snow

     Dick’s eyes narrowed slightly, concern tightening in his chest before he even had time to name it. Tim had been down there for hours, maybe longer, time losing meaning in the artificial glow of monitors and fluorescent strips. He couldn’t even remember the last time his brother had stood up for anything other than necessity, let alone left the chair.

    The Cave made everyone look worse than they felt, but Tim didn’t look like someone merely tired. He looked like someone eroding in place. Shadows clung beneath his eyes like bruises that refused to fade. His shoulders slumped forward, posture folding inward as if even occupying space required effort he no longer wanted to spend. His hair, usually at least somewhat controlled, had given up entirely. It lay flattened on one side, as though he had dragged his hands through it so many times it had forgotten what shape it was supposed to be.

    And yet, despite all the movement of his hands, there was something disturbingly still about him. Like the body was operating on leftover instructions while the person inside had stepped back entirely.

    “You’ve been down here since this morning,” Dick tried again, softer this time, like volume alone might keep Tim from retreating further into himself.

     “I know.” His voice scraped out of him, rough in a way that didn’t belong to exhaustion alone. Not the usual vigilante weariness, not the kind that came from broken ribs or sleepless nights on rooftops. This was something else. Something disused. Like his voice had simply stopped being needed and had started forgetting how to function.

     Dick felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach. But Before he could push further, the silence of the Cave fractured. A sharp buzz cut through the air. Tim’s phone.

     The reaction was immediate, almost violent in its speed. Tim’s head snapped toward the sound with a jolt that looked like it hurt, like his body had moved faster than whatever was left of his awareness could safely allow. For half a second there was something raw on his face - hope, sudden and unguarded, bright enough to be almost painful in how quickly it appeared.

     Then he was reaching. Too fast, too careless. His hand knocked lightly against scattered parts on the table as he fumbled for the device, nearly sending a component rolling off the edge. Dick watched it all in silence as Tim unlocked the screen. Watched the hope collapse before anything was even said.

     Tim stared at the display longer than necessary anyway, as though if he just looked hard enough it might change into something else. Something better. Something that mattered.

Then, carefully, he set it face-down on the table.

    “Spam email,” he said flatly. And immediately returned to the staff like nothing had happened at all.

      Yett Dick didn’t move. Because that expression, that flicker of expectation, the split-second belief that something had finally broken the silence, had become painfully familiar over the past weeks. Every notification, every vibration, every meaningless interruption of electronic noise… Tim reacted to all of it like it might be you.

      And every single time, it wasn’t.

      “You should sleep,” Dick said instead, trying to shift the weight of the moment, trying to find something, anything, that would stick.

       “I’m fine.” The screwdriver slipped slightly in Tim’s grip. Just a fraction. Just enough.

       His hand shook once before he forced it steady again, knuckles whitening as he tightened the same screw he had already adjusted twice before. On the surface it looked like work. Like focus. Like control. But Dick could see the pattern now. Tim wasn’t repairing anything, he was looping. Repeating. Breaking and reassembling the same section over and over again not because it needed fixing, but because stillness had become unbearable.

      “You know,” Dick started carefully, choosing each word like it might detonate, “there’s a place a few blocks from here. New spot. We could-”

      “No.” Still too fast. Still automatic.

     Tim finally leaned back in his chair, dragging both hands over his face with enough force to leave faint red impressions on his skin. For a moment, the exhaustion that surfaced there was unfiltered, unmasked by anything resembling discipline. It wasn’t just tiredness. It was something heavier, deeper, like fatigue had settled into bone and refused to leave.

       His eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, toward the phone again. And again nothing. Still waiting anyway. That was what hit Dick. Not the silence itself, but the way it had rearranged everything around it. The Cave wasn’t quieter because you were gone. It was quieter because Tim no longer filled the space you used to occupy.

      No muttered commentary under his breath when systems lagged. No distracted half-responses while multitasking five different streams of data. No sharp, irritated sarcasm when someone interrupted him at the wrong moment. Those pieces of him hadn’t vanished on their own, they had gone with you, so naturally that no one realized they were missing until the absence became too large to ignore.

      Tim had always been tired. But this wasn’t just tired. This was hollowing.

     “You could call them,” Dick said before he could stop himself.

     Tim froze, not dramatically, not visibly at first glance, but enough. Enough that even the smallest movement in his hands ceased for a fraction of a second too long. Enough that the air around him seemed to tighten.

     Then he resumed working, whispering a small, harsh, “I’m busy.”

     The excuse was almost laughable in its fragility. Because Tim Drake had solved impossible cases while concussed, stitched together disasters while bleeding, calculated outcomes that left entire teams scrambling to keep up with him. He could absolutely make a phone call. But instead, he reached for a tool he was already holding. And missed it.

      Dick watched him glance toward the silent phone again, watched him pretend he hadn’t, watched him rebuild the same thing for the third time like repetition might eventually become resolution.

      And somewhere between one breath and the next, Dick realized this wasn’t something Tim was going to simply “get over.” Whatever had existed between you and Tim hadn’t just faded, it had taken root. Deep enough that its removal left something exposed underneath, something raw and unprepared for absence.

       And now Gotham’s brightest mind was sitting in the dark, pretending that if he just kept his hands moving long enough, the silence wouldn’t win.

     Crime Alley had always felt different after midnight. Not quieter exactly, Gotham was never quiet, but emptier in the way abandoned churches felt empty. Hollow. Like the city itself had finally run out of excuses to keep pretending it could still be saved. Streetlights buzzed overhead with weak yellow light, illuminating puddles stained with oil and old rainwater while somewhere far off a siren screamed through the night before abruptly cutting itself short. Most people avoided the Alley entirely once the clock pushed past two in the morning. The desperate disappeared into their apartments. The dangerous came out to hunt. And vigilantes with any self-preservation left in them usually found somewhere else to patrol after a bad night. Which was exactly why Jason noticed the moment Tim volunteered to go back.

    It was nearly four by the time they stumbled into the cave, battered and exhausted from what should have been an easy operation at the Iceberg Lounge. Penguin’s men had turned a simple weapons bust into a disaster the second someone panicked and opened fire too early. Everything after that became the usual Gotham catastrophe. Cheap shots in cramped hallways, collapsing scaffolding, blood on concrete floors, bruises blooming beneath armor before the adrenaline could fully wear off. Dick looked one good shove away from falling asleep standing upright. Damian carried the stiff posture of someone actively replaying every tactical mistake in his head so he could stay angry instead of tired. Bruce had disappeared upstairs with Alfred without so much as removing the cowl completely. Normal. Predictable. The kind of exhaustion they all knew how to survive.

     Tim looked worse than all of them combined. Not dramatic worse. That would’ve been easier to deal with. Easier to justify concern over. Instead it was the kind of exhaustion that slipped quietly beneath the skin until suddenly someone looked less like a person and more like something held upright entirely by momentum. There was dried blood darkening the edge of his jaw beneath the domino mask. One side of his suit hung torn badly enough that every movement exposed the ugly purple bruise spreading across his ribs. His gloves were split across the knuckles from punching through someone’s face shield earlier in the night. Yet despite all of it, despite the way his shoulders dragged downward like gravity had doubled for him specifically, Tim still walked straight toward the Batcomputer the second he entered the cave.

