Betaed by WhatAreAllTheseTears

The first time Tim saw ghosts was also his first time seeing two. He had been trying to go to sleep and he opened his eyes, staring at the wall. There they were. He liked their sparkly outfits, the bright colors in the moonlit room. Tim stared them, watching them look around puzzledly. Strangers weren't supposed to be in Tim's house, much less Tim's room. The woman looked at the man, and then at Tim.

"You're not supposed to be in my room." Tim told her. Should he call his nanny? No… this new one liked watching television more than putting Tim to bed, she wouldn't care.

The two people said nothing, neither looked at him. "Why are you in my room?" Tim asked.

The woman tried to say something but as she opened her mouth, she just disappeared, and so did her friend.

Tim told his mother about this when they were walking down the street about the people in his room but his mother didn't seem to care much. She just nodded and said "That's nice, dear."

They were walking to visit his father at the Drake Industries headquarters. As they walked down the street Tim stopped telling his mother about the weird disappearing people in his room, she wasn't taking him seriously as it was, and then his mother received a call from his father.

She held the phone to her ear, her hand laxing on Tim's until she no longer held his. He watched her hand swing by her side. He stuck his in his pockets. He looked up at downtown Gotham, a bunch of signs and banners hung from the large buildings around him. He was watching them intently trying to decipher the swiggles on the posters (he'd been trying to teach himself to read, but he was still having trouble with small words) when he saw them. There they were, in their sparkly clothes and with gorgeous smiles on their faces. The man hung upside-down from a rope, his knees wrapped around it, he held the woman by her arms as she swung over an adoring crowd.

Tim grabbed his mother's free hand again (ignoring the way she tried to shake him off) and pointed enthusiastically to the people. "It's them!" He cried, "it's them!"

"Jack hold on, Tim's-Tim's trying to tell me something. What is it, honey?" His mother asked, moving her mouth away from the microphone on her phone. Tim pointed again to the poster.

"It's them, Mom! Them!" Because just saying 'them' should have been enough, she should have known what he was talking about, but she didn't understand.

"Okay, honey. Jack," she turned back to the phone call, "Tim wants us to take him to the circus."

Tim heard his father's gruff agreement over the phone and Tim closed his mouth again. That wasn't what he meant, but Tim supposed that it was okay. He wondered what a 'circus' was, he'd never heard the word before.

After a night of trauma and rain and police sirens, Tim was finally in bed. His father tucked him in that night, Tim wondered why he would today of all days. His father kissed his hairline before closing the door. Tim closed his eyes, ready to sleep when he heard someone gasp.

Tim sat up in his bed and squinted around the room, but he couldn't see anything. The moonlight which usually lit his room was obscured by the rain which pounded rhythmically against his window. He flicked on his light to see the two people.

But that was wrong… because they were dead.

"You..." The woman whispered. Her name was Mrs. Grayson, he remembered. "You're the child from earlier today, the one who was scared..." She gasped, a dainty hand going to her mouth. "Oh, you poor child. John, John, look." She said, tapping the man next to her. That's right. Mr. Grayson, the acrobat from earlier in the night, who's trapeze snapped. "You must be so scared."

Tim found himself nodding, clutching his blankets. Mrs. Grayson bent down, her hands out in a way that Tim had seen one of his nanny's had done when confronting a stray dog in his backyard.

The dog had been scraggly, his fur gone in some places. Tim had screamed when the dog had growled at him. He'd run back to the nanny's side (Tim had liked this nanny, she had snuck him candies when she shouldn't and she made funny faces to the backs of Father's stuffy friends' backs when they weren't looking at galas, just to make Tim laugh). "It's alright, Tim." She'd promised. "He's just as scared of you as you are of him." She'd bent down, and held out a hand towards him, walking slowly. "It's alright." She whispered to him, a sweet smile on her young face. "It's alright, we won't hurt you."

The dog had inched closer to her and sniffed her hand. He'd shrank back when Tim had lurched forward to pet him. The nanny grabbed Tim around the waist, shaking her head at him. "Like this." She explained, repeating the motion she'd done before. "This way he can smell you. Dogs can smell a lot from a person, including if they're a good or bad person. Always walk like this to a dog." Tim had followed her instructions and the stray sniffed Tim curiously. Finally he let Tim pet him, and the nanny had nudged Tim away. "Let's go get him some leftover meat from the fridge, okay? He's probably hungry. And don't forget to wash your hands, wild dogs can have fleas."

