he closes his eyes and tries.  

“Breathe, and focus on something else. I used to run chemical equations in my head.”  

That directs his thoughts to his gear log. He starts running through numbers in his mind automatically, counting through everything in his belt.  

“Yeah, there you go,” Spider-man says. 

When Tim opens his eyes, his fingers are free.  

“Huh,” he says.  

Their heads twitch in unison towards the sound of sirens.  

“We should probably get out of here,” Spider-man says lightly. “I think we should have a talk. We could get churros.” 

Tim’s expression tightens into confusion. Churros? 

Spider-man is already shooting a web and yanking himself into the air. “Come on, I know a good place!” 

Despite himself, Tim follows with his grapple.  

Then he finds himself sitting on the edge of an apartment building roof, churro in hand, next to Spider-man. The other’s mask is pulled up to rest on the bridge of his nose. Tim almost unconsciously files away his pale skin tone.  

“So,” Spider-man asks, “how did it happen? I thought I was the only one. I thought they shut down the experiments.” 

“How did what happen?” Tim asks.  

“The bite. You did get bitten, right?” Spider-man asks, mask lenses squinting at him a little. “That’s what happened to me. Radioactive spider. I just don’t know how else it would happen.”  

“Yeah,” Tim says distantly. “Yeah. Went to investigate a truck filled with chemicals. The guys trying to sell it said they got it from here, said they got it from an old lab that was getting torn down.”  

“The old Oscorp building,” Spider-man says. His tone turns serious again. “Where are the chemicals now?”  

“Gotham’s radiation control took care of it,” Tim answers. “They cleaned everything. I checked.”  

The other’s posture loosens considerably. “Okay. Good. We can’t let that get out.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I got bit by an Orchard spider.” 

“Interesting. Do you think it got into the chemicals and absorbed the radiation?”  

“I think so. There was spillage everywhere.” 

“Wow. I have no idea what kind of spider bit me. Oscorp was doing all sorts of genetic splicing at the time. I wonder if that affected how our powers developed?”  

“Have you studied... this?”  

“A lot, yeah. It’s one of my favourite areas of science.”  

“Is there a way to...” Tim eyes his churro, taking the first bite. “Take it away?”  

Spider-man pauses, leaning back and considering him. He’s quiet for a second, chewing. “The bite... It changed your DNA,” he says slowly. “Every fundamental part of you has now been affected by it. The spider is now just as much a part of you as your mom or your dad.”  

“So, no,” Tim says, something hollow sinking in his stomach. 

“No. There are ways to cut off the spider part – suppressors, magic – but to remove it entirely- It's impossible.”  

Tim accepts this silently. “What are all of your- Abilities? Powers?”  

The other hums. “Sticking, obviously. Heightened senses. Heightened speed, strength, reflexes. People call it advanced healing, but I call it high metabolism. Wounds heal faster, and I’m hungry all the time, have you noticed that? My body is durable, harder to injure. And my spider-sense, that one’s pretty specific.”  

“What is it?” Tim asks.  

“The spider-sense? It’s those loud alarms in your head. It’s your body trying to keep you safe, mostly. It warns you about danger. Sometimes it includes what you consider a danger to others. Sometimes it just pushes you in the direction of something helpful.” 

“You call it a spider-sense?”  

The other laughs. “Fits with the brand.” 

Tim nods. They’re quiet for a while. This churro is really good – he kind of wants another one. 

“I have work in a while,” Spider-man starts, “and I’d like to take another round before I have to go in. You can come if you want, but- Listen, here’s the deal. I can’t help you control your powers in a few hours.” 

Tim cocks his head, regarding him. The other continues, “It took me weeks to master it. I can teach you, but it’s going to take a while. You have to decide if that’s what you want. If you want to integrate your powers into your work – and I think you should – it’s going to take more work. It’s your choice, just- Be aware.”  

“And if I don’t?”  

Spider-man shrugs. “Then you’ll only have to learn how to tolerate it. But that sounds like a waste to me.”  

Tim hears him swing away. He doesn’t make a move to get up and follow him.  

Does he want that? 

He doesn’t know. He thinks harder about it than he probably should as he drifts back towards the hotel.  

