Chapter Text
For the first few weeks that Tim is allowed out on patrol, it’s a bit like being two people at once.
Commissioner Gordon had noted Robin’s absence and return, but not the switch, as had a few of the minor rogues they’ve encountered so far. One of Carmine Falcone’s body guards even smiled and tipped his hat at him when he’d spotted Tim crouched on a shadowy fire escape (oops), while Penguin’s longtime doorman had called out pleasantly that it was good to see the old man finally give you some pants as they stopped an attempted drive-by hit on the Iceberg Lounge.
There’s a sick part of him that elates in the mistake—that preens each time he’s recognized as Robin, the Boy Wonder—but the rest of him frets and twists over it. It’s like he’s walking around in a dead boy’s skin instead of his own. Like it’s all just a big game of pretend, a joke that gets less and less funny the longer it goes unnoticed.
But Superman? Superman notices.
He’s not supposed to be here. No metas in Gotham unless Batman clears it, and Batman never clears it. And wasn’t that part of the problem? Wasn’t that bit of hubris just one of the dominos that tipped and fell one against the other until things got bad enough that Tim of all people had been the one to intervene?
Maybe it was. Maybe Bruce has finally recognized it, finally changed, just this little bit. Because he doesn’t look surprised to see the man in blue and red floating above them. Because he’d signaled Tim to pause here on their patrol, silently ordering him to sit and drink even as he himself stood on the roof’s edge and surveyed the distant, dim glitter of cargo ships drifting slowly under Brown Bridge, cape billowing in the wind and grim mouth set in the way Tim has come to understand means he’s waiting for someone.
(And how stupid, how self-centered is Tim to have thought for even a moment that Batman was waiting on him, of all people? Robins are meant to leap effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, to flit forward and skirt sideways and loop back around to catch and observe and distract and inspire any strays lingering in Batman’s wake. If he can’t learn to keep up, he’ll be the one caught. And if he’s caught, if he dies like Jason did, then Batman… Then Bruce will…)
There’s no sound to announce Superman’s arrival except for the faintest snap of cloth as the wind shifts around him. Tim’s attention immediately snaps from internal to external—trained by three years of rogue rooftop photography to recognize the sound of a nearby cape—and there in the air above him, suspended impossibly, is the most famous man in the world.
“You’re late,” Bruce growls. It’s the same tone he uses to chide Tim when his form slips during training.
“Train derailment in Kentucky,” says Superman. His tone is light, almost bashful, but there’s a furrow between his brows that speaks of concern, and he’s staring right through him—no, worse, right at him!—as Tim hurriedly stashes his hydration pack back under his own cape.
Tim’s heart pounds in his chest loud enough that the Kryptonian could probably hear it even without enhanced senses.
Superman is even bigger than he looks in the papers—big the way a carnival strongman is big, tall and broad in a way that’s still shocking even after long observation—with muscles that shift under the simple blue fabric of his uniform in a minutely inhuman way.
“Batman,” he says, more worry lines creasing his perfect, tawny skin. “Bruce, what…?”
His alien-blue eyes seem to glow even in the gloom of a foggy Gotham night. Is he scanning Tim for flaws? Examining his brain and body for evidence that he’s some kind of robot disguised as a real boy? Tim’s had x-rays before, he knows they feel like nothing at all, so the tingling heat-fringed-with-cold that washes over his body can’t be that, can it?
“When did this happen? You said you weren’t going to—”
“I did,” Bruce grunts. “And I didn’t.”
There’s a particularly rough rumble of gravel to his voice that feels pointed in his direction. Tim’s basking in it a little smugly when he realizes with a start that he’s meeting Superman while sitting down on a rust-eaten HVAC unit oh fuck and springs to his feet.
“Hi,” his mouth says before he can stop it. “I’m Robin.”
How inane. How fucking obvious. What the fucking fuck is wrong with him?!
Superman smiles at him, soft and blindingly kind.
“Hello, Robin. I’m Superman.” As if the Man of Steel needs introducing. He sinks until he’s more or less eye-level with Tim on his HVAC perch and holds out his right hand like he wants Tim to shake it.
Tim stares at the offered hand, frozen, at a loss for how to fit his slim fingers into its broad grip. Superman’s palm is uncalloused. His head and heart lines are merged into a single transverse crease.
Bruce appears suddenly and silently at his 8 o’clock, close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder if he wanted. He doesn’t, but he could, and the solid, shadowy weight of him at his back finally gives Tim the courage to reach out and shake hands.
Superman’s grip is so much softer than he expected, his skin almost fever-warm.
“How old are you, son?”
The word glows in Tim’s chest like a yellow sun. “Old enough,” he says. Bruce’s mouth twitches. Not a smile, but something close enough to it to count, considering.
Superman’s lips thin as he tilts his head, eyes widening ever so slightly, and oh, now he’s examining Tim’s bones for sure. Scanning him for lingering epiphyses. Looking at the fusion lines of his long bones. Counting his erupted and unerrupted teeth. It’s what Tim would do, if he had x-ray vision and a punk kid with a dead boy’s name being cagey about their age.
The specific flavor of fear that flashes through him is new, relatively speaking, but already oh so horribly familiar.
He yanks his hand away as if burned and tugs the edges of his enforced neoprene cape tightly together until his body and limbs are tucked away in slick darkness. Superman’s gaze softens and he drifts backwards a full two feet, hand lifted briefly in apology before he turns his attention fully to Tim’s mentor.
“You usually aren’t one to arrange for a formal meeting like this.”
“Usually,” Bruce agrees.
“And never without a purpose.”
“Never.”
The two of them stare at each other intently, deep in a silent conversation that Tim can’t quite follow.
“Bruce, you know how much I wish—”
“Do you have what you need?” Batman interrupts.
Superman’s eyes slip closed, as if committing something to memory. “Yes.”
Bruce nods, turns with a jerk, and strides purposefully towards the far edge of the roof. It’s a clear dismissal for Superman and an even clearer order for Robin to follow. Superman watches him go with the same tired, soft ache in his expression that Tim so often sees in Alfred.
Tim fumbles for the grappling hook at his belt, glad that at least some of his awkwardness is shielded by his cape. Assuming he’s not being x-rayed again.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Superman.”
Superman smiles and rises once more into the hazy night air. “The pleasure was all mine, Robin. And if you’re ever in need of my help, just call my name. I’ll come.”
And Tim, because he’s an idiot—because he’s a show-off and a complete dork and a nosy bitch and too smart for your own good sometimes—smiles back and says, “Of course, Mr. Kent.”