      Jason dropped heavily into one of the chairs with a groan, every rib in his body protesting the movement. “I’m officially declaring tonight terrible.”

     Dick snorted tiredly from somewhere near the med table, already peeling off one glove with half-lidded eyes. Damian muttered something in Arabic under his breath that was probably either an insult or a death threat. Nobody bothered responding. The cave settled into familiar post-patrol silence, the hum of computers, the distant dripping of water through ancient stone, the soft metallic clink of discarded gear hitting tables.

    Then the police scanner crackled- “possible robbery in progress. Corner of Finger and Kane. Suspect armed-” Crime Alley.

     Jason barely processed the location before Tim spoke.

     “I’ll go.”

      Every head turned instantly. Tim was already reaching for his helmet again before anyone answered, fingers moving automatically toward the cracked buckle on his gauntlet like his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up.

     “Seriously?” Dick blinked at him slowly. 

     “It’s five minutes away.”

     “It’s also four in the morning,” Jason cut in.

     Tim shrugged one shoulder while adjusting his gear. The motion looked sluggish, wrong somehow, like every inch of movement required conscious effort instead of instinct. 

     “Then the guy probably assumes nobody’ll respond.” His voice sounded terrible. Thin. Raspy. Worn down at the edges from disuse and exhaustion. Like he hadn’t spoken enough lately to remember how.

     Jason frowned before he could stop himself. Because now that he was actually paying attention, really looking at him instead of glancing past him the way everyone accidentally had for weeks now, none of this felt normal anymore. Tim swayed slightly while reaching for his staff. Not enough that anyone else would necessarily notice. Barely noticeable at all. But Jason noticed because Tim Drake never swayed. Tim moved like sharpened instinct wrapped in caffeine and bad coping mechanisms. This looked different, was different..

     “You can barely stand,” Damian said bluntly.

     “I’m fine.”Complete bullshit.

     Jason’s irritation crawled higher beneath his skin the longer he watched him. Not anger at Tim exactly. Anger at the situation. At the way Tim had somehow become a ghost inside his own life over the last few weeks without anyone fully acknowledging it out loud. Because Tim had always been tired. God, all of them were tired. But there used to be something alive underneath it. Something sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. Sarcasm. Obsession. Energy. Tim used to argue strategy until sunrise just to prove Bruce wrong. Used to make snide comments during patrol when Jason annoyed him. Used to vibrate with restless intelligence even while running on three hours of sleep.

     Now he just looked empty. Not broken. Not falling apart loudly enough for intervention. Just… hollow. And Jason finally noticed where Tim’s attention kept drifting every few seconds. Phone. Computer screen. Phone again. Waiting.

     The realization hit him slowly enough to make it worse. This wasn’t about the robbery. Tim didn’t care about the robbery. Tim just didn’t want Gotham to get quiet. Because quiet meant thinking. And apparently thinking about you was killing him.

     The scanner crackled again somewhere overhead while Tim straightened too quickly at the sound, almost desperate for the distraction. Jason suddenly remembered every night you used to interrupt patrols with a single text. The way Tim would vanish the second his phone lit up. The way he used to come back afterward less tense somehow. Less exhausted. Not fixed, Tim Drake would probably require divine intervention and several years of therapy to qualify as fixed, but human. Warmer around the edges. Alive enough to laugh occasionally.

     Now Jason was watching that disappear in real time.

     “Drake.” Tim looked over immediately.

   “You look like roadkill.”   Jason gestured vaguely toward him. 

     “Thanks.”

     “No, seriously. You got slammed through a wall like an hour ago.”

     “I’ve had worse.”

     Jason scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

      Tim slid the helmet over his head before answering this time, voice muffled beneath the distorted speaker. “Someone still has to go.”

      The cave went silent for half a second. Because that wasn’t really what he meant. Jason heard it anyway. Someone still has to move. Someone still has to stay busy.

     Someone still has to keep their mind occupied long enough not to think about the person who stopped answering their messages.

     Dick heard it too. Jason could tell by the sudden exhaustion on his face shifting into something softer. Something concerned.

     Tim reached for his bike keys.

      Jason sighed heavily before forcing himself upright again, joints protesting immediately. “Sit down.”

     “I said I’ll handle the robbery.” Tim stopped near the exit. “You don’t have to-”

     “Yeah,” Jason interrupted sharply, “I do, because you look two seconds away from passing out into the Batmobile.”

    Tim opened his mouth automatically, probably preparing some irritated argument out of pure instinct. Then he stopped.

     That unsettled Jason more than anything else had all night. No sarcasm. No defensive remark. No annoyed glare. Just exhaustion. Heavy enough to silence him completely.

     Tim stared down at the floor for a long moment before finally pulling the helmet back off slowly. Sweat had flattened his hair awkwardly against his forehead beneath it. Without the mask fully hiding his expression anymore, the exhaustion underneath became impossible to ignore. His eyes looked dull. Not emotionless exactly. Worse. Overused. Like someone who had spent too many nights staring at a phone screen waiting for a notification that never came.

    “Fine,” he muttered quietly.

    Defeated.

    Tim lowered himself into the nearest chair with slow, careful movements, elbows resting against his knees while both hands dragged down over his face. And suddenly, horribly, he looked young. Not Red Robin. Not the detective everyone relied on to keep functioning when Bruce spiraled too far into obsession. Just a twenty-something kid awake at four in the morning trying not to think too hard about someone he missed.

     The cave felt unbearably silent without you in it.

     Damian liked routines. Precision. Predictability. Patterns that repeated so consistently they became instinct rather than thought. The manor itself breathed through routine: Alfred’s footsteps before dawn, the distant hum of the Batcomputer somewhere beneath the house, Bruce vanishing for hours only to reappear exactly when needed, Dick’s laughter carrying through hallways before patrol. And Tim- insufferable, sleep-deprived, irritating Tim Drake- had always understood routine better than anyone. Wake up at impossible hours. Tea brewed first thing in the morning next to an energy drink. Patrol reports. Training. Casework. Annoy everyone in the cave. Repeat. Tim functioned through ritual like a machine held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and pure refusal to collapse. Which was exactly why Damian noticed when the patterns began to decay.

    At first, the changes were small enough to ignore. Missed breakfasts. Unread reports sitting untouched in the Batcomputer for hours before Tim finally answered them. Half-finished cans abandoned throughout the manor like evidence of some unfinished thought. Patrol schedules changed next. Later shifts. Longer routes. Tim returning to the manor after sunrise with bruises buried beneath his eyes and blood dried into the fabric of his gloves. Even his silences had changed. Before, Tim’s quiet had always been sharp, calculating, full of thoughts moving faster than his mouth could keep up with. Now his silence felt empty in a way Damian found himself noticing more than he cared to admit.

    And now this.