The answer should be no. He didn’t come here to learn how to use these powers, just control them. Just get them out of the way as soon as possible. Weeks, he said. It’ll take weeks. His absence shouldn’t last that long. He has responsibilities.  

Other than having to stay in New York, consequences of agreeing to this include revealing his identity. He’d have to, it would be inevitable that it would come out, and he’d rather it come from him. He’s never willingly done that before, not without explicit permission – it’s not just his identity on the line. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to do that.  

What’s waiting for him in Gotham?  

The thought comes unbidden, and he tries to cast it out. His life is waiting for him. His routine. Everything he’s comfortable with. It’s his life, he doesn’t want to change it, he doesn’t want to mess with the delicate balance that he’s found where he can get through his day- He likes it, he- 

What’s waiting for him in Gotham? 

Who’s going to notice he’s gone?  

Tam. Tam already knows he’ll be gone – has been encouraging a break for a long time. She’d tell him to go for it and then arrange for his absence.  

And… And that’s it.  

That’s all he can think of.  

What he has is an overwhelming job he never wanted and a name that isn’t even his.  

He compares that – his day in Gotham – to what he could have here. No one, and nothing – except a man who can now understand him more than anyone else, a man willing to teach him, willing to work with him. New powers. A new setting. No routine to stick to. 

A small spark of want lights in his chest. Huh. Maybe he does need a vacation.  

He doesn’t really want to go back to Gotham yet.  

As he orders food – studies New York’s street layout – tracks down the areas with the most crime – makes himself coffee with the hotel room’s maker – with every passing minute, he leans a little more.  

It’s late before he even knows it, and by the time he finishes his first version of a tracking program it’s two in the morning and he’s tired. His fingers stick to the doorframe as he heads to bed – it takes less time to get them carefully unstuck.  

It’s hard for him to sleep. He’s still thinking.  

He’s also pretty sure he’s going to say yes. 

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up way too early so he can make it to Spider-man before lunch. Thankfully, the Spider Tracker saw him twenty minutes ago.   

Spider-man sees him long before he joins his side in the air.  

“Hey, man!” he says. Tim can hear him over the wind rushing in his ears. “You’re pretty good at this!”  

Tim grunts as they turn a corner “Not that different from how I usually do it.”  

“How do you usually do it?”   

For the moment, Tim is holding the reel function on his grapple, attaching it to one point and swinging with it, like Spider-man. There’s a few more seconds of drop between the release of the hook, the reel, and the next shot, but it’s almost the same.   

He switches to his regular method, picking a point and letting his reel take him to the hook. It’s faster, a straight line. When he gets to the end of the line, he pulls himself up and launches out again – jumping higher than he meant to without even trying.   

“Interesting,” Spider-man says, pulling up next to him again. “You always do it like that?”   

“Gotham’s buildings are usually shorter.”  

Spider-man laughs. He tips his head for a second, then changes course. Tim has to catch up. “Come on, we got a report.”  

Tim doesn’t ask what that means, just follows. He finds out soon enough. His- sense- goes off, and he looks down. Two guys, young, maybe around twenty, dart around buildings in a panic. Spider-man dives down after them.   

When they see him, they split.  

Tim knows which one Spider-man is going after, so he follows the other one. The guy doesn’t see him until Tim’s tripping him up. He yells as he goes down, and as Tim grabs him, and as he drags him back to Spider-man. He’s very loud.  

Spider-man has the other one, and he’s also very loud. Tim drops his by him. Spider-man webs him with a “Thanks.”  

“Transcript says you stole a purse and a wallet,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “So, where are they?”   

“Don’t give us to the cops, please, you can’t,” the first begs.   

“They’ll- They’re out to get us, you can’t let him get us, he’ll make sure we get put away-”  

“Who?” Tim interrupts.  

Two sets of eyes flicker over to him, careful and confused. “Who are you?” the first asks.   

“I’m Red Robin. Is it one of the officers?”   

“It’s- yeah. Bradley.”  

While Tim looks him up, Spider-man says, “I don’t think stealing stuff is the best way to hide from the police.”  

“We need the money, man,” the second one says miserably. “Bradley got our mom fired from her job and our dad can’t afford to stop eating, no one will hire us- He’s out to ruin our lives.”   

“Officer Frank Bradley?” Tim questions. The two look unsure, so he pulls up a picture and projects it. “Him?”   

