Bruce looked up from his textbook, head pivoting back and forth.
He was reading under a tree in his backyard *specifically* for the privacy.
"Over here! Do you want to play with me?"
Bruce sat up straighter and squinted into the bushes. A tiny hand poked through the bushes covering the fence that separated his yard from his neighbors.
Their five or something year old son was pressed against the fence, waving excitedly.
Bruce, closing and setting aside his book on the ins and outs of the justice system, stood and made his way over.
The bright smile that had lit up the boy's face a second ago when he'd seen Bruce coming closer died immediately.
"Sorry. Why don't you go play with your parents?"
Timmy looked away, and then down at the ground. "They don't… they don't play. They just work."
"Do you have a nanny, then?"
The kid seemed to catch on that Bruce wasn't interested in playing with him and just stared sadly at his shoes. "I don't know where she is. She says I can play on my own. But I'm always on my own."
Bruce felt bad for the kid. He really did. But he also needed to get back to studying.
And so he reached through the fence and patted him on the head.
"Maybe we'll play some other time. But I'm busy right now."
Timmy just nodded quietly and trudged away.
Several years later, Dick Greyson lay awake in bed.
Not after the week he'd had.
Not after seeing his parents die.
Not after being stuck with that social worker who wouldn't let him stay with the circus.
And especially not after being adopted by Bruce Wayne, brought to his huge, empty manor, and basically left to his own devices.
He was used to always having people around.
Even his room was way too big.
Dick sat up straight, ripping his covers off and grabbing his backpack in case he needed a weapon.
A boy a little younger than him stood on the other side of the room, nearly invisible in the dim light. He looked just as shocked to see Dick as Dick was to see him.
"I'm Timmy. What's your name?" The boy asked.
Dick lowered his backpack, but didn't set it aside.
"I'm Dick. I thought Bruce didn't have any kids."
The boy suddenly looked uncomfortable. "W-well, um. He doesn't. I'm not supposed to be here."
That put Dick on edge again. "If you're not supposed to be here, then what are you doing here?"
Timmy backed up a step. "I'm sorry. I promise I'm not here to steal or anything."
"What are you doing here?" Dick repeated slowly, annoyance rising.
"I'm… I'm just playing. Mr. Bruce doesn't know I come here sometimes. And I promise I don't break anything. I just… I don't like being home. I'm always alone. It's more fun pretending I live here."
Dick sat the backpack on the ground beside the bed.
"Well, I hate it here. I hate this stupid city, and my stupid social worker, and this stupid room, and…" Dick fell silent and rubbed his eye.
He didn't want to cry again.
He'd done enough crying lately.
"Oh!" He blinked in surprise as a tissue flew through the air from the box on his dresser and hovered infront of his face. "Um. What? Are you doing that?"
Timmy looked just as confused, eyes somewhat glassy.
Dick took the tissue, but before he could say anything else, Timmy swayed, closed his eyes and brought a hand to his head.
Two years later, Dick grinned and moved his hands as he talked, animatedly recounting the events of that night.
"Penguin was so mad! But I swiped his umbrella right from his hands!" He cupped his hands around his mouth to whisper. "Don't tell Bruce, but I learned SO MANY new words."
Timmy laughed, and Dick grinned.
Becoming Robin had been rough, especially since he knew all too well just how fragile life could be. But his friendship with Timmy had, surprisingly, made it all somewhat easier.
He didn't want Dick telling Bruce or Alfred about his existence, and he didn't like talking about himself, but he LOVED hearing Dick tell him all about being a superhero.
And Dick loved having someone he could talk to about being one.
"Hey, Timmy? Can I ask you something?"
Dick had been trained in observational skills by Batman for the past two years. He noticed things now that he wouldn't have before.
Things like the fact that Timmy had grown.
His hair had gotten longer.
His freckles had started fading.
Timmy frowned, happiness wiped away like it hadn't been there just a second ago.
"So, if you're a ghost, why do you look like you're getting older?"
He opened his hands and looked down at them, eyes glazing over so he looked dazed.
"You're aging. How are you doing… that…"
Dick trailed off in surprise as Timmy looked back up at him.
His eyes were wide with fear.
His hair was wet and plastered haphazardly to his face.
"Timmy, what's going on?"
His hands started to shake, and Dick noticed that it wasn't just his hair that was wet anymore.
The tremors spread from his hands until he was shivering, bent over like he was freezing.
"I- I don't want to be alone."
"Timmy, you're scaring me." Dick scooted closer. Slowly. Hoping he wouldn't scare the other boy.
"I don't want to be alone."
"I don't want to be alone."
Dick reached out a hand to touch Timmy's shoulder.
As soon as his hand made contact, Timmy screamed.
Dick felt some invisible force throw him back and quickly braced his arms in front of his face.
Timmy was now hovering several feet off the floor in the center of the room, still screaming.
And then the windows started to shatter.
And the lightbulbs burst.
Picture frames snapped and cracked.
Even the water glass on Dick's nightstand broke, sending glass and water all over the small table.