Tim inched forward like that dog had. Mrs. Grayson had seemed nice enough when she was alive, so Tim let her come closer without growling like the dog had done. "I won't hurt you. I promise." She told him kindly. Tim stopped himself from saying that she'd promised that she'd be okay before the performance, but then again, Father had told Tim that she was never coming back and yet here she was. Did that mean that she wasn't dead?

Mrs. Grayson sat next to Tim, putting a kind hand on his shoulder. Her hand passed right through him. She jumped surprised.

"Are you dead?" Tim asked her.

Mrs. Grayson looked helplessly at her husband, who started walking towards Tim.

"No, I'm pretty sure we're dead, honey." Mr. Grayson answered. He knelt in front of Tim. Mr. Grayson looked back at his wife, as if the two of them were having a conversation that Tim couldn't hear.

"Then why can I can see you? Father said once someone dies you can't ever see them or talk to them again." Tim said.

"I don't know, sweetheart. You're the first person who has talked to us." Mrs. Grayson said.

"But you can't touch me." Tim said.

"Mrs. Grayson shook her head. "I guess not."

"Does that mean that Father was wrong?" Tim asked.

"I don't know, dear." Mr. Grayson said.

"Tim? Tim, who are you talking to?" Mother asked as she poked her head into his room.

The acrobat lady and her husband." Tim said. He turned to look at them but they were gone.

Tim's Mother sighed. She walked into the room and smoothed down Tim's hair. "Honey, you can't talk to them. They're dead. Do you remember what that means?"

"Yes, but they were right here! They're just gone now."

Mother frowned. She pressed a kiss to Tim's hair. "Just go to bed, honey. You need your sleep."

"Okay, Mother."

She flicked off Tim's nightstand light and walked back out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Tim waited and whispered. "You can come out now." But they didn't come back out. Tim fell asleep waiting for them.

The next morning Janet Drake took her son to a child trauma psychologist. Tim fiddled with the buttons on his shirt as she explained to the psychologist what Tim had been through, and that he claimed he'd seen those he'd seen killed last night. The child psychologist asked Tim a few questions, most of which he answered in his shy, mumbly way and she told Janet that Tim was fine. It was apparently normal for young children to say that they had had complete conversations with dead figures or imaginary figures, it was part of them learning about imaginary play. That they might become figures in his dreams or imaginary play time as they had impacted him but that it was nothing to worry about.

Janet told Tim as they walked back to their car from the doctor that the people he had talked to last night were imaginary, and that she did not want to hear about them again. Janet did not understand the point of imaginary play, and she believed any that her son did was not to be spoken of outside of the play itself. Janet was a busy woman, she did not have time to deal with her son's imaginary issues with his non-existent friends. That was what she hired a nanny for.

So Tim never did tell her about Mr. and Mrs. Grayson whenever they appeared again, and they did appear again.

The next time Tim was reading a newspaper, sitting on the floor of his room. He slowly read out each of the words in the headline, when they appeared, one on either side of him. "Hello!" Tim said.

"Hello, I'm sorry honey, what was your name again?"

"I'm Tim."

"Hello Tim, you can call me Mary." Mrs. Grayson-Mary said. She pointed to Mr. Grayson. "You can call him: John."

"Hello Mary, hello John."

"Hello Tim." John said smiling. "Whatcha reading, chum?"

"Just the newspaper."

"Oh yeah? How old are you?"

"Four." Tim said triumphantly.

"And reading already? Why, you're a real prodigy alright!" John said with a smile.

Tim smiled, a warm fuzzy feeling in his heart. No one had ever called Tim a prodigy before.

Mary's eyes widened as she read the headline. Tim thought it was because she couldn't believe he could read it because it was such a hard sentence. So he read it aloud, just to prove it to her. "Victim of Circus Massacre Becomes Ward of Billionaire Philanthropist Womanizer: Bruce Wayne." Tim didn't quite know what most of those words meant, except for 'Bruce Wayne' and 'Circus' and 'Becomes'. Tim frowned when he saw the expressions on Mary and John's faces. Did he read it wrong? "I'm sorry if I read it wrong, I'll try it again."

