#with his trusty hoe Bernard

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Former adventurer turned farmer, Robinthorpe Frederick Harrishmuckle hadn't expected to be picked up by a mindflayer ship while tending his pumpkins.

Join Uncle Bob on his wholesome adventure to save Faerûn, as he protects Shadowheart on the beach, gives Lae'zel a good 'talking to', and discovers Astarion's thirsty secrets a lot earlier than the vampire spawn intended ...

(My Uncle Tav crack fic, inspired by this hilarious post. He's the Uncle the party never knew they needed.)

Genres: Humour, crack, fluff, angst.

Warnings: Bob.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

When she first regained consciousness, briefly, the sun was a furnace beyond the welcome barrier of her eyelids. Drifting back to the nebulous darkness had been a welcome respite.

The next time, she had been able to open her eyes fully. She was not certain how much time had passed since the Nautiloid had first ploughed through the landscape in a writhing mass of pulverized and scorched organic material, scattering them like chaff across the shore.

Lashes fluttering, she glanced up, a crease forming between her brows. Something was sheltering her from the worst of the heat. As her vision cleared, she made out a framework of branches, skillfully meshed together, and large flat leaves lying over the top.

Sitting up slowly, someone came into view, broad back facing her. Her hand snaked toward her weapon, taking in the short stature, the ring of hair around the shiny, bald top of his scalp.

In her weakened state, she must have made some kind of noise because the man shuffled around to face her, twine caught between his teeth.

Her voice was a hoarse croak.

"Who - what are you - "

"Oh heavens, dearie. You're awake."

He set aside the net he had been mending.

"And how are we feeling? How's the old bones? No aches and pains?"

She managed to pull herself into a sitting position, eyes widening when she registered the absence of the artifact in her hand.

"You ... what did you do with it? Where is it? The artifact?"

She managed to summon up the necessary force, her tone sharp and interrogative.

He gave a sunny smile in return.

"Ah, the thingamabob you were clutching? It's right there next to you. In the basket. Ya ... there, to your left ... there you go! I thought to put it away, safe like. Never know who might come along."

Hand scrabbling around until she felt it close over the reassuring sharp edges of the artifact, Shadowheart scowled.

"You mean someone like you?"

He laughed heartily, hands slapping down on his knees.

"I suppose ... ya. Like me. But where're my manners."

He extended a hand to her, which, against her better instincts, she took.

"Names Robinthorpe Frederick Harrishmuckle, third of that name on my father's side. You can call me Bob. Everyone does."

" ... everyone?"

"Oh, the nieces and nephews and the neighbours and the gardening club. To name a few. Just 'bout everyone in town knows me, even though I live up at the old farm. I sell courgettes and pumpkins every tenday."

"My name's Shadowheart."

"Is that so? Well, pleasure's mine, Miss Shadowheart."

"How did you end up on the mindflayer ship?"

"Oh? Is that what it was? Let me think."

He tugged at his mustache.

"So, 'fore that I was in the garden, just preparing a new plot for the herbs, like. And then I hear a big noise, like clap o' thunder over the hills. And I was mighty puzzled, 'cos I'm seein' no clouds, none at all. And I look over to Eddie and Maud's place, 'cos sometimes his barn door slams open and makes a thump. But I see none of that. And - "

Shadowheart shot him a look and he cleared his throat.

"But you want me to cut to the chase, if I'm not mistaken. So there I was, with my trusty hoe, Bernard in hand and - "

"Bernard?"

"My hoe. Bernard. He's a little rusty, but he gets the job done. And then this giant shadow falls over me, and I see some huge shape with a tentacle squirming down to me, and next thing, I'm in little pod and it's so tight, I tell you, I can hardly scratch my toe."

Shadowheart massaged at the growing headache she could feel coming on.

"You ... can still feel it, can't you? The tadpole they put in our heads?"

His mouth wrinkled in distaste.