And then it was completely silent.
Dick's ears rang and his heart raced, but that and the shattered glass were the only signs Timmy had ever been there.
"T-Timmy?" He whispered, peeking through his arms.
Running footsteps could be heard coming up the hall to his room, and then Bruce was there.
From there, it was a whirlwind of questions.
"Did it try to hurt you?"
The manors sensors had picked up the presence of a poltergeist, because of course Bruce had installed sensors to protect against deceased foes.
It was several months before Dick saw Timmy again.
Jason wandered the halls of the manor, taking in his new 'home'.
It was bigger than the elementary school he'd been enrolled in back when his parents still had it together enough to send him.
He walked past an open door and stopped, staring in awe.
This was certainly something his old school had never had.
Rows upon rows of freestanding bookshelves, complete with even more of them lining all four walls. There were comfy-looking chairs, window seats overlooking the quiet backyard, and, at the back of the room, a little cozy living room area with two couches, a coffee table, and a thick, fluffy rug. There were throw blankets draped over the back of the couches, just begging him to bundle up in them with whatever book looked the most exciting.
Hesitating, but ultimately unable to stop himself, Jason walked into the room.
"Wow." He whispered to himself, tilting his head back to look at the tallest shelves.
And then he heard someone gasp.
Jason turned, trying to find who had spoken.
In one of the window seats, curled up without a book, was a boy.
He looked to be about twelve years old, but that wasn't the shocking thing about him.
"Why can I see through you?"
"... Who are you?" The boy asked, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, as if that would make him more solid.
"Jason. And let me guess who you are. One of Bruce's kids? You had the role of Robin before me, he got you killed and moved on to try again with me? Yeah. Figured as much. Guy gives off all kinds of freakshow vibes."
The boy scowled deeply and hunched his shoulders.
"Mr. Bruce didn't adopt me. He didn't want me." The boy rested his chin on his knees, scowling at the other half of the window seat. "No one did. I just… pretend."
Jason tilted his head and stepped closer.
"You… pretend? Pretend what? That you live here?"
The boy nodded. "Mr. Bruce doesn't know I'm here. Please don't tell on me? I- I don't want to be alone again."
Jason was silent for a while.
He watched the boy's expressions.
The way he was also watching Jason, just as intently.
"Well, I've always wanted a brother. And one that I get to keep secret from Bruce? I'll just choose to see that as a bonus."
The boy's face brightened with a smile.
"Jason. Now why don't you point me towards the fantasy section. I'm in the mood for a good book."
Bruce walked slowly through the manor.
The lights were off, but that didn't matter. Enough light from the low sun made it inside, allowing him to see where he was going.
An entire twenty four hours.
And yet, he still imagined that he could feel the tackiness of drying blood on his hands.
The weight of his son's limp body, hanging from his arms.
The heat from the embers and the complete and utter helplessness as he searched for enough medical supplies to save him.
But it was too little, too late.
He hadn't been fast enough.
To figure out what the Joker had planned.
He was pretty sure his heart had also followed suit.
It had just been an instant, but he'd seen…
No, it couldn't have been.
But he was so sure he'd seen a teenager.
Right in front of him in the hall.
Walking into Jason's bedroom.
"Jay..?" He stepped forward.
He got to Jason's door and threw it open.
He heard a gasp and saw a small figure of a teen for barely even an instant before they blinked out of existence.
"Jay? Was… was that you? Please."
He walked further into the room, looking all around.
A tasseled bookmark stuck out from between the pages of Reckless, one of his favorite books.
"I have to see you. I need to see you."
The curtains to his window were tied back, showing off the yard.
Dozens of them, made with what appeared to be a knife, right where the curtain covered the wall.
Jason had mentioned it in passing a few years back, that he'd seen some of the other foster kids leave tally marks for each day their foster parent kept them, just so there would be some trace of them left behind.
He'd stopped counting a while ago, it looked like.
As if he'd finally felt that he really was home to stay.
Bruce reached out a finger and ran it over the small gouges in his wall.
"I'm so sorry. Jason, I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."
His legs buckled and he ended up in the window seat.
He looked around the room, desperately wishing that Jason would walk in at any moment, and starting to wonder if he'd really been seeing things.
Because he sat alone for hours.
Damian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and effortlessly flicked the knife out of his belt and whipped it around to point at the boy who had snuck up on him.
The boy's eyes were wide and stuck on the blade, and his hands were raised in defense.
He was also, surprisingly, a ghost.
"I don't care. Why are you here?"
"Does father know you're here?"
The ghost shook his head nervously.
Damian narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward. "Father doesn't know you're in the house. You're not one of the family. Therefore, you have no reason to be here. Get. Out."
"What? Wait, no. Please."
"No, no, no. Please. I don't want to be alone."
"That's not my problem, and this isn't your house."
"Please. Don't do this. Don't do this!"
"Get ou-," Damian was cut off as the ghost started panicking and hovering.
"I don't want to be alone." He cried, voice sounding like it had an echo to it.
"I don't want to be alone."