“Yea, that’s him,” the second says.  

Tim turns to Spider-man for the next move. He tips his head a little, considering – then looks at them. “Alright, here’s the deal. I won’t turn you in. But I can’t let you take that money, either.” He reaches into the inside pocket of number two’s jacket. “I’ll let you go with a warning, okay? There are better, non-illegal ways to make money. And if you’re serious about getting a job instead,” he crouches so they’re at eye level, “then I know an antique shop in the middle of Brooklyn who’s looking for employees. I know the owner always treats her workers right.”   

Tim pulls out a batarang and cuts them free before Spider-man has to. The other holds out a hand to pull the first to his feet, so Tim does the same with the second. The brothers glance at each other; Then the second one asks, “Can we have the address?”  

Tim turns his attention back to the officer’s profile. He hears Spider-man tell them to go, and he hears the brothers’ quiet ‘thank you’s, then their footsteps jogging away.  

“How do you want to deal with Bradley?” Tim asks.  

Spider-man regards him for a second. “How would you do it?”  

Tim is surprised for a second, but gives him his plan. “I’d find him and get him to confess to what he’s doing. Then I’d take a recording to an officer that you trust will take care of it.”  

“That’s not admissible evidence.”  

“It doesn’t have to be admissible in court. Just enough to get him fired.”  

Spider-man nods. “Go ahead, then.”  

Tim pauses. “Are you sure?”  

“I’ve never seen a Bat work up close before. I’m curious.”  

After a second of waiting for him to change his mind, Tim grapples back up. Bradley is on patrol today, lucky for him; He maps the route and heads straight for it. He also has facial recognition running in the background.  

As they’re moving, Tim calls, only a little louder than normal, “I wanted to talk to you.”  

“Yeah?”  

“I want to learn how to use my powers.”  

Tim can practically hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll let me teach you?” When he looks over, Spider-man's lenses are wide with excitement.  

He gives a wordless nod. Spider-man whoops, sound getting distant with his downswing and closer with his upswing. It’s almost a little funny.  

After a few moments, Tim says, “I’ll be staying for a few weeks. And for so long, I owe you my identity.”  

“What?” Spider-man says, surprised. “Are you sure?”  

“Yes, I-” Tim’s head turns sharply. “Found him.”  

Tim stops on a low roof to observe. He looks up at Spider-man – hanging off the side of a building way above him – for his call, but the other just waves him forward.  

Bradley is in his car, parked on the side of the road, likely waiting for someone to break a minor traffic law because he has nothing better to do. Tim needs to get him out of the car, within reach and away from his car radio. He picks up a small chunk of loose gravel from the roof, rolls it in his fingers, and drops it onto the windshield.  

“So I know I said I wanted to let you do your thing, but–” Bradley startles in his car at the plink, but doesn’t move otherwise– “you’re not gonna hurt him, right?”  

“No,” Tim murmurs, picking a larger piece. He won’t mind if it cracks the glass. “He doesn’t know me. He won’t take me seriously. He won’t know to be afraid of me. I won’t have to.”  

It’s hard to focus on Spider-man instead of the rest of the city, but he’s pretty sure he hears the other’s relieved sigh. “Okay.”  

Tim drops the stone. Bradley startles again, shoving out of his car with a scowl. He jumps down, shoots his grapple right before grabbing the man, and drags his weight back up to the roof. He takes the radio and Bradley’s pistol before he lets go of the cop and pockets them.  

Bradley whips around, snarling. “What is this?”  

“Officer Frank Bradley,” Tim starts calmly, flicking the recorder on.  

“Another freak playing dress-up?” Bradley squints at him, then snorts. “Great. Which one are you?”  

“What can you tell me about Joseph and Andrew Hill?” Tim asks, flicking up their pictures. “Do you know them?”  

Bradley sneers at the projection. “Yea, I know those brats. Whole damned family. Who’s askin’?”  

“Freak in a costume.” Tim shrugs. “I’m looking into a theft.”  

“You’re looking into it? Let the police do their damn jobs, kid, ‘fore ya get in the way of the real heroes,” Bradley snorts. “One a’ the brats finally stepped out of line, then, huh? What happened?”  

Tim inclines his head. “They were caught committing theft early yesterday. Two purses out of a parked car out in Queens.”  