"Oh, aye. Got one of them squigglers right here behind the eye. Reminds me of the time I was helping Tom birth a calf and I got a squirt of something right in the - "

"That's quite enough, thank you. Look, we need to do something about this. The tadpole won't wriggle it's way out. We need a healer before we turn into midflayers ourselves."

Bob raised a finger and got to his feet, hurrying over to small fire he'd started from the dry driftwood that littered the beach. He'd salvaged a helmet and used it as a pot, something simmering within.

"Now, finding a healer's all well and good, but we ain't getting far if we don't get some victuals in us."

"You ... cooked?"

"Oh, ya. Some clams and edible seaweed make a good boil up."

He offered her a steaming bowl fashioned from gleaming metal salvage.

"Careful now, it's hot."

Taking a sip, Shadowheart raised her eyebrows. This was ... good. Granted, eating something a stranger had prepared went against every honed instinct she had, but Bob seemed ... innocuous, she supposed.

He was now holding something up to her brow, squinting. She frowned.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Makin' a sunhat, dearie. Wife used to love 'em. All I've got is some old netting, but it'll do. Can't have the sun beatin' down on your head when you get out of this here shelter."

It was positively hideous. The ratty netting looked like it had been lying on the beach for a full year, but Shadowheart could see that it had been well washed and the skill that had gone into weaving it together.

He'd done all of this ... for her?

No. There had to be something more to this. Was he ingratiating himself with her because she was obviously a capable fighter?

Tilting her chin up, she considered him coldly.

"Why are you helping me? Do you think you'll get something out of it? I have no time to waste on stragglers, you know. I don't care what you've done. If you can't keep up, I'm leaving you behind."

To her surprise, he beamed back.

"Oho, is that so? Well, I'll have you know, Miss Shadowheart, that I used to be an adventurer back in the day. It'd take more than being kidnapped and thrown into the wilderness to get one over ol' Bob."

He tapped the side of his nose and winked. Shadowheart opened her mouth and closed it again.

"Now eat up, eat up. I've spied some ruins up ahead, and that's always the best place to find some salvage."

"You. Get me down from here."

Shadowheart grimaced.

She'd been hoping that they wouldn't run into the ferocious githyanki from the mindflayer ship again. She could only hope that Bob would exercise some common sense and leave her up there to -

"Oi! What's goin' on 'ere?"

The tieflings immediately readied their weapons, eyes taking in their small party.

Gale cleared his throat and glanced over at Bob, whose righteous anger had made his chest puff out like a short, elderly rooster.

"Perhaps we should approach this situation with some delicacy - "

Bob's finger shot out, so fast that the tieflings flinched and half-raised their bows.

"Now listen 'ere, you lot. You let that lass down this instant."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow.

"Lass is a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

Lae'zel hissed at her from within the cage, teeth bared.

The tieflings regained some of their righteous anger.

"Who are you? This is our quarry. The gith wandered right into our trap and some of her kin had a run in with one of our patrols. We aren't letting her go."

"The name's Robinthorpe Frederick Harrishmuckle, and I'm known 'round here as Bob."

Gale scratched at his beard.

"Well. That's sure to intimidate them."

Bob strode forward, ignoring the increasingly edgy looks from the tieflings.

"What's this cage in aid of then? Ain't you got better ways to face your enemies than lockin' 'em up like animals? I kept animals, over on the farm, Gods bless the poor dearies. Hope Maud's lookin' out for 'em. But that's beside the point! Don't put things in cages, mate. Shows how closed off your own thinkin' is."

Spreading her hands, one of the tieflings took a step forward.

"Are you out of your mind? Do you know anything about how dangerous gith are?"

"Well, if you both clear off, I'll find out for myself, thank you very much."

The tiefling's patrol partner eyed their group, then Lae'zel's cage warily. He'd evidently decided that taking her out would be too much trouble, because he nodded slowly and began to move away.

"On your own head be it."

"What?"

His partner glanced over at the cage, then back at him.

"We're just going to - "

"Nymessa. Come."