As Damian watched with wide eyes and bared teeth, not sure if this was about to turn into a fight, the ghost curled up into a ball in midair, clutching his hands over his ears.
"I don't want to be alone!"
The knife flew out of Damian's hand and embedded itself halfway to the hilt in the wall, while gale-force winds suddenly whipped around and around the room, shattering the windows, throwing pictures, books, furniture, and anything that wasn't fastened down around the room.
And then, to Damian's surprise, glowing symbols appeared on all the walls, causing the ghost to shriek in pain and fight to get away.
The ghostly wailing didn't.
And then, suddenly, Dick was there, scaling a bookshelf to reach and destroy one of the symbols.
The spell broke and the ghost vanished without a trace.
Bruce was in the room before Dick had even jumped down.
"What was that?!" Dick shouted, looking furious.
"Security defense against poltergeist attacks. One already got in-,"
"He's been here! He's been here since before I moved in! What did you do?!"
"He's been here? What do you mean?"
"He's…" Dick forced himself to take a deep breath. "He's a kid. I don't know when or how he died, but he's… he's harmless. He helped me not feel so alone when I first moved in. The only time he ever freaked out like this was when he got really stressed and confused."
"Why didn't you ever tell me this?"
Dick shook his head. "He said he just wanted to pretend he wasn't alone. And… if you knew about him… you'd make him go away again."
"Again?" Bruce looked confused. "What do you mean again?"
"I don't know. He didn't like talking about when he was alive. He just said no one ever wanted him around. Not even you. He just wanted to pretend he had a family."
"I never… who is he? What's his name?"
"Timmy? No. No, Tim's a grown man now. He's your age."
"Maybe he would have been."
"No, I- I remember him. He lived next door until his parents sent him to a private school."
Bruce would have noticed, right?
"I don't know what happened, but he didn't grow up. He never got the chance to."
It had been nearly half a year.
And Bruce couldn't get the ghost out of his head.
He had looked his neighbors up, just to be sure.
And sure enough, unfortunately, all the information he found just told him that Dick had been right.
Ghosts couldn't travel far from where they'd died, and… Timmy had died at home.
More accurately, he had died in his backyard.
His parents had hired a nanny to watch him anytime they were out of the house.
Because Timmy was only six.
He had only ever gotten to be six.
One day, their nanny had been running late, but Janet and Jack, not wanting to miss their flight, decided to leave while Timmy was occupied playing in the backyard in hopes that the nanny would arrive before he even realized he'd been home alone.
What they hadn't known, however, was the nanny had been running late because she'd been badly injured in a car accident.
Timmy had ended up locked outside during one of the stormiest weeks of fall, and, by the time his parents returned home and found him, he'd already died of exposure to the elements.
All Bruce could think of was that day years ago.
But… had he really been too busy to spare any attention for the kid next door?
Even just a few minutes of throwing a ball back and forth?
Maybe he would have seen that Timmy needed help?
Maybe Timmy wouldn't have died.
Bruce looked up from his laptop, shocked to see the ghost peeking around the corner of his office.
He was almost entirely hidden behind the wall, cautious.
Bruce rose slowly, not wanting to scare him off, and stepped out from behind his desk.
He looked nearly grown, standing as tall as Bruce's shoulder. His long, dark hair flopped almost over his eyes.
"Dick says I should talk to you." His eyes flickered to his feet as he spoke, like a little kid about to be scolded.
"He did?" Bruce asked gently, more to remind himself that he was speaking to a young child than anything.
"Then do you think I can talk to the real you?"
Timmy clenched his jaw, eyes widening in fear slightly.
And then he closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Timmy, I know this isn't you."
Timmy took a step back, seeming smaller than before.
His hair was even darker now, wet and sticking to his forehead at all angles.
"I just want to talk to the real you-,"
"No." Timmy whimpered and shook his head, nearly crying. "No. You don't. No one does."
"I do, buddy. This isn't you. Please. I'd like to talk to the real you."
Tim backed up, shrinking and changing with every step, until he backed into the wall across from Bruce's home office.
He then sank down, face buried in his arms.
He wore a puffy, gray jacket and bright red shoes, all of which was completely soaked.
Where Timmy sat, curled up against the wall, a puddle was starting to form.
Bruce slowly stepped closer and knelt down to his level.
"Why do you do that?" He asked softly. "Why do you change how old you look?"
Timmy sniffled and raised his head enough that Bruce was able to see the hollow look in his eyes, like he wasn't entirely there.
He'd have to be careful to not trigger the poltergeist in him again.
"Cause I can." He whispered. "I can. An- and I can be… whatever people want now." He shivered and wrapped his arms around his tiny frame, but it didn't seem to do any good. "I don't… I don't have to be me. Because… because nobody ever liked me. I think I was a bad kid."
Bruce's heart broke at the sight of the little ghost trying to justify the neglect that had taken his life.
"What did I do?" Timmy asked. "Why… why didn't anyone want me around?"
Bruce closed his eyes. "Absolutely nothing. I'm so sorry."