“They’ve moved up to breaking into cars, huh?” Bradley sneers. “Too bad Queens ain’t my territory. I’d love to get my hands on those two again. I knew they were bad ones, but I ain’t been able to keep ‘em in a cell before.”  

“What do you mean, you knew?” he asks.  

“Whole family’s like that,” Bradley says. “Their bitch of a mom tried to steal from me. Left my wallet at a coffee shop, an’ when I came back for it, she had it in the back. Tried to tell me she was holdin’ it for me, but she shoulda just left it where the hell it was. Told her boss to fire her, or the shop’d be charged with theft.”  

“Are you aware that none of the family can get a job now?”  

“Not my fault. I jus’ told some people about how they’re thieves.” Bradley shrugs. “An’ I was right. I can’t wait ‘til I get my hands on those kids.”  

Tim stays quiet, regarding him neutrally. People like to fill silence – it was one of the first, simplest interrogation tactics he learned. He uses it often.  

Sure enough, Bradley starts again. “Little thieves. All of ‘em. They deserve to be behind bars. A long time, I could make that happen. I know a judge who agrees that people like that need to stay away longer, so they don’t hurt nobody else.”  

And Tim didn’t even have to prompt him. “Can you confirm your name?”  

“Officer Frank Bradley, why?”  

“Thank you for your time.” Tim clicks the recorder, turns, and drops from the roof, grappling out of sight. Bradley protests him leaving him on the roof, but Tim ignores him. He can figure it out.  

Spider-man joins him in the air. Tim holds up the recorder. “Do you have someone you can trust to give this to?”  

The other nods. “What about what you said about those kids?” he asks. “They could get in trouble.”  

“I lied,” Tim says. “When the cops look for a report of two stolen purses, they won’t find anything. And there won’t be any evidence behind that, because it didn’t happen. They’ll be fine.”  

Spider-man nods, then holds up a finger. “Hey, Karen, call Yuri.” After a moment, he continues, “Hey. Listen, I need you to call officer Frank Bradley back from his patrol. I’ve got evidence he’s misusing his power.” A pause. “Yeah, I know. Thank you. I owe you a coffee.”  

Tim can’t actually hear the other side of the call. Maybe the volume’s been adjusted to account for Spider-man's superhearing so close in his ear.  

Spider-man pulls forward, perching lightly on a streetlight pole. Tim grapples to the outhanging light, pulling himself up to perch next to him. “I can take it to her,” Spider-man says, outstretching his hand. Tim drops the recorder in his palm.  

He meets his eyes – as best as he can through the lenses. “I know that in giving you my identity, I am also asking for yours. And I know that’s a big ask. I’m serious about this, though. I understand if you aren’t now, but if you are too, I’ll meet you at Jodi’s Cafe at noon today.”  

“The one on Albany?” Spider-man asks.  

Tim nods. “I’ll be wearing a yellow braided bracelet.”  

Spider-man's lenses shift like he’s smiling. “I’ll know you when I see you.”  

His shoulders loosen at the implication that he’ll show. “Okay.”  

He drops away without a word, back to his hotel to change.  

----------  

Tim is a little shaky as he approaches the cafe. He knows why, but he doesn’t like that it’s bugging him so much.  

He’s nervous.  

He’s been thrown into a bunch of powers he doesn’t know how to use. Sudden isolation from all of his peers – moved into the ‘meta’ category without warning. He’s about to meet – for real meet – the only one who knows what’s happening with him. And not only is he completely willing, but he’s– he’s excited. He wants to teach Tim. As far back as he can think, he doesn’t remember anyone else like that. The closest one he can think of is Dick, when he was Robin – but he did it out of responsibility to Jason. That can’t count, no matter how much he wants it to.  

He doesn’t want the man to decide that he’s not worth it. That’s why he’s nervous. He’s afraid that he’s going to regret it. That he’s going to develop the same disdain he got from the rest of his mentors. Tim’s afraid that the excitement is going to wash away when he realizes Tim will never be good enough.  

Even if he does, it’ll be fine. Tim will be fine. He’s dealt with it before. It’ll hurt, sure, but it’s not like he hasn’t been hurt before. It’s not like he hasn’t survived it. He takes a breath, shakes out his hands a few times, and pushes the door open.  