     The training room beneath the manor echoed with the violent rhythm of fists striking flesh. Sweat soaked into the mats beneath them, streaked with faint drops of blood that mostly belonged to Tim. Damian ducked beneath a lazy punch before driving his elbow sharply into Tim’s ribs. The hit landed cleanly enough to force air from his lungs, yet Tim barely reacted. That alone felt wrong. Three weeks ago Tim would have complained instantly. Rolled his eyes. Muttered something sarcastic while resetting his footing. Half their spars usually dissolved into arguments disguised as combat. Now there was only silence. Heavy breathing. The dull sound of gloves against skin.

    Tim came forward again. Slow.

     Damian blocked easily before striking him hard across the jaw. Another hit Tim should have avoided. The impact snapped his head sideways, dark hair falling into exhausted eyes. Damian waited for the inevitable glare. The irritated comment. The smug little “cheap shot.” Nothing came. Tim simply reset his stance mechanically and raised his fists again.

    Something unpleasant twisted in Damian’s chest. Because Tim always talked. The cave felt eerily still without it.

    Damian circled him carefully, watching every sluggish movement. Tim looked exhausted in a way that went beyond bruises or sleepless nights. Physically, yes, his movements dragged with fatigue, reactions delayed by fractions of seconds Damian would normally never catch, but mentally too. His focus flickered strangely. Sharp one second, vacant the next. His eyes kept drifting somewhere distant before snapping back to the present too late. Distracted fighters irritated Damian more than careless ones. Tim Drake had once been one of the most attentive people Damian knew. Now he looked like someone barely tethered to the room around him.

    Tim swung again. Too slow.

    Damian swept his legs out from beneath him, watching irritation crawl beneath his own skin when Tim stumbled clumsily instead of recovering cleanly. Another strike to the shoulder. Another missed counter. Every mistake reminded Damian of another fracture in Tim’s routine. Tim arriving late to training yesterday. Tim forgetting a case file in the cave for the first time in years. Tim staring at his phone during briefing while pretending not to. Tim leaving messages unanswered. Tim no longer disappearing midway through patrol because someone had texted him. Because you had texted.

    At first Damian had found your absence relieving. You had been disruptive. Tim softened around you in ways Damian once found nauseating. He left patrol early. Smiled at his phone like an idiot. Became quieter, though not in this terrible way. Softer around the edges. Human in a manner Damian preferred not to examine too closely. Yet now, watching Tim stagger through another failed dodge, Damian realized something he hated entirely.

     That version of Tim had at least looked alive.

    Damian lunged forward again, fist connecting sharply against Tim’s mouth. Blood split across his lip instantly, crimson dripping onto the mat beneath them. Tim hissed through his teeth but kept moving, breathing uneven now. His knuckles had split open nearly twenty minutes ago. His nose had started bleeding shortly after. Still he refused to stop.

    “Again,” Tim muttered.

    Damian frowned. “You failed to dodge.”

    “I know.”

    “Your footing is unstable.”

    “I know.”

    Another punch landed against his ribs hard enough to force him backward. Tim barely defended himself anymore. That was what unsettled Damian most. Losing did not matter. Tim had lost spars before. They all had. But Tim Drake never stopped protecting himself properly. Never stopped adapting. Never let himself become sloppy enough to simply absorb damage without purpose.

    “You are fighting poorly,” Damian snapped.

    Tim wiped blood beneath his nose with the back of his glove. “Then stop holding back.”

    “I am not holding back.”

    That earned a laugh from Tim. A Weak laugh, as if it was barely there. Damian hated the sound immediately.

    Tim’s laughter used to be unbearable. Sharp and smug and loud enough to start arguments from across the cave. This sounded worn down. Exhausted. Like something fraying apart strand by strand.

    Another memory surfaced before Damian could stop it. Three weeks ago, Tim had cut training short the second his phone buzzed. Damian had insulted him relentlessly for abandoning practice midway through sparring. Tim only rolled his eyes while shoving gear hastily into a bag.

    “I have somewhere to be.” He had to go to you. Always you.

     And somehow Damian had preferred that version more than this one standing before him now half-broken and bleeding beneath the cave lights. Because at least then Tim had looked eager to leave. Like the world still held something waiting for him outside patrols and missions and sleepless nights.

     Now he looked like there was nowhere he wanted to be at all.

     Damian struck him across the cheek again. Tim staggered sideways, catching himself too late. For the first time all night, he did not immediately recover. He simply stood there breathing heavily, head lowered while blood dripped steadily from his nose onto the floor beneath him.

      The silence stretched painfully. Then Damian understood. Not fully. Not enough to make sense of the ugly tightening in his chest. But enough.

     “You are waiting for them.”

    Tim froze. The stillness afterward swallowed the entire cave. Slowly, carefully, Tim reached for the phone resting near the edge of the training mat. The screen remained dark. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. He set it back down with far too much care before finally speaking.

     “Drop it.” It was meant to sound sharp. It didn’t.

     Damian studied him quietly then. The bruises dark beneath sleepless eyes. The split knuckles. The exhaustion woven through every movement. The way he kept throwing himself into pain like maybe it would distract him long enough not to think.

     Pathetic. Human. Damian hated that he understood it.

     “You have become unbearable,” he said finally.

     Tim let out another humorless laugh, quieter this time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

     No argument followed. No sarcasm. No defensive remark designed to irritate Damian into a fight. And somehow that unsettled Damian more than anything else had all night. Because Tim Drake always argued. Always. Even exhausted. Even injured. Even furious.

     But standing there now beneath the cave lights, Damian realized something horrifying.

     You had not disrupted Tim’s routines. You had become one of them. And without you, everything else in Tim’s life seemed to be collapsing alongside it.

     Barbara first heard your voice at two thirty-seven in the morning, soft laughter crackling through the cave speakers as she descended the elevator with a tablet tucked beneath her arm. The sound echoed strangely against the metal walls of the Batcave, too warm for a place built from stone and shadows. For one disoriented second she genuinely thought someone else was awake down there, another vigilante lingering after patrol, another exhausted body refusing sleep. Then Tim’s voice drifted through the speakers quietly, rough with fatigue yet softened by something she had not heard from him in weeks.

     “I know, I know. I was late.”

     Barbara slowed immediately.

     The cave sat half-asleep around him, dim overhead lights switched off except for the pale glow surrounding Tim’s workstation. Screens cast blue reflections across the sharp angles of his face while the rest of the cavern disappeared into darkness. He sat hunched in his chair, hood discarded somewhere nearby, exhaustion woven so deeply into his posture that it looked permanent now. His shoulders curved inward like he had spent too many nights trying to make himself smaller beneath the weight pressing against him. The monitor in front of him was dark. No case files. No surveillance footage. No endless spreadsheets tracking Gotham’s newest catastrophe.

     Just an audio file. Your voice spilling through the speakers again, distorted faintly from poor recording quality, yet still warm enough to shift the atmosphere around him.

    “Tim, normal people don’t answer texts three business days later.”

   A pause followed before Tim laughed quietly under his breath. Not current. Not live. Old. Barbara realized it instantly, and something unpleasant twisted sharply in her chest.

     Voice memos. He was listening to old voice memos.

      Tim leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand dragging across his mouth as your laughter filled the silence again. The sound seemed to settle over him carefully, easing the constant tension buried inside his expression for only a moment. Barbara watched his eyes close briefly, watched him breathe a little deeper like hearing your voice allowed his lungs to finally work properly again. It was not happiness exactly. Not relief either. Something softer. More dangerous. Like this was the closest he had come to peace in weeks.

