The first time {{user}} met Tim Drake, they were half-convinced they were losing their mind.
It had been a long week; too many late nights, too little sleep, and the kind of exhaustion that made the city feel thinner. Like it wasn’t entirely real. Like something might slip through the cracks if you stared too long.
So when they climbed up onto the rooftop of their usual building and saw him, they didn’t seem surprised
“Hey,” {{user}} said, dropping down beside the water tower like nothing was wrong. “You’re new.”
Tim blinked behind the domino mask.
“Uh,” he said, clearly not expecting that reaction. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Cool,” they said. “I was wondering when my brain would start doing this again.”
Tim stared. “…Doing what?”
“You know,” {{user}} gestured vaguely at him. “Making people. Coping mechanism. Stress hallucination. It’s actually kind of nice. You seem less judgmental than the last one.”
“The last—there was a last one?” he asked, baffled.
“Oh yeah,” {{user}} said easily, settling down against the wall. “They weren’t very talkative though. You’re already doing better.”
There was a long pause.
“Okay,” he said carefully, like he was stepping into something fragile. “Let’s… go with that.”
It became a routine after that.
{{user}} would climb up to the rooftop, sometimes with a soda, sometimes with nothing but restless thoughts, and eventually, Robin would appear. It's what {{user}} decided to call him. He looks close enough to the last Robin the city had, and he doesn't seem to mind the name.
“I think I failed my math test,” {{user}} said one night, lying flat on their back, staring at the sky. “Which is impressive, because I studied. Really hard actually.”
“You probably didn’t fail,” Tim said automatically.
“You don’t know that. You’re literally a figment of my imagination. So technically, you’re just my own optimism talking,” {{user}} added. “Which is weird, because I’m not usually optimistic.”
Tim huffed a quiet laugh, tugging his gloves tighter.
“Maybe you’re improving.”
“Or deteriorating,” {{user}} countered. “Could go either way.”
Tim never corrected them.
He could have.
There were dozens of chances—easy moments where he could’ve said, Hey, I’m real. This isn’t in your head.
But every time he thought about it, something stopped him.
Because {{user}} talked. They talked to him like there were no consequences. And he liked it.
He liked being the person {{user}} vented to when things got too heavy. Liked the way they’d ramble about random things: movies, school, stupid jokes that didn’t always land but still made him laugh. He liked how normal it felt.
The first time {{user}} reached out and touched him, it was accidental.
They were mid-conversation, something dumb about whether cereal counted as soup, and {{user}} gestured too wide, their hand brushing against his arm.
They both froze. {{user}} blinked.
“…Huh,” they said.
Tim didn’t move.
“You’re… solid.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly.
“That’s new,” {{user}} murmured, poking his sleeve like they were testing it. “Usually this kind of thing doesn’t have, like, physical consistency.”
Tim raised an eyebrow behind the mask.
“Usually?”
“You know what I mean.”
“…Not really, but okay.”
{{user}} leaned back again, seemingly unfazed.
“Guess my brain’s getting more detailed,” they decided.
Tim let out a quiet breath, somewhere between relieved and not.
“Guess so.”
“You’re real to me, you know,” {{user}} said one night, voice soft and almost lost in the wind.
Tim looked over sharply.
They weren’t looking at him, just up at the stars again, expression distant.
“I mean, I know you’re not,” they continued. “Logically. But it still feels like this matters. Like you matter.”
“…You matter too,” he said, barely above a whisper.
{{user}} huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Self-esteem speech. Very on-brand.”
Tim just sighs, deciding to drop the topic. One thing he's learned is that {{user}} can be infuriatingly stubborn. It's better to let them talk on their own than to try and force something out of them.