The café is surprisingly only moderately busy for noon in New York. He doesn’t see an empty table as he scans over them – but he doesn’t need one. His eyes lock with a brown pair and the air around him purrs.  

We’re the same.  

He’s like me.  

Tim takes another breath with his long strides to meet him. He’s glad he’s here. He was a little worried the other man wouldn’t show.  

The man in front of him is young, but older than him – probably around twenty-four. Fluffy brown hair, honey-stained brown eyes, fair skin. Looks scrawny, but there’s plenty of muscle hidden beneath his jeans, nerdy pun shirt, and flannel. He’s leaned back casually in his chair, one arm draped over the back. The grin he aims at Tim is bright and warm.  

“Nice bracelet,” he says, eyes flicking down.  

Bright yellow, made by Stephanie. He’s not sure why it was in his suitcase, but it was. Something flashes in his chest when he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. “Thanks,” he says automatically, knowing full well the other is being ironic.  

Tim’s formal manners take over and he holds a hand out. “Timothy Drake,” he says when the other takes it to shake. He watches interest spark in the other’s eyes.  

“Peter Parker,” he says, gaze sharpening. “Tim Drake, huh? That’s not something I expected.”  

“You know who I am?” Tim asks, taking the seat across from him.  

“I like to keep an eye on the science world,” Peter says, “and you’re the CEO of one of the biggest industries in the game.”  

Tim nods, accepting this. That’s fair. “Do you... I’m going to get something for lunch.”  

“I will, too, I’m starving. Then we’ll talk?”  

“That was the intention.”  

Two orders later, and they’re sitting again, a ham and cheese croissant sandwich in front of Peter and a couple of pasties in front of himself.  

“Okay, so I know it’s not the most pressing issue, but I gotta ask,” Peter says. “How did a teenage CEO end up a vigilante?”  

“I was a vigilante first,” Tim corrects.  

“Red Robin has only been around for like, a year though, right?”  

“I was Robin first.”  

“The third one?” Peter asks eagerly. Tim nods. “Yes! I knew it. How’d the switch happen?”  

Tim’s eyes drift off as he thinks about it. “A lot of stuff happened,” he says distantly. “Robin was given to the current one. I needed a new name.”  

“Robin’s always been young. You did this as a kid, with no powers?”  

“Whole team.” Tim shrugs.  

“Wow,” Peter says softly. “I was fifteen when I started.” He waves his hand, simultaneously dissipating the thought and gesturing to Tim. “Alright, your turn. What questions do you have?”  

Tim regards him for a minute, considering. He doesn’t really have any– “Do you really want to teach me?” comes out of his mouth, unprompted.  

“Yeah,” Peter says, smiling. “It’ll be fun.”  

“But you just met me,” Tim says quietly.  

Peter’s expression softens. “I did,” he says quietly. “I... When I first started this, it was really hard. You know? It’s not like I could tell anyone, and even if I did, they’d never get it, right?” He leans back, connecting his fingers behind his head and blowing out a breath. “These powers were isolating beyond anything else. I dealt with it by myself for years. It kind of sucked. Even when I met other heroes, other people with powers, other mutants, it didn’t help as much as I thought it would. Now that the people I love know what I do, it’s still- It's- I guess it’s just lonely. I’ve never met some like me before.” He lifts his gaze to meet Tim’s eyes, and his warmth and honesty knocks Tim off-kilter. “I suppose I just want to save you the grief from when I first started. And... me, from right now.” Peter gives him a warm smile. “Besides, from what I’ve seen so far, you’re a cool person.”  

Tim regards him for a moment. “What if it’s all been a mask?”  

There’s a second where Peter pauses before he answers, but it’s short enough to feel genuine. “Then I can’t wait to get to know who the person beneath it is.”  

One sentence, and Tim crumbles. He’s never met anyone who’s wanted to know him. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking.  

Peter’s smile grows a little more. “Hey, give me your phone.”  

“Hm?”  

Peter holds his hand out, curling his fingers in a grabby motion after a second. Tim hands it over – and when he gets it back, there’s a number saved under Peter 🕷️ 🧍 ‍♂️ .  

“Subtle.” Tim raises an eyebrow. Peter laughs, easy and genuine, and Tim’s lips almost twitch up. He shoots a quick text just so Peter has his number, too.  