     Then the recording ended. The cave immediately felt colder afterward.

     Tim replayed it.

     Barbara looked away before he could notice her sitting there because suddenly the entire scene felt painfully intimate, like witnessing someone bleed out quietly without realizing another person had entered the room. Guilt settled heavily in her stomach as understanding finally forced itself into place. She had spent weeks pretending this would pass eventually, convincing herself Tim simply needed time, needed distance, needed another case to throw himself into until the ache dulled naturally.

     But Tim was not moving on. He was not even trying to.

    Barbara wheeled forward deliberately this time, making enough noise against the cave floor for him to hear her approach. Tim startled immediately, scrambling to pause the recording so quickly he nearly dropped his phone in the process.

     “Sorry,” he muttered automatically, voice shredded from disuse. Again that rasp. Like he barely spoke anymore unless absolutely necessary.

      Barbara pretended not to notice what he had been listening to. Pretended not to notice the way his hand remained wrapped tightly around the phone afterward, thumb hovering protectively over the screen like someone afraid the memory might disappear if he loosened his grip.

     “Need help with something,” she said instead, lifting the tablet slightly.

     Tim blinked at her for a moment before forcing himself upright. “What is it?”

    “Possible weapons shipments moving through the Tricorner ports. The tracking keeps bouncing.”

     He nodded instantly. Of course he did. Anything to focus on. Anything sharp enough to drown out the thoughts chasing him tonight.

      Barbara watched him roll toward the main computer, exhaustion dripping from every movement. Thin cuts stretched across his knuckles, still healing badly from patrol earlier that week, pale skin split open every time his fingers flexed over the keyboard. Yet despite the exhaustion hollowing out his face, the moment the system loaded something inside him sharpened automatically. His attention narrowed. His posture straightened slightly. Tim Drake still worked with frightening efficiency no matter how badly he was unraveling everywhere else.

     That part of him would probably never break.

      Silence settled between them outside the rapid clacking of keys. Fast. Precise. Mechanical. Barbara pretended to review files on her tablet while watching him carefully instead, studying the quiet deterioration he kept trying so hard to hide from everyone around him.

     His phone rested beside the keyboard. Screen still unlocked. And there you were. A photograph glowed faintly beneath the cave lights, grainy from low brightness yet impossible to ignore. You sat beside Tim somewhere Barbara did not recognize, sunlight pouring across both of you while your head tilted toward him mid-laugh. Your expression looked open and bright enough to soften even the poor quality of the image. Tim was not looking at the camera. Of course he was not. His entire focus rested on you instead, eyes carrying that devastatingly unguarded expression Barbara had never seen directed at anyone else before.

      She had known Tim for years. She knew every version of his face: focused, annoyed, calculating, sarcastic, angry, exhausted. But this one felt entirely different. This one looked vulnerable.

      Like loving you had reached into him and pulled something painfully human out into the open, something he normally kept buried beneath strategy and sarcasm and careful control. Barbara’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she looked away from the picture, only for her gaze to catch on the half-open notebook resting near the edge of the desk.

    At first she assumed patrol notes filled the pages. Then she noticed the crossed-out lines: 

hope youre okay (A thick line carved through it.)

i saw something today that reminded me of you (Crossed out harder.)

i think i messed this up (The words nearly destroyed beneath angry black ink.)

can we talk? (Another line through it.)

      Page after page after page of Drafts. Things he wanted to say to you but never sent.

     Barbara suddenly felt like she had stepped into something far too private because Tim was not dramatic about pain. He never had been. Dick burned loudly. Jason exploded. Bruce buried himself alive in silence until it poisoned everyone around him. But Tim suffered methodically, quietly, organizing his grief into neat little boxes like if he catalogued the damage carefully enough no one would notice it consuming him whole.

     “You haven’t slept again, have you?” Barbara asked softly.

      Tim never looked up from the screen. “Probably.”

     Probably. Not even denial anymore.

     The keyboard continued clacking rapidly beneath his fingers, systems opening and collapsing across the monitors faster than Barbara could fully process. Shipping routes appeared highlighted in red. Fake manifests surfaced within seconds. Three shell companies flagged almost immediately afterward. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Six minutes passed before Tim leaned back slightly in his chair.

     “Done.”

    Barbara stared at the completed work on the monitor before slowly turning toward him instead. At the exhaustion hollowing out his features. At the untouched coffee beside him gone cold hours ago. At the notebook overflowing with words he could not bring himself to send. At the phone screen still glowing softly with your photograph. And suddenly heartbreak pressed painfully against her ribs because Tim did not look like someone avoiding you anymore. He looked like someone terrified. Someone hanging helplessly between missing you too much and fearing what would happen if he reached out only to discover you no longer wanted him there.

     “You can track international weapons shipments in six minutes,” Barbara said quietly. “But you can’t call one person?”

     Silence swallowed the cave immediately afterward, deep and endless beneath the hum of computers surrounding them. Tim stared at the monitor for a long moment without speaking. Barbara watched his expression tighten subtly, watched his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the desk like he needed something physical to ground himself.

      When he finally answered, his voice sounded small. “What if they don’t answer?”

      Barbara’s expression faltered instantly. Because there it was. Not pride, not stubbornness, not avoidance. Just fear. Simple and painfully honest.

      Tim lowered his gaze toward the notebook again before speaking softer this time, barely audible beneath the machinery humming around them.

      “I think that might be worse.”

     Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole. Not all at once. Never dramatically. The city preferred patience. Preferred sinking its teeth into someone slowly until exhaustion became routine and silence became easier than asking for help. Bruce had lived inside that silence for most of his life, had learned to recognize the different ways it manifested in the people he loved long before any of them realized he was watching closely enough to notice.

     Dick became reckless when he was hurting. Brighter smiles, louder laughs, faster movements across rooftops that bordered too closely on self-destruction for Bruce’s comfort. Jason became angry in the way Gotham itself became angry, sharp edged and explosive, fists first and apologies never. Damian became quieter than usual, every emotion locked so tightly behind clenched teeth that the entire manor seemed to tense around him.

     Tim, however, disappeared. Not physically. That would have been easier to confront.

     Tim still arrived for patrol exactly on time. Still solved cases before anyone else had fully pieced together the evidence. Still sat through briefings with that same analytical stare that made people forget he was far too young to carry the responsibilities constantly dropped onto his shoulders. The work itself remained flawless for the most part, every report neatly filed before dawn, every mission completed with near obsessive precision. To anyone standing far enough away, he looked fine.

      But Bruce had never learned how to love his children from a distance. So he noticed the absences anyway.

      The pauses where conversation used to be. The way Tim drifted through the manor like a ghost that remembered how to imitate routine but no longer understood the purpose behind it. The exhaustion hidden beneath coffee cups and computer screens. The subtle delay before responding whenever someone spoke to him, as though his thoughts remained somewhere else entirely and he had to force himself back into the room each time.

      And perhaps worst of all, The cave had become silent again.