"No-! No, Tim, darling, you did just fine." Mary said softly. "You did just fine."

"Then why are you sad?"

"Oh Tim…" Mary said softly. "I'm just sad because… well, because my son is gone. And I'll never be able to see him again, or tell him I love him."

"Oh." Tim said softly. "That is sad."

John placed a hand hovering over Tim's shoulder (since they couldn't touch), comfortingly. "You don't have to be sad, Tim. He seems happy." John said. John pointed to the picture that took up about a third of the front page. A little boy that Tim recognized from his sparkly suit on top of the trapeze with the terrified expression on his face. The boy didn't have that suit on anymore, now he had a real suit, like the ones that Father and Mother forced Tim into when he went to galas. Tim knew Mr. Wayne, he seemed like a really nice man but he talked really loud and Tim didn't always like that. Mr. Wayne's butler was very nice though, he always gave Tim cookies and apple juice and let him nap in the study which was quiet. Mr. Wayne had a hand on the boy's back. He and the boy were looking into the camera, but neither were smiling.

"What's his name?" Tim asked.

"Richard," Mary said wistfully, "but he has this odd obsession with the nickname Dick…" She sighed. "Oh, my little Robin..." She said softly. She reached out, as if to touch the newspaper. She dropped her hand, and turned to Tim with a watery smile on his face. "Why don't you read some more to us, Tim?"

"Really?" Tim asked, eyes wide. "You'd want me to?"

"Of course!" John encouraged. Tim nodded enthusiastically, giddy with the encouragement. He grinned at Tim and Tim began practicing his reading. John and Mary occasionally corrected him or helped him with hard words. Tim had never had someone help him read before, he really liked it.

Tim didn't leave his room all day, not that his nanny noticed.

John and Mary began to visit him more and more until they were visiting him everyday. Nobody ever believed Tim when he told them that he spoke to dead people so eventually he just stopped telling them. Tim liked John and Mary, they were nice and they scolded him like good parents should. Making him do his homework, telling him to pack a healthy lunch, playing with him, and helping with assignments. They were everything Janet and Jack weren't. And Tim began to love them, they were his own personal fairy tale.

So when he walked into his room one day to see Mary curled up in John's arms crying, Tim demanded (in the way seven year olds did) to know why.

Mary tried to brush it off, wiping her eyes and plastering a smile onto her face, but Tim had grown to realize when people were hiding what they felt and he wouldn't stop demanding they tell him why Mary and John were upset. So, after some Grown-Up Discussion, they did. "It's just that… we never see Dick anymore, Tim. We love you, we really do but… we just want to know if he's okay."

Tim frowned. "Okay… how would you know if he's okay?" Tim asked.

"A picture… something. Not something in a newspaper, I know how much those are taken out of context." Mary said. "Look, don't worry yourself with it, Tim. It's not that big a deal."

But it was a big deal, and Tim had grown to learn when grown-ups were lying. That night Tim asked his Mother and Father over the phone if he could use their credit card to buy a camera. They saw no reason why not, so they said yes.

The next day Tim bought the camera and that night he bundled up against the cold chill and began searching for Dick Grayson.

Tim knew that Dick would be out that night, the newspapers said that he and Bruce Wayne would be attending a gala at the Wayne Foundation Hall in Central Downtown Gotham. Tim had seen his father get into galas before, Tim knew all he needed to do was walk up and say in a pompous voice "Drake, one." (the number referred to how many Drakes would be attending).

Once Tim had left the house he realized that he had no idea how to get to the Wayne Foundation Hall. He decided to take a taxi and he walked down to the main road, camera around his neck, to hail one. But none came. Tim wondered if maybe he was too close to the residential area where his Manor was, so he walked a little more, and a little more. Tim walked and walked until he reached the beginning of the neighborhood adjacent to his.

Tim sat down on the curb, exhausted from walking so far. He'd never walked so far in his life (that he could remember). He wondered if he would have to walk all the way to Central Downtown where the Hall was located. That was a long way, a good twenty minute drive with no traffic. Tim wondered if he even could walk that far, or if his little legs would give out on him, just like they had at the moment.