She gritted her teeth and followed him, not sparing them a second glance.

Lae'zel's voice carried over to where they stood.

"Now get me down from here imm- "

Bob whirled on her, the deadly pointing finger making a reappearance.

"And you, young lady. What d'you think you're doin' talking back to your captors like that? Have you any common sense? One well-placed arrow and you'd be a green splat on the bottom of that there cage."

Lae'zel's stared, reduced to shocked silence as Bob's tirade continued.

"I mean, you just ran off after the mindflayer ship. No note. No sign. Not a single mark on a damn tree to tell us where you'd gotten to. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is in these parts?"

Gale waved a hand, noting the building fury behind Lae'zel's gaze now that the surprise had worn off. She clutched the bars of the cage and shook them.

"You ... you dare to reprimand me? Lae'zel of crèche K'liir?"

"Well, good morrow to you, Lae'zel. Nice to finally have a name to put to the face. Now prepare yourself. We're going to take out the bottom of the cage."

Seething, Lae'zel hopped up and clung to the sides of the cage while Gale's well-aimed disintegration spell caused the bottom of her prison to drift to the ground in a fine, powdery mist.

Jumping down, she stalked over, slowing when Shadowheart stepped in front of Bob, mace at the ready.

"Take one step further, Gith - "

Lae'zel sneered, expression darkening as she glanced past Shadowheart.

"You can talk a fat lot, you shiny-pated ghaik fodder, but when I roast you over the flames of my wrath - "

Bob raised his hands.

"Now, now. We're all on the same side. I take it you're going to accompany us in the search for a healer?"

"You'll accompany me, Hornyshmuckle. I have knowledge of a - "

"Ahhh, that would be Harrishmuckle," corrected Gale, one finger raised.

Lae'zel shot him a stone-cold glare.

"As if I care."

"In this case, you rather should."

Shadowheart had been listening to Lae'zel, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, go on. Tell us why you become the self-appointed leader."

Lae'zel clicked her tongue.

"There is a purification facility at every githyanki crèche. That scout mentioned a patrol nearby. If that's the case, then there's bound to be a crèche somewhere in the region. If we find it, we'll be rid of these tadpoles."

Bob nodded slowly.

"That could be an option, for sure."

"It's our only option."

"Nevertheless, let's keep our minds open. I take it that we're traveling together from now on, Lae'zel?"

"As much as it pains me to say it, yes."

"Oh, it pains you," came Shadowheart's acidic reply, as she finally sheathed her mace.

Bob nudged her.

"Miss Shadowheart, try not to take it personal-like that she wanted to leave you behind on the mindflayer ship."

"Who wouldn't take that personally?"

Gale raised his hand.

"If survival were on the cards, I would hardly blame someone for choosing the safer option. The fastest way of getting out, unhindered."

"So we should have left you in that portal then?"

"I'm very grateful that you didn't, but you'd have been fully within your rights to do so," came the wizard's unerringly cheerful rejoinder.

"I'll keep that in mind, should you ever be stuck in another, Gale."

Bob chortled and slapped Gale's shoulder.

"Now, now, if we did that we wouldn't have an amazing cook on our hands. You're quite the master of stuffed mushrooms, lad."

Gale raised an eyebrow.

"One would hope that my skills with the Weave were more appreciated - "

Lae'zel snorted.

"So you're a wizard. However you look at it, you wouldn't last ten minutes in the deeper reaches of the astral planes."

"What makes you think that?"

"Your reedy arms."

Bob held out his short appendages.

"Oh, oh, what about me?"

"You'd probably be mistaken for a space hamster and roasted by a hungry patrol."

"Ha ha! A most terrible fate. Now, come warriors and wizards! We have a long journey ahead of us. Let's go by the beach. I saw a fella there who looked like he'd be mighty handy with a knife."

Astarion glanced up from his book, mouth automatically curving into an alluring smile.

"Ah, always a pleasure to see you sauntering - um. Trotting. Trotting over. You certainly don't saunter, darling."