      Bruce stood in the entrance late one evening watching the glow of the Batcomputer wash over Tim’s face in pale blue light. The cave itself hummed quietly around him, monitors flickering endlessly against dark stone walls while surveillance footage rolled across multiple screens untouched. Rainwater dripped somewhere deeper within the cavern, the sound echoing through the emptiness between them.

      Tim sat hunched over the main console pretending to work. Pretending being the important part. A case file remained open across three separate monitors, security footage looping repeatedly beside unfinished reports, yet Tim had not typed a single thing in nearly ten minutes. His attention remained elsewhere entirely. Not on the case. Not on the cave. On the phone sitting inches from his hand. Waiting.

       Bruce had noticed that too over the past several weeks. The constant checking. The immediate flashes of hope every single time the screen lit up. The disappointment that followed almost instantly afterward. Tim tried hiding it now, angling the screen away whenever someone entered the room, locking the device too quickly whenever messages appeared.

      He was terrible at hiding heartbreak.

     “You missed dinner.”

     Tim blinked at the sound of Bruce’s voice like he had forgotten other people existed down there with him. His shoulders stiffened briefly before relaxing again, exhaustion settling back into his posture almost immediately.

      “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice rough from disuse and too much coffee. “Lost track of time.”

      Another phrase Bruce had begun hearing far too often. Tim losing track of time. Tim forgetting things. Tim, who once scheduled every hour of his life so meticulously that Alfred used to joke he could predict the exact second sunrise would become inconvenient.

     Bruce stepped farther into the cave, boots heavy against the metal flooring as he studied him more carefully beneath the monitor light. The exhaustion had worsened. There was no denying it anymore. Dark circles carved themselves permanently beneath Tim’s eyes now, his frame thinner than before, clothes hanging looser around sharp shoulders from too many sleepless nights spent in front of glowing screens. Even the way he sat had changed somehow. Curled inward. Smaller. 

      But the worst part remained his expression. Not emotionless. Just tired in a way that reached deeper than physical exhaustion. Bruce recognized that look because he had once worn it so long he forgot his own face underneath it.

       Tim’s phone buzzed suddenly against the desk. Immediate reaction. Hope crossed his face before he could stop it. Small. Fragile. Painfully human.

      Bruce watched the exact moment it disappeared again. Tim locked the phone quickly afterward, setting it down harder than intended before dragging a hand across his face. The movement carried frustration beneath it now. Frustration with himself for caring this much. For waiting this much.

     Bruce said nothing because he already understood. The entire family did.

     You had not simply become important to Tim somewhere along the way. You had become stitched into the rhythm of his life so naturally that your absence now echoed through everything else. Every silence in the manor seemed louder because you were no longer filling it. Every patrol lasted longer because Tim no longer rushed through reports to answer your texts afterward. Even his laughter had disappeared quietly enough that Bruce had not realized how accustomed he’d become to hearing it until it stopped altogether.

     Bruce moved closer to the workstation, gaze drifting toward the corner of one monitor. That was when he noticed the photo. Small enough most people would have overlooked it entirely.

You and Tim standing close together somewhere under city lights, your smile bright enough to draw immediate attention despite the dimness of the screen. Yet Tim was not looking at the camera in the picture. His eyes rested entirely on you, expression softer than Bruce could ever remember seeing from him. No walls. No caution. No overthinking hidden behind calculated responses. Just love.

      Simple enough to be terrifying. Something ached unexpectedly in Bruce’s chest at the sight because he could not remember the last time he had seen Tim look at anything with that much openness.

       Tim noticed where his attention had landed and minimized the window immediately. Too late. Bruce had already seen it.

      Silence settled heavily between them afterward, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and rainfall echoing somewhere beyond the cave walls. Tim rubbed tiredly at his eyes before finally speaking again.

      “Was there something you needed?”

      Bruce almost answered automatically. A patrol adjustment. A case update. Something practical. Easier. Instead his gaze lingered on the exhaustion etched into Tim’s face and he heard himself ask quietly,

      “When was the last time you slept?”

      Tim let out a faint breath that might have been amusement once upon a time. “Define slept.” Deflection. Another routine.

      Bruce ignored it.

     “You’ve been making mistakes.”

     That finally got a reaction. Tim stiffened almost instantly in front of the computer, shoulders pulling tight beneath the worn fabric of his suit. “I fixed them.”

     “You shouldn’t be making them in the first place.” 

      The words came out harsher than intended. Bruce regretted them immediately. Because this was not a soldier failing orders. Not Robin standing before Batman awaiting criticism.

     This was his son quietly unraveling in front of him while pretending he was still holding himself together. Tim’s shoulders curled inward slightly at the reprimand, exhaustion suddenly making him look younger than Bruce liked to remember. Too young for this kind of grief. Too young to carry heartbreak like another piece of armor.

      Bruce’s eyes drifted again toward the cold coffee abandoned beside the keyboard. Toward the phone still resting face-up within immediate reach. Waiting. Always waiting.

      And suddenly Bruce understood what the others had been trying to do these past few weeks. Dick constantly inviting Tim out for late-night food runs and patrols that lasted longer than necessary. Jason taking over missions before Tim could volunteer for them himself. Barbara sending him extra tech work just to keep his mind occupied. Even Damian extending training sessions with sharp insults disguised as concern.

      Distractions.

      Every single one of them trying desperately to keep Tim moving long enough not to think about you. But none of it was helping.

      Because every time the manor quieted down, every time patrol ended and the cave emptied and no one remained nearby to occupy his attention, Tim drifted right back to the same place. Back to you.

      Bruce moved beside the desk slowly, leaning one hand against the console as he studied his son more carefully. Tim looked exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. Bruised knuckles rested against the keyboard beside healing cuts scattered across trembling fingers, evidence of patrols growing rougher over recent weeks.

      Yet despite everything, despite how miserable he clearly was, Bruce noticed something else too. Tim still had not called you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he was afraid.

     Bruce understood that fear more intimately than he cared to admit. The fear of reaching for  something important only to discover it no longer belonged to you. The fear of hearing silence where love used to exist.

      His gaze lowered briefly toward the untouched phone one final time before he made his decision.

      “Go.”

     Tim frowned slightly, clearly pulled from thoughts too far away to process the command immediately. “What?”

      “Go find them.”

     The cave fell completely still. Tim stared at Bruce like he had misheard him entirely.

Bruce rarely involved himself in emotional matters. He had failed too often in that department to pretend otherwise. Practicality had always come easier than comfort. Missions easier than conversations. Still, he continued quietly,

      “You haven’t been here in weeks.”

      Something flickered across Tim’s face then because they both understood Bruce did not mean physically. Tim looked down at his hands for a long moment. At the bruises. The cuts. The exhaustion trembling through his fingers from too many sleepless nights spent trying not to miss someone.

      “I don’t think they want to see me.”

     The admission sounded painfully young coming from him. Not Red Robin. Not the detective. Just Tim.

      Bruce watched grief settle visibly across his son’s face and felt something twist sharply in his chest at the sight. Tim had always been the one who kept moving no matter how badly he was hurt. The one who buried pain beneath productivity until even his family struggled to tell where exhaustion ended and heartbreak began.