“I’ve got work again soon, but- If you wanted to start today?”  

Tim nods, relieved. “Please.” He didn’t want to be too much and ask.  

“Great.” Peter grins. “What time? I get off at six.”  

“Whenever.” He shrugs.  

“Seven, then.” The other nods. “This is going to be so much fun.”  

----------  

Tim breathes out, slow and deep. The phone rings – when the other side picks up, he sets his phone on the table in front of him, putting it on speaker.  

“Hey, Tam,” he says quietly.  

“Tim? ...What’s up?”  

“Nothing much. Just... patching up holes in my suit.” He threads a needle, pulling his uniform into his lap. “What about you?”  

“Still at work,” Tam says dryly.  

Tim’s fingers poke out of a hole in the side, caused by a bullet. It’s stiff with dried blood – he'll have to soak it later. “Yeah? Got anything... fun, planned after?”  

“Well... Yeah, actually. It’s my friend’s birthday. A group of us are going out to eat and celebrate.”  

“Oh. Cool. That sounds fun.” The needle needs a bit of working before it goes into the fabric. He’ll have to be careful not to break it. He doesn’t have any extra heavy-duty needles. “How old are they?”  

“He’s turning twenty.”  

“Nice.” The black thread is nearly invisible against the black fabric. It’s designed like that. There’s a second of silence, and Tim gets two stitches through. He hesitates, then asks, “Are you... doing okay without me?”  

“Yeah, we’re doing fine. It’s been one day, Tim, I told you I’d take care of it.”  

Tim sighs. He worries the needle until it goes through – the end with the eye kind of hurts the skin of his thumb. “I know. Thank you.” The needle slides through the other side with resistance, but it’s another stitch. “I appreciate you a lot, did you know that?”  

“You better,” Tam says, but her voice is soft. “Tim... What’s this about?”  

“My... friend,” he says, “told me he had time for me to stay longer. Way longer.” He pulls tight on the last stitch, sealing the hole.  

“Like...?”  

“Like a month. It- It'll be a while. I know that’s not what I asked for, but- I don’t know. If it’ll be too much for you, I can still refuse him. I can come back-”  

“Tim,” Tam interrupts, “it’s fine. I can handle it, okay? Do not come back.”  

He frowns, cutting the thread and putting a knot at the end of it again. “Why?”  

“Just... I think you really need this,” Tam says quietly. “I’ve been- a little worried. I think you need a break.”  

“Worried?” Tim echoes.  

“Yeah. You’ve been so... dull, lately. For a long time. It’s scary, the way you just float by. I’m worried you’re doing too much and not enjoying any of it.”  

Tim opens his mouth to protest.  

“No, hold on,” she says, and maybe she’s the one with spider-sense. “I don’t think you’re very good at knowing it, either. Just- You're taking a break, and I want it to last long enough to do something for you. Because I care about you, okay? It’ll be good for you. I need you to stay as long as it takes for you to get something out of it.”  

Her words scrape something out of him, leaving him empty and aching. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t – He never meant for it to affect her, too.  

“It’s not your fault,” Tam says softly. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve said something sooner. You know what I’m talking about, though, right?”  

His eyes drift a little as he thinks about it. Shutting down during the day, never remembering the things he’s done, the huge gaps in his memory, the way he can’t really care – that night on the roof, where he looked down too long-  

“Yeah. I know.”  

“Yeah. Just- Take a break. I think it’ll help. I’ll take care of everything else; I promise.”  

“I don’t deserve you,” Tim says, lips twitching up into a sad little smile.  

“I think you do,” Tam tells him, serious as she’s ever been.  

That puts something in his chest that he doesn’t want to deal with, so he says, “Can I ask one more favour?”  

“Yeah?”  

“Can you pass my active cases onto someone else? I can send the files to you. I just... want to make sure they get solved.”  

“Yeah, of course. Send them. Who do you want me to give them to?”  

“Barbara can probably divvy them up.” Tim rubs his eyes tiredly at the sudden thought. “Thank you.”  

“No problem,” Tam says softly. “Take care of yourself. And I mean it – Have fun.”  

“I’ll try,” Tim promises, and he thinks he could mean it.  

----------  

Peter 🕷️🧍  

> [address]  

> come in workout clothes >:) (4:25 p.m.)