Bob waved him off, holding out a bowl.

"Ain't sauntered a day in my life, son. Now, Gale and I have been cooking up one hell of a stew and - "

"Oh, how kind. Leave it here. I'll ... help myself later."

Bob set down his burden with care and Astarion froze, the tips of his fingers digging into the spine of the book.

The large bowl was full of blood. And it was fresh, by the smell of it.

Regaining his composure rapidly, Astarion's eyes shot over to the others before returning to the man squatting expectantly before him. 

"What's ... the meaning of this?"

The corners of Bob's eyes creased in sympathetic sorrow. He kept his voice low enough that nobody else would be able to listen in.

"I know what you are, Astarion. Ain't no use hidin' it. I told you I used to be an adventurer. Seen my fair share of vampire spawn. The teeth. The skin. The eyes. Those marks on your neck."

He gestured and Astarion sat bolt upright, hand rising to his collar. Bob shook his head.

"Look, I understand why you'd want to keep this under wraps. Won't say nothin' to the others, unless you want me to. But ... I gotta say, you're lookin' mighty peaky, boyo. Even for a vamp - "

Astarion surged forward, the dagger that was always on his person pressing with intent into Bob's cushioned abdomen.

"Don't move. I can gut you and escape in an instant."

Bob remained still as a stone, but there was no sign of real fear in his face. Astarion bit his lip.

"What do you intend to do with this information?"

"Nothin' at all. Look, we're all in a bit of a situation. Don't matter to me whether you're a vampire or a bleedin' harpy. Point is, we all need each other's help. You've been right handy with your bow and your lockpicks and thingamajigs. But you're ... starving. I can see it. Just drink the blood, there's a dearie. It's my blood."

The knife eased away from Bob's ample belly.

"Your blood?"

Holding up a hand wrapped neatly in a bandage, Bob nodded.

"Healing potion did most of the work for me. I can keep ya fed, is what I'm sayin'. No need to hunt boars and bears and such."

"You ... you knew about that?"

"'Course I did! They were showing up bloodless around camp, and how many pointy fanged fellas do we know, eh?"

Astarion scowled and retreated, crouching on his haunches. In spite of how fey and feral he seemed in that moment, there was an edge of vulnerability to his expression, a vaguely bruised look about the eyes and mouth. He reached up, brushing back his hair, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"And you'll let me decide ... when I want the others to know?"

"On my word."

Bob pushed the bowl towards Astarion.

"Now eat, there's a good lad."

He watched as the pale, clever fingers hesitantly closed around the curve of the bowl, smiling encouragingly as Astarion raised it to his nose and sniffed. It only took a moment for suspicion to be replaced with near-ravenous hunger and the elf took a sip, then drank deeply.

When he was finished, Astarion lowered the vessel and wiped off his mouth. He glanced over at Bob, shrewd and assessing.

"What do you want in return?"

"Pardon?"

Some of his old panache restored, Astarion laid back on his elbows, smile lazy and decidedly well-fed, an edge of something brittle beneath.

"Everyone wants something in return, darling. What is it you want? Gold? Sex? A handsome young thing to hang off your arm when you visit the tavern?"

Bob regarded him steadily for a minute before smiling, giving a small nod.

"Actually, there is something."

"Ha."

Astarion smirked, now on familiar ground.

"Well then? What would you have me do?"

"Well, for starters, you could help me darn my damn socks. Holes. Full of 'em. Everywhere. Wife used to help me with all that, but I never learned to do it quite like Winnie did. You seem right handy with a needle and thread, though."

Astarion gaped at him, poise quite forgotten.

"Excuse me? You want me to what?"

"Help me darn my - "

"Do you think that even one of these beautiful fingers is going anywhere near those moldy old foot coffins?"

"But you said - "

"I've seen your socks, Bob. I wouldn't touch them with Lae'zel's longsword, and I feel pity for poor Winnie who had no fucking choice, obviously. Gods below."