      “You won’t know until you try,” Bruce answered softly.

     “What if I already ruined it?” Bruce looked at him carefully then. Really looked.

      At the fear hidden beneath the exhaustion. At the grief Tim kept trying to suffocate beneath case files and patrol routes and endless nights inside the cave. At the way he still checked his phone even now despite expecting disappointment every single time it buzzed.

      And for perhaps the first time in a very long while, Bruce answered honestly instead of strategically.

      “Then fix it.” Tim laughed quietly at that. Not amused. Just tired enough that hope itself sounded painful.

      “I don’t know how.”

      Bruce thought again of the photograph hidden on Tim’s monitor. The way his son looked at you like you were something precious enough to lose. Important enough to break him afterward.

      Then Bruce reached over and closed the untouched case file Tim had been pretending to read for the past hour.

      “Start by leaving the cave.”

     Tim stared at the darkened monitor for a long moment after that. The silence stretched long enough Bruce wondered if he would retreat back into routine again, bury himself beneath another report, another mission, another excuse not to confront the thing hurting him most.

      Instead, slowly, Tim reached for his keys instead of the keyboard. Bruce said nothing as he stood. Did not stop him when he headed toward the exit. Only watched as something shifted within the exhaustion weighing down his posture. Something sharper now. Brighter. Urgency. Hope. Fear. And maybe, finally-

     Enough determination to run back toward the person he should have chosen sooner.

      Tim had faced armed mercenaries with steadier hands than this. Men with rifles trained on his chest, blades flashing beneath alleyway lights, bombs counting down in abandoned warehouses somewhere beneath Gotham’s rotting streets. He had stood bloodied and half-conscious in front of enemies that wanted him dead and still managed to keep his breathing even. Gotham had carved survival instincts into his bones years ago. Fear was supposed to come later for people like him. After the mission. After the adrenaline wore off. After the bruises settled beneath skin already stained purple and yellow from older fights.

     Yet somehow your apartment door reduced him to this.

     The hallway stood silent around him, dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly as rain tapped somewhere against the apartment windows farther down the building. Nothing about this should have felt dangerous. No hidden threat waiting in the shadows. No gunfire. No masks. No blood. Just one door standing between him and the conversation he had spent weeks avoiding.

     And still his body refused to move.

     His hand lifted once toward the wood, fingers twitching like he meant to knock, before falling uselessly back to his side. Again a second later. Worse this time. Hesitation curling ugly in his stomach.

      Coward.

     The thought hit sharper than he expected. Tim swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the stained carpet beneath his shoes as exhaustion dragged heavily at the back of his skull. He had rehearsed this entire walk over. Every possible version of how this could go. What he would say first. How he would apologize. Which truths he could survive speaking aloud and which ones needed to stay buried somewhere deep inside him where even Bruce couldn’t dig them back out.

      Now his mind sat horrifyingly empty. Because Barbara had been right. What if you didn’t answer?

      The silence of the past few weeks suddenly felt deafening again. Every unanswered text. Every missed call he never finished making. Tim had spent night after night staring at your contact until the screen dimmed in his hands. Some part of him had convinced itself that staying away was safer. Easier. Better for you. Gotham destroyed everything eventually and Tim had never learned how to exist around people without becoming another form of collateral damage.

But another part of him, the weaker, uglier, far more human part, had missed you so badly it physically hurt.

     And somehow that terrified him more than any rooftop fight ever had.

     His phone weighed heavily in his pocket. Silent. Unforgiving. Tim pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek before finally forcing himself forward. The motion stiff. Mechanical. Like walking into a gunfight he already knew he would lose.

     Three knocks echoed softly through the apartment. Too late to run now.

      Almost immediately he heard movement from inside. Quiet footsteps crossing the floor. The sound alone made something tight pull painfully in his chest. Tim suddenly became hyperaware of himself in the worst possible ways. The bruises still hidden beneath his jacket sleeves. The healing cut near his collarbone stretching uncomfortably every time he breathed. The exhaustion hanging off him so heavily he felt hollowed out by it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept without waking up reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

     Then the lock clicked. The door opened. And there you were.

     For one terrible second Tim forgot every sentence he had prepared.

     You looked tired too. Comfortable clothes hanging loosely against your frame, hair slightly messy like you had been trying to relax before he ruined your evening by showing up unannounced. Surprise flickered openly across your face the second you recognized him standing there beneath the dim hallway light. Not anger. Not resentment. Just surprise.

Somehow that made this harder.

      Neither of you spoke at first.

      Tim could only stare, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief because you were real and here and looking at him instead of turning him away. Weeks suddenly felt much longer standing in front of you now. Long enough for him to notice every tiny thing he had missed. The familiar softness in your expression. The warmth spilling from your apartment into the cold hallway. The way your eyes searched his face quietly, almost carefully, like you were trying to figure out how much of him Gotham had managed to wear away this time.

      Then you smiled. Small. Gentle. Tired around the edges maybe, but real. And something inside Tim cracked open so suddenly it nearly hurt.

     “Hi,” you said softly. The word wrapped around him warmer than the apartment ever could.

      Tim stared for half a second too long before forcing himself to answer. “Hi.”

     God. His voice sounded wrecked. Rough from disuse and exhaustion and too many nights spent speaking only through comms or not speaking at all. He watched your expression shift almost immediately at the sound of it. Concern slipping quietly into your features. Maybe sadness too.

     You noticed. Of course you noticed. But even then, you still stepped backward first, opening the door wider without hesitation.

     “You should come inside.”

     Relief hit him so fast it nearly made his knees give out beneath him.

     Tim nodded once because trusting himself with more words right now felt impossible. As he stepped past you into the warmth of your apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind him, something devastating settled quietly inside his chest.

     He would burn Gotham to ash for you if you asked sweet enough. And unfortunately for him, this was not a well-kept secret.

     The manor buzzed with idle chatter, silverware clinking against porcelain as another suffocating family dinner dragged onward. Bruce spoke of patrol routes. Dick laughed too loudly at something Jason muttered beneath his breath. Tim looked half dead over a cup of tea, carefully brewed to his liking. 

     Damian, however, heard none of it.

     His pencil glided across paper with the precision of a surgeon’s blade. Every line deliberate. Every curve memorized. You lived inside his mind so vividly he no longer needed reference photos. He knew the exact shape of your smile, the way your eyelashes kissed your cheeks when you slept, the slight tilt of your head whenever you teased him.

     “Damian.”

      Nothing.

     “Damian.”

      Still nothing.

      “DAMIAN.”

     His head snapped upward, emerald eyes narrowed sharply toward Dick.

     “Holy shit,” Dick laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re gone gone. I called your name like five times. What are you drawing?”

     Damian’s expression flattened instantly. “Nothing that concerns you.”

     Jason, ever invasive, leaned over his shoulder before Damian could shut the sketchbook.

     “No fucking way.”

     Damian’s jaw clenched as Jason snatched the book fully from beneath his hand. Pages flipped one after another, each sheet revealing you in different forms. Smiling. Sleeping. Reading. Just existing.

     Entire pages dedicated to the slope of your lips alone.