No, he steeled himself. He wanted to make Mary and John happy, no one had ever cared for him as much as Mary and John did, so he would find their son and take a picture of him being happy so that they would know and be happy too.

With his resolve reaffirmed, Tim stood and resume walking, always keeping an eye out for cabs.

He was waiting for the light to change so that he could cross the street when he saw something flicker out of the corner of his eye. Tim turned to see something yellow flash over the roof of the building nearest to him. Intrigued, Tim decided that a little detour wouldn't hurt. His eyes searched the sky until… there! He saw the flash of yellow again! Only this time, accompanied with a black cape.

He followed the flickers, they moved down the street Tim was on, from rooftop to rooftop. Tim thought he saw more than just a flicker of black and yellow and Tim raised his camera to try to take a picture of it, but by the time Tim had snapped the photo, the flickers were gone.

Tim followed the flickers around the neighborhood and down into an alleyway.

He hid behind a Dumpster as he watched a black figure dash across the alleyway, from one building to another. A large flapping cape followed him. Tim brought up his camera to his face, and took a picture coincidentally as something yellow flashed across the sky. Tim hid as he saw the cloaked figure move. He shook the Polaroid to see what he'd shot. Only when it developed did he realize what he'd captured.

Against the dim Gotham sky (as the sky of Gotham could never completely dark, the pollution from the city beneath it had bleached it into a starless, foggy, murky night) the rest of the picture seemed darker, like it had been made of shadow. Tim stared at the picture, running his fingers over the white edge. The black figure stood in that shadow color, long and staring down in this fluid curve. The buildings and fire-escapes that framed the alleyway just as dark and black as him. Then the curl of yellow and red and green and skin, a flip captured in the middle, legs tucked up to his chin, mostly covered by a slash of yellow cape. The yellow figure hovered between the two buildings, mid-flip.

Tim stared at it, unable to look away.

A scuttle across his feet startled him from his admiration of the Polaroid. Tim squealed as he saw the rat which had scurried and decided to go home. He'd continue Dick Grayson searching tomorrow. But now, he was tired, and he was cold, and he had rats near him. He would apologize for failing John and Mary, and he would try again tomorrow. He would.

Tim walked back home (despite being distracted and following the figures he could still find his way home), he had a good sense of direction. Mother always said that that was a useful quality of his.

Once he returned he climbed back into bed (his nanny hadn't noticed, of course). After apologizing to John and Mary—who kept forgiving him, telling him they were the ones to blame for pushing him to go out into dangerous Gotham at night—he pulled out his picture and turned on his bedside light. Just to look at it one last time.

Mary looked over his shoulder. She gasped, hand at her mouth. John came to look too, and he too gasped in turn.

Mary looked at John and John looked at Mary and they were gone.

Tim didn't realize until two years later why they had disappeared that day, why they had never come back.

Because that figure was Dick Grayson, their son, and he was happy, so they were at peace.

The second time Tim saw a ghost it was out of the corner of his eye. At first.

He skulked at the edges of Tim's vision. He wore a dirty red hoodie, hands stuffed into scrappy jeans. He wore sneakers with the soles falling off, long since dirtied. Tim was eleven, and this boy was maybe a few years older. Couldn't have been more than fifteen.

Finally Tim found a time to see him straight on. He had been seeing the boy for about three months at this point.

That's when Tim recognized him. "You're him. You're Jason Todd."

The boy looked surprised. "How-how did you know?"

They said you died but… I didn't think..."

"Why can you see me?" Jason asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I didn't. I don't control… this." Tim waved a vague hand at the air between them, at the ghost.

Jason crossed his arms. "Say I believe you,"

"Okay,"

"Then, how do you know who I am? Or is this part of this… thing, you can do. Because, I am dead, right?"

"Yes. You are. And no, I know your name because… well..." Tim flushed. "I'm sorta your biggest fan."

Jason snorted. "What?"

"Here, come with me." Tim said. He walked through his empty house (he was between caretakers at the moment) and Jason followed silently. He walked into his room, and walked into one of his walk in closets. He turned on the light and watched Jason's eyes go wide.