In his outrage, Astarion had risen to his feet, hands placed squarely on hips. He seethed down at Bob who hid his smile rather poorly, both hands raised in surrender.

"Fine, fine. Have it your way, then. I'll just bleed myself dry like a prize pig every other day to - "

"Did I say I wasn't going to give you something in return?"

"Oh? You are?"

Astarion waved a haughty hand.

"Socks are absolutely out of the question. But your clothes look like you've stolen them from a neighbourhood scarecrow."

"Hey now!"

"Shut up. I can embroider them, if you'd like. Nothing more, nothing less."

The switch in behaviour, from coy and alluring to bristly and sharp-tongued, would have had most baffled. Bob took it in his stride, noting that Astarion's posture and speech had taken on a far more authentic ring.

Nodding, satisfied, he rose.

"All right then. It's a deal."

The reply came as Bob turned to walk away, so soft, so weighted with years of disuse.

"Thank you. I won't forget this."

"No need, lad. No need."

Taglist: @radish-breath @fantasyheroine @roguishcat @clericblood @davenswitcher

[angel-gidget]

Stars Unearth Your Fires (ch4/?)

Title:  Stars Unearth Your Fires (Ch 4/?)

Fandom: DCU, Teen Titans, Red Robin (preboot)

    Rating:  PG  | Words: 2800  | a03 link 

    Summary: Tim Drake never thought of himself as a troublemaker as far as Robins go. But a passing accusation quickly escalates into a case of stolen memories, technologically backwards clues from his past self, interdimensional hijinks, reflections on the good old days, and possibly the rekindling of a foregone romance. Eventually Tim/??? Mystery ship!

Ch 4: Tim has to look up an old friend or two before he can dig up his (hopefully existent) clue.

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. It’s ended up becoming my longest one yet. Thank you so much for the amazing reviews! While there is sadly no Core Four in this chapter (Bart tried to elbow his way in, he really did), they will make more appearances soon. It’s time for Tim to reconnect with a few non-caped companions. My lovely beta Kiragecko took a much-deserved break this week, so all mistakes are 100% me. Sorry if I missed anything!

He and Ives were still friends. He was pretty sure. Mostly. At least, the guy hadn’t taken it too personally the last time Tim had visited out of the blue without speaking to him for over a year.

If anything, Ives had been shocked that Tim wanted to hang with him when he was in the middle of cancer treatment, as so many other friends had flaked out when things got too intense. Tim had just been grateful to have warning, for once, that one of his friends might die. He wasn’t usually so lucky, though he didn’t know how to tell Ives that without telling him way too much.

Two rings. Three. And then—

“Does my caller ID deceive me, or is this richest and dorkiest of my foul weather friends?”

“Don’t you mean fair-weather friends, Ives?”

“No, no, I don’t. You should brush up on your Shakespeare. And cheap surfer-stoner productions in the park don’t count, by the way,”

There were voices in the background, and music too. If anything, Tim would have sworn Ives was in the middle of a… club?

Ives continued, “I do mean foul-weather. That’s what you call people who stick with you when life is sucking but unexpectedly ditch you when it’s time to party. Case in point: I’m throwing a party and you’re not here. Because you never pick up your damn phone, you ass.”

Oh. OH! “Congratulations on your remission, man.”

He could hear the smile through the phone. It wasn’t the same as being totally forgiven, but Ives wasn’t the sort of person who could be happy and hold a grudge at the same time.

“Thanks. It’s my one-month anniversary of the big NED. Looks like for the time being, I’ve rolled a twenty on breathing. It’s worth celebrating.”

Smooth opening. Here we go.

“Feel like doing a more personal celebration too? Maybe something nostalgic? Like digging up our time capsule from the 8th grade? I’ll buy the pizza.”

“Oh, man. Yes. You better, Prince Midas. Hold up.”

He was distracted, clearly talking to somebody else at the party. Tim took a moment. It was just as well that he’d caught Ives when he was distracted. The guy didn’t do parties much. Introvert that he was, they took a lot out of him, including his tendency to say no to things. Even before he’d been sick. Tim didn’t have many childhood friends, but they were bookish gamer geeks, the lot of them.