     “You’re drawing them?” Jason asked, somewhere between amused and disturbed.

     “I draw many things,” Damian answered coolly, though the slight twitch in his brow betrayed him. “They simply occupy my thoughts at the moment.”

     Jason barked out another laugh, flipping faster now. “Dude. This whole sketchbook is about them.”

     Damian finally looked irritated. “They are my muse. I fail to understand why this conversation persists.”

     A dangerous pause.

     “Can I have that back now?”

     The table fell quiet as Jason slowly returned the sketchbook. Damian placed the sketchbook carefully before himself once more, fingertips brushing over the page like it contained something holy.

     The manor frightened you the first few times you stayed over. It groaned at night like something ancient lived beneath the floorboards. Endless hallways stretched into darkness, swallowing light whole. Portraits watched from the walls with unmoving eyes, and every creak sounded like the beginning of a horror film.

     Yet none of it seemed to matter once Damian wrapped himself around you. His chest pressed firmly against your back, warmth seeping through the cold air of the room. One arm draped over your waist possessively while his breathing ghosted against the nape of your neck.

     Safe. That was the word you associated with him most. Safe enough to fall asleep to the sound of rain striking the windows. Safe enough to melt entirely into his hold.

     Unfortunately, your bladder did not care about romance.

     You shifted slightly, grimacing as Damian’s grip instinctively tightened around your waist.

     “Dami,” you whispered hoarsely. “Damian, I have to pee.”

     A low grumble vibrated against your spine. Half asleep and deeply offended by your attempt to leave him.

     “Beloved,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion, “ignore it.”

    “I physically cannot.”

     Another irritated sound escaped him before his hold finally loosened. Though not without one last squeeze, as if reminding you he expected, wanted, your return immediately.

      You slipped quietly from the bed and padded toward the bedroom door. Yet, The second it creaked open, regret settled into your bones. 

     Darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness stretched through the hallway, interrupted only by a few dim lamps flickering near his siblings’ doors. You stared into the corridor. The corridor seemed to stare back.

    Absolutely not.

   Slowly, carefully, you shut the door again before turning toward the bed. Damian remained half sprawled against the mattress, dark hair messy from sleep as he blinked at you through heavy eyes.

    “Damian,” you whispered.

     He hummed softly in response.

    “My love.”

     One green eye opened further at the name.

    “The hallway is dark.”

     Damian stared at you for a long moment. “It is two in the morning,” he replied flatly. “It is supposed to be dark.”

    You shifted awkwardly. “Dami… I’m scared.”

     Then, without another word, Damian pushed himself upright from the bed. Exhaustion clung to every movement as he stood, grabbing the nearest sword from beside his dresser purely out of instinct before realizing where he was.

     You blinked. “Why do you have that beside your bed?”

     “That is not the current issue.”

     Damian stood there for another second, sword still loosely hanging at his side while sleep fought to keep his eyes shut. The sight would have been intimidating if not for the fact his hair pointed in six different directions and one side of his shirt sat crooked on his shoulder.

    You tried not to smile. Tried. Failed miserably.

    “You are laughing at me,” he accused quietly.

    “You grabbed a sword to walk me to the bathroom in your own home.”

    “And?” His expression remained painfully serious. “If the manor decides to unleash horrors upon you at two in the morning, I will be prepared.”

     A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. Soft and warm and enough to make something gentler flicker briefly across his face.

     Damian sighed dramatically as he moved toward the bedroom door. “Come. Before your paranoia convinces you the wallpaper can eat you.”

     “You say that like this place doesn’t look haunted.”

    “It is gothic architecture.”

     “It is a vampire convention.”

    His hand wrapped around the doorknob before pausing. “That was one time. And Dracula was surprisingly polite.”

     “DAMIAN.”

     A ghost of a smirk touched his mouth as he finally opened the door. The hallway remained just as terrifying as before. Darkness swallowing the endless corridor whole while old wooden floors creaked beneath each step. Somewhere deep within the manor pipes groaned like a dying animal.

     Immediately, you latched onto the sleeve of Damian’s shirt. He looked down at your hand. Then at you. Then quietly shifted closer.

      “You mock me now,” you murmured.

     “I am adapting to your irrational behavior.”

     “Mhm.”

      The two of you walked slowly through the hall, Damian slightly ahead as though shielding you from shadows themselves. The dim lamps cast golden light across his features, catching against sharp cheekbones and tired green eyes. Even half asleep he moved like something lethal.  

     Another creak echoed somewhere downstairs. You froze instantly. Damian stopped too, gaze narrowing toward the darkness ahead. His grip on the sword adjusted automatically.

     “Probably Father,” Damian muttered.

     “Probably?”

     “Or Grayson attempting to make midnight cereal.”

     “That does not help.”

     A smaller hand suddenly shot from one of the side hallways. You nearly screamed. Damian physically recoiled backward while instinctively lifting the sword.

     “Woah! Jesus Christ!” Tim whisper-shouted, both hands raised immediately. “Why do you have a weapon?!”

     Damian looked genuinely offended by the question. “Why are you emerging from shadows like a Victorian child with the plague?”

    Tim blinked slowly. “I live here.”

    “An unfortunate decision.”

    You pressed both hands over your mouth trying desperately not to laugh as Tim’s exhausted eyes shifted between the two of you.

     “…Did you seriously escort them to the bathroom?”

    Damian’s face hardened instantly. “You will speak carefully.”

    Tim stared for another long second before sighing deeply. “I’m going back to my room.”

   “An excellent choice.”

   “You are both insane.”

    Tim disappeared back into the darkness just as suddenly as he appeared, leaving silence to settle once more.

     You looked toward Damian, barely holding yourself together now. “You almost stabbed him.”

     “He should not lurk.”

    “He was walking.”

    “Incorrect. He was skulking.”

    Another laugh escaped you, softer this time. 

     Damian looked at you for a moment too long after that. Something in his expression gentling so suddenly it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

     “There,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bathroom door ahead. “Safe from the horrors of Wayne Manor.”

    “You’re making fun of me again.”

    “Only slightly.”

    You moved toward the bathroom before pausing at the doorway. “Will you wait for me?”

    Damian looked almost offended.

    “Beloved,” he said, voice low and certain, “I would wait lifetimes for you.”

     The city bled neon beneath Robin’s boots. Rainwater clung to the edges of rooftops, turning Gotham into something slick and silver beneath the moonlight. Patrol had dragged longer than expected. Two separate break-ins. A car chase through Burnley. One extremely irritating encounter with Killer Croc in the sewers that left Damian smelling faintly like mildew.

     He was exhausted. Worse, he missed you.

     The realization annoyed him more than the bruising ache settling beneath his ribs. Missing someone should not feel this consuming. This distracting. Every glimpse of warm apartment windows made something deep inside him ache with the memory of your laugh.

     Damian landed silently against the fire escape outside your apartment building, cape fluttering behind him. He told himself he was merely checking on you. Gotham had been increasingly dangerous lately. Drake had mentioned heightened gang activity near your neighborhood.

     That was the only reason he was here… obviously.

     Your bedroom window slid upward easily beneath practiced fingers. Darkness greeted him first. Then warmth.