"What-what is this place?" Jason breathed. He stared at Tim's entire knowledge and process of detective work to figuring out who Batman and Robin were.

"It's my Batcave. My Belfry. Heh, gettit?"

Jason stared at him like he was from another planet. (Not Krypton though, because Krypton was cool.) "How did you-?"

"Oh, yeah. I know he calls it that too. Which… was the point." Tim said awkwardly. Jason walked around the room, eyes wide. "Oh, you think it's creepy now? Just wait!" Tim said, feeling dread curling in his stomach. Why was he doing this…?

Tim pulled out his most recent box out and opened it up. He thumbed through the files, showing Jason. Jason's eyes widened. "Are these…?"

"Complete copies of Bruce's files?" Jason's eyes widened again. "Oh yeah, I know Bruce is Batman and you are-well, were-Robin. And that Dick used to be Robin and that he's now Nightwing."

"Can-can I… look at them?" Jason asked softly.

Tim nodded. He began pulling out the files that Jason asked him to, elaborating and explaining the pictures he'd taken and the stories behind them. Jason's eyes flicked back and forth, he pointed and talked. It had been a while since Tim had spoken to ghosts, and Jason… Jason was nothing like John and Mary. John and Mary were like the parents Tim wanted and Jason was like the friend he'd never had.

"Do you have one on the Joker? Or no, because he's dead?" Jason asked, a malicious glint in his eyes.

Tim frowned. "No-he's not dead. He's in Arkham. Bruce almost destroyed Gotham until he finally took him down." Tim explained.

Jason just stared at him.

"Are-are you okay, Jason?"

"He-he didn't- The Joker is still alive?" Tim could see the steam coming out of Jason's ears.

"I mean, he can't… It's not like Bruce isn't hurt by you dying but he… you of all people must know, Bruce can't kill. He just.. can't."

"That fucking bastard."

"Jason-wait!" Tim reached out a hand to grab Jason when he turned away, but his hand went right through Jason.

Jason snarled at him, flinching away. "Don't!"

"Jason-"

"It's clear, he doesn't care about me enough to kill the Joker."

"You act like you've never met him! Bruce can't. If he does-well, if this is what he's like when he doesn't then what would he be like if he does?"

"He'd have a hell of a lot less to do when he goes out at night, that's for fucking sure."

"I'm sorry, Jason."

"What're you sorry for?"

"That you're so bitter."

"Just wait a little, kid. You'll get there over time." Tim sighed. Jason glared at Tim. "Don't look at me like that. Don't be… sympathetic."

"Oh… okay." Tim said softly. He flushed and Jason's glare softened a little.

"Hey, can I like… leave you? Like go to another place in Gotham?"

"I um, I assume so. I mean.. you've been following me around for like three months, have you never gone anywhere I wasn't yet?"

"Jason shook his head, he shoved his hands back into his pockets. "No… is that… not normal?"

"I mean..." Tim shrugged. "I've only ever had one other visitation so… they weren't with me all the time, so I assume you can."

Jason closed his eyes and made a face that looked a little constipated. He peeked open his eyes and noticed that Tim was still there. Jason screwed up his face and tried again, still to no avail.

"Sorry, man." Tim said.

Jason frowned. "Well this fucking sucks."

Tim shrugged. He looked at the clock. It wasn't too late but he should still sleep…

"Jason, I'm, um, I'm gonna go to bed. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"See you around… I guess."

"Jason sat on Tim's floor and Tim walked into his bathroom. When Tim walked out Jason was gone. So Tim guessed he figured out how to disappear, so Tim crawled into bed and fell asleep.

"Tim woke up to the world shaking. Tim woke up, clutching his blanket to his chest. Was there an earthquake? No! That couldn't be. Gotham wasn't on a fault line. Well, they'd had earthquakes before but they were all caused by supernatural or meta forces-

Were Kryptonians attacking? Or maybe Atlanteans?

Tim steeled himself and heard a crash as his lamp fell off of his bedside table.

What did one do in an earthquake? Closets! Tim remembered something about closets! He had to find a small space in a-

A large tremor shook through Tim's room and Tim fell off of his bed. Tim curled up to protect himself, tears leaking from his eyes.