Ives voice came back on the line.

“I got a friend who wants to come with. The dude’s curious about everything, a real Nancy Drew. Wants to know about my nerdy little 8th grade self. I told him the biggest difference was that I was little and in the 8th grade, but he’s bored and I promised to include him in more stuff.”

“That’s cool. Saturday, noon?”

“That’s high noon to you, buckaroo. And yes.”

——-

He’d outgrown his best nerd shirts.

Tim didn’t even know when it had happened. It wasn’t that they didn’t fit him through the arms and chest—he was wiry enough that they did—but he’d gotten so long in the torso, that the edges of his shirts rose up obnoxiously from the waist of his jeans, constantly baring strips of skin.

When this had happened to Cassie, she’d embraced it and pulled off the sexy belly-shirt like a pro. Tim… couldn’t do that. Or rather, he couldn’t do that without pulling out a persona.

Ives had an meet-up with Tim Drake, not Mr. Sarcastic. So belly nerd shirts were a no-go.

He’d yanked out what appeared to be his least-expensive hoodie and Alfred-purchased designer jeans, and hoped for the best. This was supposed to be about nostalgia for Ives, though Tim had mixed hopes.

What would be worse? Finding nothing but exactly what they had buried years ago, and pretending to laugh with his friend while secretly pulling out his hair over a dead end of evidence? Or finding the evidence he needed in its place, but then having to somehow cover for the oddness of whatever they found by lying to Ives again?

It had been a while since he’d had to lie to someone he loved, and Tim wanted to keep it that way. (And lies of omission didn’t count. Especially to Bruce. And to Dick. And to whomever else he’d been lying to by means of omission lately.)

“Best not to overthink it,” Tim muttered to himself. He had been ten minutes early to the discolored tree that had been the site of his and Ives’ 8th grade paint-ball fight. Also, the site of their only paintball fight, because apparently nobody had told Ives that there tended to be bruises from such a thing.

If Ives was anything like his old self, he’d be five minutes early, and… yup.

Tim smiled and waved as Ives’ old Chevy pulled into the park’s lot. He was about to say hello, when a second person slid out from the car, following after Ives with a growing Cheshire grin on his face.

Tim gasped, “F@*#$ing hell.”

Bernard Dowd.

Ives new Nancy Drew pal was Bernard. Fragging. Dowd. The nosey-est (and therefore worst possible) person to have on a dig that might or might not yield incriminating signs of inter-dimensional antics.

“Why Timbo! With a greeting like that, one would almost think you weren’t pleased to see me.” Bernard bumped the car door closed with his hip as he balanced a brand new shovel on one shoulder.

Ives blinked, “You two know each other?”

Tim scratched his head, “You two know each other?”

“As I’ve told you both,” Bernard set the shovel down by the largest tree root, “I know everyone who’s anyone.”

As if to prove the solidity of his nonchalance, Bernard took his best guess as to which patch of dirt housed the capsule, and made a sweeping ‘you first’ motion with his arm at Tim and Ives.

Tim pulled out Alfred’s trusty gardening hoe, and braced himself as Bernard began to snicker. Because he’d brought a hoe. Because, for all his eloquence, Bernard was emotionally twelve. Ives stared at them both like they had doubled their number of arms and limbs and turned green.

Tim felt his eyes narrow in suspicion in Bernard’s direction, “You knew I’d be here.”

Bernard pulled back his laughter into a finely-controlled smirk, “When dear ol’ Sebastian told me he had an eccentrically neglectful, ridiculously rich childhood compadre named Tim… well, I did the math. But I waited for a face-to-face to be sure,” He winked, “It’s more fun that way.”

Tim purposefully and carefully ignored that entire description of himself as he stared incredulously at Ives.

“You actually let him call you Sebastian? Him?”