     Your apartment always smelled like you. Faint traces of your favorite perfume and laundry detergent and something softer Damian could never properly describe without sounding absurdly poetic. It hit him instantly the moment he climbed through the window.

     And there you were, asleep. A small lamp near the couch cast golden light across the room, illuminating the mess of blankets tangled around your body. One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves hanging past your hands while the Gotham Knights shirt he’d lost three weeks ago clung loosely against your legs. His clothes.

     Damian went still. Something dangerous flickered low in his chest.

     You had fallen asleep waiting for him. Your phone rested beside your cheek, screen dark now, though several unread messages from him remained visible in notification previews.

Dami: Patrol ran late.

Dami: Do not wait awake for me.

Dami: I mean it.

     His jaw tightened faintly. You had ignored him. Like you always did when it came to him coming back late.

      The sight should have irritated him. Instead, warmth spread slowly through his chest with enough force to make him uncomfortable. You looked impossibly peaceful like this.

      One leg half hanging off the couch. Hair messy across the pillow beneath your head. Lips parted slightly as soft breaths escaped you. Completely defenseless. Completely his.

     Damian removed his domino mask quietly before stepping closer.

     The floor creaked beneath his boot. Immediately, your face scrunched slightly in your sleep.

     “…Dami?”

     His entire expression softened, “Yes, habibti.”

     Your eyes barely opened. Heavy with exhaustion. “You’re late.”

     “There was a situation downtown.”

    “Mhm.”

    You shifted deeper into the blankets before blinking at him slowly. “Did you get stabbed?”

    “Not tonight.”

    “Good.”

     The simplicity of your concern nearly killed him.

      You reached blindly toward him then, still half asleep. Damian stared at your outstretched hand for exactly one second before taking it immediately. Your fingers curled weakly around his glove.

      “There you are,” you mumbled.

      Damian exhaled quietly through his nose.

      Ridiculous. You had reduced the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul into something unbearably soft. 

      He crouched beside the couch carefully, gaze scanning over you with clinical precision despite the tenderness threatening to ruin him. 

     “You continue stealing from my wardrobe,” he observed quietly.

     A sleepy smile appeared instantly.

    “You like it.”

    “That is irrelevant.”

    “It smells like you.”

     His pulse stuttered.

     You were too tired to notice the way his shoulders locked instantly beneath the suit. You were dangerously unaware of the effect you had on him.

     Your eyes drifted shut again slowly. “Was waiting up,” you murmured. “Wanted to make sure   you came home okay.”

    Home. Not back. Home.

    Without another word, he stood carefully before lifting you from the couch with effortless precision. You stirred only enough to curl instinctively against his chest, face pressing into the space beneath his neck.

     “Tired,” you whispered.

     “I know.”

    Your arms wrapped lazily around him anyway.

    Damian carried you toward the bedroom in complete silence, footsteps impossibly gentle for someone trained to kill before he could properly read. Moonlight spilled across the sheets as he lowered you carefully onto the mattress.

      Yet the second he pulled away, your fingers caught weakly against his sleeve.

    “Stay.”

     The word came out barely audible. Damian looked down at you for a long moment.

     You started to move, but he tugged you back with a single arm, just long enough to kiss your shoulder, soft and brief.

     “Of course, hayati.”

     The book was abandoned on the coffee table as you padded toward the kitchen, the fire crackling behind you like background music. The dim living room gave way to the aggressively bright kitchen lights, and your eyes squinted against the sudden change. Still, you moved easily, muscle memory guiding your steps through cabinets he’d made sure were filled with all your favorites.

     Your kitchen was perfect. Your house was perfect. Your house together. Every inch of it had your touch, and every corner had been molded by love, arguments about tile, and midnight dance parties. He had made sure of it. This was the dream, and he had helped build it.

     Which is why, when the kitchen window creaked open behind the curtain, your entire body tensed like someone had just dropped ice down your shirt.

     You grabbed the nearest knife— because it’s Gotham in the end— and turned toward the sound.

    “Hey, Dami! Sorry to just barge in—” said a voice you didn’t recognize yet somehow knew. The uniform was dark. Familiar. Definitely not Damian.

     The man stepped through the open window like that was a normal thing to do, holding his side like something had clawed through him. “I forgot how sharp Croc’s nails are. I could use a little patch—”

     He stopped. You both stared.

     “You’re not Damian.”

     “Hi?” you offered, knife still in hand, voice halfway between polite and ‘I will absolutely stab you.’

     You knew who he was. Of course you did. You’d seen photos. Damian didn’t hide his family— just… kept them far away. Far, far away. Far enough that they couldn’t reach you. Or know about you. He had insisted on a small, private wedding outside Gotham. No invitations. No interruptions. No Bat-family drama.

     So seeing him, here, in your kitchen? It was like seeing a ghost.

     “Beloved?” Damian’s voice came from the hallway, smooth and casual, but with that edge that only came when something felt off. “I heard a commotion. Is everything alright?”

     You barely had time to answer before he appeared, gaze moving from you, knife in hand, to the man across the kitchen.

     The man who looked way too much like him.

     His entire body changed. Shoulders squared. Smile gone. Arms crossed. His expression turned into something cold and sharp. Something you hadn’t seen directed at anyone but enemies.

     “Grayson.”

     Oh.

      “Whoa,” Dick said, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Damian, you got a girlfriend and didn’t tell anyone?”

      “Leave,” Damian said flatly.

      “Seriously? That’s how you’re gonna play this?” Dick blinked. “Dude, who is she?”

     “Wife, actually,” you said, because someone had to say it. “But hey, great to meet you too.”

     Dick froze. “Wife?”

     “Surprise!” you offered, stepping forward and placing the knife gently on the counter like a hostage negotiator. “You must be Dick.” 

     “I… yeah. And I’ve never heard a word about you.”

     There was a pause, long enough for the tension to stretch the air between you like rubber. You could hear the faint static of a comm in his ear before he brought a hand up to respond.

     “I’m alive,” he said, then added, “Ran into Killer Croc. Also apparently just met Little Robin’s wife. Sorry, what was your name again? Oh— wait— never mind, Dami never even told us he got married.”

     You looked at Damian, whose jaw was so tight you could probably use it to cut glass.

     “You didn’t need to know,” he muttered, but he stepped beside you anyway, hand finding your waist on instinct. Not his usual spot, no chin on your shoulder, no soft kiss to your cheek. But a protective, possessive grip that told you everything.

     “They’re going to show up, you know,” you whispered, leaning slightly into him.

     “I know,” he whispered back, tone grim. “They’re already on their way.”

    You sighed. “Guess I’ll make more tea.”

     Damian didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the open window, on the man still standing there like a shadow from another life. But his hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like a silent promise.

     You smiled at him. A quiet, but warm smile. The kind of smile that made Damian finally relax again, just enough to lean in and press a kiss to the top of your head. It wasn’t overly affectionate, it never was. But it was grounding. A silent “I’m here”.

     “Let them come,” he said quietly. “They’ll learn this is home now. And you are everything worth protecting.”

    And just like that, the storm on the horizon didn’t seem so loud.

REQUEST, from anon...

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