Then Tim heard a scream. Something so… human and terrified and angry.

Tim's eyes flew open.

Jason.

"Jason! Jason, stop! Please!"

"No!" Jason screamed, the lights in Tim's room flickered on and off. Tim could just barely see Jason, his body was wrecked, as if someone had tried to tear him about piece by piece, if someone had beaten him irredeemably.

"Jason, please! Stop!" Tim cried, tears leaking from his eyes.

Jason curled up in on himself. He wore his Robin suit, but it was shredded.

That must have been what he looked like, when he died.

Tim rolled away as a bookshelf fell from the tremors. He stared at it, it had been so close. He had felt the wind as it fell past him.

He was brought back to the moment by another large tremor and a scream from Jason.

Tim dove, hands going straight through Jason. "Please, please, Jason. It's going to be okay. You don't have to keep doing this. It's going to be alright." Tim promised. He wanted to crush Jason in a hug, but his hands just went through him.

Jason looked up at him. Jason's domino mask had a lens missing. It was torn and muddied and bloodied…

"No." Jason said softly, tears pouring from his eyes. "It'll never be okay again. I'm sorry, Tim."

And then, just like that, just like Mary and John had been, Jason was gone. Only, unlike Mary and John, Jason didn't seem happy about it.

Janet only appeared for a short time when she died. Tim had been curled up in Alfred's embrace, crying, when he saw her. He'd screamed for her, for his mother. Alfred held him back in his arms, confused and concerned. Janet just looked at Tim and then without a word, without a goodbye, she disappeared.

"Tim, why don't you go to sleep?" Alfred asked as Tim drank his fifth cup of coffee in the last two hours.

Tim wanted to tell him the truth, he wanted to tell him about the little girls that sat on the floor. These girls had been killed by a serial child rapist. He'd kidnapped them and smothered them in their sleep, at least, that was what they told Tim. Tim wanted to tell Alfred that he couldn't go to sleep because he had to catch him. Tim wanted to tell Alfred that the last time he'd closed his eyes for a quick nap another little girl had been added to the group at his feet.

"I will in a little while, I just have to finish up this case." Tim told Alfred instead.

Alfred nodded, but said nothing.

Tim looked at the clock, two AM. Not that bad. With the caffeine pumping through his system he could do it, he could find this man's lair.

"Tim?" Tim looked down to see one of the girls, her name (he'd been told) was Elaine. "You have to hurry, please." Elaine turned to the other girls in the group who began nodding.

"Another one is coming, Tim." Britney whispered, her hands clutching the teddy bear she'd appeared with.

"Tomorrow, Tim." Lizzie added. "Tomorrow."

Tim didn't need sleep, how could he when people were in danger?

Tim had to work harder.

When Tim saw Greta for the first time he was so intrigued by her, and by the fact that she could tell. He assumed that was why she was so infatuated with him, because she was a Warden and she knew that he saw ghosts. They never talked about it, not even when Greta was brought back to life. But Tim still assumed that she knew.

He never saw Slobo, and why should he have? Slobo was perfectly content with the way he went out, and boy did he go out the way he'd always wanted.

Jason didn't remember Tim, when he had come back. He had no idea who Tim was. None at all. Apparently that day that he'd disappeared, that had been the day that he'd been brought back. Tim remembered the earthquake of pain, stinging his senses.

Tim held back his tears as Jason pointed a gun at his head, words like "Pretender" and "Replacement" on his lips with a spiteful venom.

Jason didn't remember him, and Jason had never found peace.

Tim felt like a failure. This was his fault. He didn't help Jason, didn't reach out to him sooner, didn't help him find peace. Maybe if Tim had helped him find peace… maybe he wouldn't be alive or in pain or maybe he wouldn't hate everyone so much…

This was all his fault.

When Jack died Tim saw him out of the corner of his eyes for months, just like he had with Jason. Tim tried to make contact with him multiple times, he'd learned from Jason. But Jack couldn't-wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't even look at him.

How could Tim help his father find peace if he wouldn't even talk to his own son?