“It was the only way to get him to stop calling me ‘St. Ives’ along with several other unholy variations of my surname,” Ives took a deep breath and pitched his own shovel into the dirt, “Now lets get this show on the road.”

Once the digging began, it was a simple matter to let Bernard dominate the conversation, explaining to Ives that he and Tim had gone to the aptly-named Grieve High for a semester together. Until the Aquista gang war had come to their front door step.

Tim’s mind remained vaguely on Bernard’s story, but mostly on the ground they were unearthing. There was a reason Bernard had been able to see the digging spot. It was especially uneven compared to its surroundings, overgrown with grass that was clearly seeded, a slightly different color than what was surrounding it.

Which was suspicious, considering Tim and Ives hadn’t laid down any grass seed when they were kids. Not that someone responsible for the park couldn’t have laid something down, but it didn’t look quite right. It had been what? Six? Seven years since he and Ives had buried the thing? It should have blended with the rest of the milieu perfectly. But it didn’t. Not quite. As though it had been dug up again at least once in the interim.

“Earth to Timinator,” Ives poked him in the forehead, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

Ives looked like he wanted to smack Tim with his shovel and Bernard looked… oddly serious.

“Did Bernard’s dream girl turn into a super villain and try to kidnap you?”

And this was why he didn’t want Bernard here. There was the guy’s ongoing conspiracy theory habit, and then there was the fact that he had actually seen way too much.

“No,” Tim heard Bernard begin to protest, but he continued, “Darla didn’t try to kidnap me. She tried to make me into her personal moral compass and I told her where to get off.”

Bernard stared, “You what??? But she—you—she dismantled my car! She had these… these…”

Ives jumped in, “Phenomenal cosmic powers?”

“Yes,” Bernard continued, “And you just told her to go jump off a cliff? And got away with it? What the hell, Timothy!”

Tim blinked. He had forgotten about that. When Darla Aquista had died and returned from the dead with dark magic powers via one of Robin’s enemies, she had sought out her friend Tim Drake out for “advice.” Tim had forgotten that she had gone to Bernard first. He had never bothered to call Bernard and let the guy know he was okay. For all Bernard had known, he’d sent Tim’s untimely demise to his door when he told Darla where to find their former classmate.

Tim put the shovel down for a moment.

“I’m sorry I scared you, Bernard. I meant—I meant that if Darla wanted to be a hero, and she did, she couldn’t rely on me to tell her right from wrong and hold her to it. Heroes take responsibility for their actions. She gets that now. She went off with a superhero team called Shadowpact. She was okay.”

“And you?” Bernard exhaled.

Tim grinned.

“I’m always okay.”

Neither of his friends looked like they believed him.

Ives returned to digging, “See this is why you should call me more often,” He grunted as his shovel finally struck metal, “Your life gets really, really weird without me. Dating undead superheroes, Tim? Really? Oy vey.”

“We didn’t… never mind.”

He could have pulled the chest from the remainder of the hole without grunting, but watching Ives and Bernard wheeze and strain from the physical activity set a good bar for Timothy Drake Wayne’s level of sluggishness. So he panted along with them.

“Makes..nnghhh… a lot of sense in hind sight, though.” Ives breathed.

“What does?”

“Cancer probably doesn’t look like so bad of a boss battle after you’ve seen the fire and brimstone.”

“I…” He could be honest about this much. He could. “It made me glad for the people who are alive. However long they’re alive. Y’know?”

Ives gave him the most earnest smile Tim had seen all day.

“Okay, geeks! And Tim, for all your previous disguise, I see now that you are—in fact—a geek. It’s time to unbox this baby.” Bernard crowed.

Their “time capsule” was less a futuristic tube and more pirate-chest themed lockable luggage from the nearest department store. It had space for stuff, and it looked cool. Even as an adult, Tim felt he could stand by that choice.

Three seconds to blow off the dust. Forty-two to smash the lock. (He and Ives could both remember Tim swearing when they were kids that he would remember the combination, but well, he hadn’t.)

“A moment of silence for the defunct game boy who’s grave we have disturbed.” Ives mock-solemnly intoned, as he pulled out the old system preserved in plastic.

Tim blinked, “You buried your game boy? You loved that thing.”

“Exactly,” Ives poked him in the chest, “I was committed to this project. Unlike you.”

Tim frowned.

“I was too committed. Behold,” he lifted a green mud-crusted travesty that had not aged well, “Rusty the water pistol. Never got in a water gun fight without him. And look! My pog collection.”

“You mean my pog collection.”

Tim shrugged, “Our pog collection.”

“You are both the nerdiest nerds who ever nerded in the eighth grade. I don’t know why I expected differently.” Bernard sighed.

“I did warn you, buddy.” Ives laughed.

Bernard muttered something unintelligible, but it set Ives off on a lecture about the impact of popular culture. Tim took it as a much-needed distraction.

It wouldn’t have done Tim any good to have remembered the lock combination anyway. The lock wasn’t as old as it should have been. And while the capsule was filled with mementos from younger years, there were two small evidence bags at the bottom that were Batman standard issue.

They were hair samples.

Easily researched. Easily pocketed.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief as he quietly slipped them into the back of his jeans.

That had… not gone nearly as badly as he anticipated. He reminded himself that it wasn’t quite over yet. After all, he owed Ives pizza.

Ives and Bernard were still arguing amicably.

One of the reasons Ives never had too many friends as a kid was because most people couldn’t understand that the guy’s favorite form of conversation was a heated debate. When he felt like conversing at all outside of Wizards and Warlocks.

Bernard… well, Bernard just decided when someone was his friend and treated any attempts to escape his friendship as an amusing joke. It worked for him. But he also had a tendency to look down his nose at people who fit too neatly into a category, and Ives tended to wear his categories loud and proud. So it was… curious.

“So, how did you guys meet?”

Ives and Bernard paused and then grinned in unison.

“Elizabeth Spillgrave.”

Who? It took Tim a moment. Right.

Elizabeth Spillgrave. Real name: Jodie Weise. Internationally recognized alien conspiracy theorist, and one of Ives favorite authors. Or least favorite, depending how one looked at it. He always holed up in his room on the day one of her books released, reading voraciously. He would spend the next two weeks debunking her entire book paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes with charts if he was feeling particularly zealous and homework wasn’t challenging him enough.

Tim blinked, “And you became friends over this?”

It didn’t seem possible. Because while Ives was the sort to spend two weeks disproving the sort of theories that were the woman’s bread and butter, Bernard was just the sort to spend the same amount of time proving it. Or perhaps editing how such events would be possible, turning each paragraph into a spring board for his own theories. He would stop short of making charts, though. Bernard thought excessive chart-making was for nerds.

Ives shrugged, “We were both late to her book signing last year, and had to team up on scalping tickets to get into the VIP meet and greet.”

“We shared mutual disappointment that she could but spare us two minutes each, even after all that hassle.” Bernard sighed.

Ives rolled his eyes, “And then he started going on about his idea that the UFO’s mentioned in her last book might be Kryptonian. From a hundred years ago.”

“Magic is a thing, Sebastian.”

“They’re aliens, Bernard. Superman is vulnerable to magic. He’s not going to carry around something that could kill him.”

“Humans do it all the time.”

They continued on as they packed up their tools and piled into Ives’ car. Tim didn’t get a word in edge-wise to ask where they were going, but he quickly recognized the route Ives was taking. Pizza Planet, appropriately enough.

He pulled the clear evidence bags from his pocket to glance at them once more.

One contained extremely short snips of dirty blond hair. The other contained a single jet-black lock that looked like it had been curled around someone’s finger before getting cut.

Both sets were sufficient for a DNA database search.

Tim sat back in his seat.

First pizza, then catching up with the two civilian friends who were still speaking to him, maybe some nostalgic passing around of ye olde Game Boy, and then…

Answers.