Jack disappeared eventually, and Tim hadn't noticed. He didn't notice until days later actually, when he looked back on the past days and realized that his father had been gone for a while.

What type of a horrible kid was he that he didn't even notice when his father had found peace? Well, at least he had found peace.

Tim cried a lot that night.

Kon couldn't be dead.

He couldn't be, because Kon would have stuck around and would have said goodbye. Kon would have never left Tim without saying goodbye. Jack? Sure. Janet? Fine. But Kon? Kon wouldn't do that to Tim. He wouldn't. Anyways, Jason had disappeared when he'd come back, who's to say that the reason Tim couldn't see Kon wasn't because he wasn't truly dead.

That is, unless Kon had found peace without Tim.

Tim stared at his cloning apparatuses, before laughing softly, in a sardonic, slightly masochistic way. Of course, Kon was… he never needed to find peace. He was peace. And hope.

Maybe it was Tim who needed to say goodbye.

But he couldn't. He couldn't say goodbye, not to Kon, never to Kon. He'd never give up. Never say goodbye.

"Tim?" Tim glanced up and his heart sank because he knew what it meant. Bart sat in front of him, eyes wide. "Tim? Whatcha doing?"

"B-Bart?" No. Not-not Bart too. Tim scrambled over to the closest monitor he had.

"Why are you so upset, dude? What's wrong?" Bart asked. Bart looked like he used to, back when they were kids, not like he looked as The Flash.

Tim pulled up a news channel-any news channel. And there it was (he was even getting Central City's newscast from where this lair's location was), the headline: FLASH DEAD.

Bart looked down at the monitor, eyes wide. "Oh." Then he turned to Tim. "You never told me you could see dead people."

"Bart, oh Bart-!" Tim ran towards him, but as expected he ran right through.

Bart frowned, then his eyes lit up. "Right! Ghost! Ghosts don't touch things." He gave Tim a small smile. "Air hug?" He asked sweetly. Tim held back tears but he air-hugged his friend.

"Tell the others I say goodbye, okay Tim?" Bart asked. Tim nodded, sniffing to stop from crying. "And remember, anything can happen. Maybe this isn't the end!" To the last moment Bart was… Bart. "I love ya, Timmy. See ya on the other side!" Bart hummed, cheerfully.

When he finally faded away, that stupid grin was still on his face.

Bruce wasn't dead. Tim knew it. Bruce could never make peace, not if he tried his gosh dang bestest, he couldn't.

So Bruce couldn't be dead, because Tim had never seen him.

And Tim would follow that not-seeing-him wherever it took Tim.

Bruce was alive, and thank whatever was above for his stubborn unwillingness to say goodbye because that was all Tim had to hold onto anymore, all that was keeping him… him.

Tim never thought he would think that, but times were definitely surreal.

Tim didn't see Dick when he died, so Tim just… assumed he wasn't dead, just like all the times before, and when Dick came back Tim was pissed, but more relieved because he'd been right. Dick might not have come to see him, Tim reasoned, because Dick might not have had it all together, but he certainly wasn't the worst of them (or the worst that Dick had been, for that matter). Tim felt a little bad, never telling Damian about Dick. But this thing with the ghosts… this was just for Tim in some way, now.

But Dick had come back, like everyone almost always did, so the point was mute.

And the ghosts stayed just for Tim.

He saw Damian. Damian haunted him in a way none of the others had, not even Jason or his father. Damian followed him everywhere, making comments on his life. Damian threw tantrums and broke things in Tim's apartment. Damian honed his poltergeist abilities and started moving Tim's coffee cup just a little to the left every time he reached for where it was. Damian was just as stubborn as his father in so many ways, and he never left, never said goodbye, never made peace. And that was a good thing too, Tim supposed, because he did end up coming back.

And just like Jason, he had no memory of it.

The last time Tim saw ghosts was at the end. Tim didn't know why he'd expected anything different. There they were, begging and crying and whispering for Tim to help them find peace, to stop the next one from joining them. But Tim couldn't, he couldn't move anymore.

So at the end, when Tim finally closed his eyes and when the ghosts finally went away, so did he.

Tim just hoped that he wouldn't end up like them. Tim hoped he'd found peace.

Tim closed his eyes, and disappeared.